Chapter 27

Duel (3)

“Looks like you’ve been busy since dawn.”

“Well, since it’s a duel, I ought to warm up a bit.”

Besimer dismounted and rolled his shoulders as he loosened up.

The men who had come with him were dressed differently from the other soldiers.

Instead of gambesons, they wore leather armor layered with fur cloaks.

At a glance, they were clearly from the same tribe.

The reins of their horses were tied with ropes, and those ropes were connected to the hind legs of a massive boar.

Calling it a normal boar would be absurd—it was larger than two horses combined.

Its tusks were excessively long and sharp, branching out in jagged directions.

It wasn’t just a wild animal.

It was a magical beast.

A monster.

There was only one fatal wound on the boar—

an axe embedded deep into its forehead.

Perhaps to show off his hunting skill, the axe had been left there rather than pulled out.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

Besimer asked with a grin.

He clearly knew what had happened.

“Thanks to your consideration, I slept well.”

Isaac replied calmly.

But behind him, Waller and Hans were glaring daggers at Besimer.

“That’s good to hear.”

“I hope you slept well too. I’d rather not hear any whining after you lose the duel.”

“Hahaha!”

Besimer roared with laughter, and his tribesmen joined in.

Each of them had their faces painted white, with abstract patterns drawn in blood.

It looked like some ritual performed before an important battle.

In other words—

a warning that they had no intention of going easy on Isaac just because he was a child.

“The young master is quite thoughtful. I slept well too—had some village women keep me warm. They seemed quite fond of how hot my body is.”

“Then I suppose you also received a prophecy from that fraud of a seer.”

“….”

At Isaac’s words, the smile vanished from Besimer’s face.

“So? Did the Wolf King return?”

“That’s not something you need to worry about. You won’t be setting foot in Vinfeltro again anyway.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Hmph. Even as a cripple, you’re still a Goethe. Your eyes—just like your father’s. Good. I’ve always wanted to see fear fill those eyes.”

Crack—

Besimer yanked the axe from the boar’s skull.

Black blood and brain matter spilled out, soaking the ground.

“Hear me! I, Besimer, warrior of the valiant Baitur tribe, stake my honor as a warrior and engage in this duel! All present shall bear witness to this!”

He raised the blood-dripping axe high and shouted thunderously.

The sheer force of his presence was enough to make one shrink just from hearing it.

Meanwhile, Isaac—who had issued the challenge—yawned with half-lidded eyes.

“Sir… Sir Carlson…”

From among the soldiers, Hans called out to Carlson, who was quietly observing.

“You’ll save him, right?”

“…What?”

Carlson answered indifferently.

“What do you mean ‘what’? The young master!”

Hans’s face was filled with fear.

The gruesome outcome was obvious.

The difference in height alone was nearly double.

Their physiques weren’t even comparable.

That enormous boar had been felled in a single blow.

With that kind of strength, Isaac wouldn’t even withstand one strike—he’d be split in half along with his broken sword.

“You don’t trust your master?”

“This isn’t about trust! It’s a fight between a giant and a child!”

“Then you’ve failed as a servant.”

“…What?”

“Stop making a fuss and just watch.”

Carlson glanced at Waller.

The old steward had already gathered mana in both hands.

He was ready to cast a spell at any moment.

Carlson smirked.

While everyone else was on edge, Isaac looked utterly bored.

“You’ve got nothing to say, young master?”

The duel hadn’t even begun—

but Besimer already wore the face of a victor.

“Nothing in particular.”

“I wonder how long that composure will last. Let’s decide the weapons. What’ll it be? Sword? Axe? Flail? Mace? Club? Hook? Say the word—I’ve got them all.”

The leather-clad tribesmen pulled out various weapons from beneath their cloaks and tossed them onto the ground.

Each one was rusted and caked with dried blood.

They didn’t look particularly effective as weapons—

but they were perfect for intimidation.

“Use whatever you like. I’m ready. But before that, let’s decide the conditions for victory.”

Isaac didn’t even glance at the weapons on the ground, instead tapping the sword at his waist.

“Conditions?”

“Do we win by killing? Or by forcing the opponent to admit defeat? Something like that.”

“Regretting your life already?”

“I am. If you die, I lose a useful piece.”

At Isaac’s words, cracks formed in Besimer’s smug expression.

“You’re calling me a chess piece…?”

“Let’s follow the method your Baitur tribe uses to choose its chief.”

“…?”

“In a situation where we’re deciding the master of this camp, I don’t think there’s a better method. You can’t kill me, and I can’t kill you.”

For a moment, Besimer looked dumbfounded—then slowly broke into a grin.

“For a young master to think this far… impressive. Seems you came prepared.”

“I told you. I came to protect my land. That requires resolve.”

“Ha. I’d love to rip out your guts and chew them—but I’ll admit it. That’s the best way.”

“Then the duel is settled.”

Isaac nodded.

“Don’t feel safe just because your life’s spared. I might split you in two along with your sword.”

