Chapter 065. The Sword Fiend is Coming (4)
I didn’t draw my sword first.
It was a sign I harbored no killing intent toward anyone.
‘Eleven of the Archduke’s soldiers, the rest are all Belmont’s territorial troops.’
I quickly scanned the area and spoke.
“Viscount Mosfield, order your n to stand back. Unless you want to lose them all here.”
“…!”
“This is the only warning I’ll give.”
Viscount Mosfield’s face turned deathly pale.
A knight beside him sneered mockingly.
“I’m Angus. They call Gold-Tooth thanks to those filthy bastards. Are you really the Sword Fiend from the rumors?”
“Yeah, probably. And you? Did the Archduke order you to pressure Viscount Mosfield?”
Angus snorted, patting Mosfield’s back.
For a re knight, he was acting awfully bold toward a lord.
“Pressure? Watch your mouth, or you’ll regret it. Viscount Mosfield here has already sworn loyalty to our lord. Isn’t that right, my lord?”
“W-Well, that’s…”
“Co now, my lord. Didn’t you make up your mind? What, seeing the Sword Fiend in person got you wavering?”
“….”
Angus shot a glance with just his eyes, then glared intimidatingly at Mosfield’s profile.
His arm roughly wrapped around the viscount’s neck.
“Whether the Sword Fiend’s rumors are true or not changes nothing. Civil war? Laughable. The rebellion will be crushed in no ti. It’s obvious the new lord of Conwell will turn the chaos outward to unify the ranks, and if Belmont becos the scapegoat, so be it, right?”
“Ugh, uhh…”
“If I draw my sword, it’ll be too late. You’d better behave.”
Angus patted Mosfield’s shoulder.
The already frail shoulders seed to shrink even further.
I couldn’t let that slide.
I added my own piece.
“Even an outsider like knows it’s common knowledge that Lady Adeline is Conwell’s rightful heir. Denying that is tantamount to forsaking your honor and duty as a vassal. Surely, my lord, you wouldn’t intend to do such a thing?”
“You, imperial swordsman. Know your place and shut your…”
“Quiet. A dead man shouldn’t yap so much.”
That’s when it happened.
Sothing flew from behind and landed with a thud between and the two n.
It was Arno’s White Hawk.
Its glossy feathers, now dull and lifeless, fluttered weakly.
Viscount Mosfield’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“T-This is…!”
A deep, resonant voice roared like a lion from behind.
“You’d recognize it at once, my lord! We didn’t wipe out the entire band, but their leader, Arno, is finished for good. The Sword Fiend, Bihen Benkou, personally pulled out your rotten tooth! Hell, I’m almost embarrassed for myself!”
In that fleeting mont, Mosfield’s drooping eyes sharpened, and his gaping mouth clamped shut.
“All of you, don’t advance—fall back…!”
Belmont’s soldiers flinched, glancing nervously around.
As if shaking off Angus’s growling stare, Mosfield shouted again.
“I, Viscount Mosfield, lord of Belmont, declare my support for Lady Adeline as Conwell’s rightful successor in accordance with justice! And I pledge my cooperation—!”
His thunderous cry gave way to a heavy silence.
Mosfield staggered, as if exhausted, looking like he’d mustered the greatest courage of his life.
If that’s the case, it’s only right to acknowledge it.
In terms of sheer numbers, we were at a severe disadvantage.
In this unfamiliar setting, they couldn’t even be certain I was truly the rumored Bihen Benkou.
What truly swayed Mosfield’s heart was likely the last flicker of pride and conviction, like a dying ember.
I wanted to bear witness to this mont, where he transford from a reckless fool into a courageous man worthy of leaving his mark on history.
Srung.
“I’ve clearly seen the resolve of Belmont’s lord with my own two eyes.”
Had they taken it as a proper declaration of war?
A response ca imdiately.
“Keep him alive!”
Dropping the handaxe he held, Angus took a greatsword—likely his prized weapon—from a subordinate.
The plate-armored soldiers all thrust their swords toward at once.
Clang—!
The tallic clatter of greaves and sabatons encasing their shins rang out in unison, as if a single sound.
A strike forged with resolve and restraint.
This wasn’t an impromptu formation.
It was clearly the result of long training.
For a mont, it reminded of the Empire’s disciplined battle tactics.
Tap!
I leaped vertically in place, landing at the intersection of the converging blades, then used it as a springboard to launch myself forward.
Kiing—!
In midair, I drew my sword back over my shoulder with force.
Angus’s distorted face grew larger in my vision.
His pupils trembled with confusion.
Understandably so.
Even with an open-faced helm, who would attempt a horizontal slash against an opponent clad in plate armor?
He must be thinking:
Why?
Ka—ang!
Angus hurriedly raised his greatsword to block his face.
I landed at the sa mont.
“They call you the Sword Fiend, but you’re nothing…”
Angus muttered, seemingly relieved that I wasn’t as impressive as he’d feared.
His lips curled into a smirk.
“Smile. Wider.”
“…What?”
That fleeting doubt likely slowed his already struggling reflexes even further.
He should’ve deflected my strike entirely from the start.
With the advantages of a greatsword, it wouldn’t have been difficult. In that brief mont, instead of gauging my sword’s path or twisting his body, he shouldn’t have allowed to close the distance.
“Pathetic.”
My blade, locked in a cross with his greatsword, was aid precisely at his gold tooth, three palms’ length away.
Position and distance—both perfect.
Flawlessly aligned.
I pushed my shoulder slightly, extending my arm forward.
Kiing—!
My blade slid along Angus’s greatsword as if flowing.
The grating noise of tal on tal pierced my eardrums intensely.
It made feel alive.
Thud!
“Guh…!”
Splatter!
As I withdrew my sword, which had pierced through his mouth and out the back of his neck, blood sprayed wildly.
I spun around imdiately.
Angus’s n exhaled sharply through the narrow slits of their tal visors.
Their stunned gazes were almost visible.
“Hah, haa…!”
Viscount Mosfield, nearby, collapsed as if his legs gave out.
His body trembled as if in a seizure, foaming at the mouth, on the verge of fainting.
Well, I’d ignore that for now.
They weren’t the only ones shocked.
‘….’
I glanced at the sword in my hand.
For a swordsman, the sword is an extension of the body—an expression that’s hardly an exaggeration.
You don’t need to be overly sensitive to know it.
‘…It’s going to break.’
The recoil transmitted through my grip, the faint reverberation—it was entirely different from usual.
There was undoubtedly a crack sowhere.
‘Was it not strong enough to withstand the Sword Aura?’
Click.
I sheathed the sword.
It was engraved with the Benkou family crest.
Nothing would be more lantable than it breaking in a scuffle with these vermin.
Swoosh.
I stepped back and picked up Angus’s greatsword.
In their tongue, a bastard sword.
‘A two-handed sword, was it?’
I gripped the long hilt with both hands.
In my past life, I’d held one a few tis out of curiosity, but never properly wielded it.
‘Might as well mimic it decently.’
I pictured a silhouette in my mind—one of a knight I’d faced or observed in a duel in my past life.
“Phew.”
While I steadied my breathing, the Archduke’s soldiers reford their ranks.
They ford a defensive formation around , maintaining strict spacing between themselves and distance from .
It felt like being a demonic beast cornered in a hunt.
Clank.
I slung the bastard sword diagonally over my right shoulder, still gripping the hilt with both hands.
As I recall, this was the basic stance of bastard swordsmanship.
The vom tag, was it?
“Hraaaah—!”
As if waiting for the signal, two of them charged.
Their war cries, bursting through the slits of their visors, echoed with a tallic ring.
The tallic-tinged screams, laced with an eerie quality, felt oddly nostalgic after so long.
Clang!
I blocked a vertical slash from one with the bastard sword, held horizontally.
Next, the counterattack. I’d vaguely heard that Kingdom swordsmanship emphasizes offense and defense as one.
Well, even if clumsy, as long as I could mimic it convincingly for now, that’d suffice.
With our swords crossed, I raised mine.
Instead of rely extending my arm, I aggressively stepped forward to disrupt the opponent’s center of gravity.
The importance of footwork, factoring in the dynamics of force, is universal—Empire or Kingdom.
It’s fundantal.
Crack—!
Seizing the mont as he staggered back, I widened the distance and thrust my sword into the slit of his visor.
Thud!
Here’s what I felt: aside from both being heavy weapons, the Empire’s greatsword and the Kingdom’s bastard sword have little in common.
The Empire’s greatsword is rooted in heavy swordsmanship but can unleash domineering strikes.
In a situation like this, it would’ve aid to shatter the opponent’s plate armor.
‘The bastard sword’s key is thrusting, exploiting gaps.’
The words of ancient sages—that anything learned will eventually find its use—ca to mind.
Of course, I didn’t formally learn this; I pried answers from captured knights during interrogations…
Still, the wanderings of my past life, searching for answers while stuck at the pinnacle, were paying off in this way.
Swish.
I turned my gaze to the side.
The other soldier was swinging his sword horizontally at my waist.
Thud.
With my left hand gripping the hilt, my right hand clutched the teardrop-shaped weight at the hilt’s end—the poml, as it’s called.
It has various uses, but one knight’s peculiar technique left a deep impression.
Clang!
I tilted my sword diagonally to block his strike, then—
Whoosh—
Twisting my right hand, gripping the poml, in a circular motion, the sword followed smoothly.
As the blade tip soared, I drove it downward.
Splatter!
Blood gushed from the gap.
Only then did I feel my wrist aching.
‘Mimicking an unfamiliar swordsmanship recklessly is too much for this body’s strength.’
It hit anew: I’d regressed to a seventeen-year-old body, and my Kingdom swordsmanship was at a novice level.
“…Co at .”
I spoke to the remaining soldiers.
I couldn’t afford to lose in spirit.
Even if my wrist shattered, I’d take them all down.
That’s when it happened.
“Tengruuuk—! Straight!”
Boom—!
A deafening roar, like a steel drum being struck, echoed.
One of the plate-armored soldiers flew past like a shot.
Thud!
A faint scream accompanied the sound of impact.
My head turned that way.
Hiss—
The plate armor covering the fallen soldier’s back was dented, as if hit by a fist-sized cannonball.
Wisps of smoke rose from the exposed flesh.
Instant death.
“Guh, s-save …!”
Beneath him was Viscount Mosfield.
A puddle was slowly spreading between his legs, like a shadow.
“….”
“I-It can happen, right…!”
Whatever my expression was, his cry was desperate.
I’d protect this courageous man to the end.
I looked away.
Still, it must’ve been frustrating to endure so much only to be crushed by a surprise attack.
My eyes narrowed again.
An intangible wave of energy was swirling fiercely around Bolero, who stood with his arms crossed.
“Looks like it’s my turn to step in, young imperial. No, young Sword Fiend!”
His thick mustache twitched.
I twisted my lips in response.
Thankfully, it seed my wrist wouldn’t have to endure any more strain.
Reviews
All reviews (0)