“You be careful too. My swordsmanship’s still rough—I might not know how to hold back.”

“Hahaha! What a crazy brat.”

Besimer laughed loudly—but the look he gave Isaac was ice-cold.

Pure killing intent.

“If you know our tribe’s traditions, this’ll be easy. You know the method?”

“Of course.”

Isaac drew his blade and lightly cut his palm.

Besimer did the same with his axe.

With wounded hands, the giant and the boy clasped each other’s hands.

Besimer had to bend almost to a crouch just to meet Isaac’s grip.

Isaac’s wrist was about as thick as Besimer’s thumb.

The duel had already begun with this ritual.

The moment he grasped Isaac’s hand, Besimer grinned, baring his teeth.

He intended to carve fear into this arrogant, ignorant brat.

His grip could crush stone.

Breaking a child’s hand would be effortless.

“…?”

But no matter how much strength Besimer applied—

Isaac remained expressionless.

He wasn’t enduring pain.

It was as if he were gripping steel.

Veins bulged across Besimer’s bald head, yet he couldn’t do anything to Isaac’s hand.

“Are you going to hold on all day? I’d like to finish this and have lunch.”

As soldiers gathered to watch the duel, quiet chuckles began to leak from those standing closest.

When Besimer glared at them, the laughter quickly died—

but his face had already flushed red.

“You won’t walk away in one piece, brat.”

Besimer turned and took several steps back.

Isaac did the same.

Once a proper distance was set, they raised their weapons toward each other.

There were no shouts.

No war cries.

Whoosh—

As Besimer stomped forward and charged, a sinister gust of wind followed in his wake.

In an instant, the giant closed the distance to Isaac, drawing his axe arm far back.

At that moment, the soldiers realized—

Something was wrong.

Besimer wasn’t holding back.

He was swinging with the full intent to split Isaac in half.

There had never been a single soldier who had successfully blocked a serious blow from Besimer’s axe.

Even a trained shield-bearer with a sturdy steel shield might survive the first strike—but the sheer force would crush the shield and leave their shoulder shattered or broken.

No one ever survived the second blow.

And this was just a boy, holding nothing but a single sword.

In the soldiers’ minds, the worst possible outcome flashed by.

The young master being cut to pieces…

And then the enraged count arriving with knights to massacre everyone in the camp.

We have to stop it.

But it was already too late.

The giant, muscles coiled like a drawn bow, brought the axe down with his full weight.

The soldiers screamed silently.

Clang—!

A deafening explosion rang out.

Hans squeezed his eyes shut.

A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, and his legs trembled as strength left them.

He didn’t have the courage to witness the horrific sight.

“Open your eyes, Hans.”

Through the ringing, Carlson’s voice echoed faintly.

As the noise faded, the murmuring of soldiers reached his ears.

But it wasn’t the sound of tragedy.

It was… excitement.

“H-He blocked it! He blocked it!”
“Dear gods… what kind of magic is that?”
“Isn’t Goethe a magic house?”

Hearing the unbelievable voices, Hans slowly opened his eyes.

“You got lucky.”

Besimer growled like a beast.

“Was it luck?”

Isaac pushed himself up, leaning on his sword.

His clothes were dirtied with mud and dust from being thrown back, but he casually brushed them off.

“W-We have to stop this! If that boy dies, we’ll all be killed by the count!”
“Go ahead and try! Anyone who interferes in this sacred duel will be cut down by this axe!”

Besimer roared, pointing his weapon toward the crowd, killing intent surging.

“…Ha…”

Waller let out a hollow breath.

Not because Besimer had swung his axe seriously at the new lord—

But because Isaac had blocked it so casually.

“What… what is happening here?”
“You’re only noticing now?”

“But how is the young master using magic…?”

No one else might see it—but Waller could not be fooled.

Isaac wasn’t blocking through skill or physical strength.

It was magic.

“Who could’ve imagined it? Even I couldn’t believe it the first time.”

“Does he stand a chance?”
“I don’t know. But since the duel is being fought according to the Baitur tribe’s traditions… everything is proceeding exactly as the young master intended.”

For the Baitur tribe, a chieftain was the pinnacle of strength.

But since they could not take the lives of their own, they determined leadership by stripping a warrior of their honor.

A warrior’s honor was their weapon.

To lose one’s weapon was to lose one’s honor.

A warrior who lost their honor could no longer fight—they would be exiled or reduced to labor.

In other words—

Victory in this duel meant disarming the opponent.

“Watch carefully and see what kind of man your master truly is.”

Carlson said to Hans, whose body was trembling.

Clang—!

Again and again, thunderous impacts rang out—not merely metal clashing, but something unseen shattering.

Something unbelievable was happening.

Besimer’s brutal attacks sent Isaac flying, rolling again and again—

And yet, somehow—

He kept blocking.

Even shield-bearers struggled to withstand such blows.

Yet this boy, barely holding on, continued to deflect them.

Rather than meeting the force head-on, he redirected it—rolling with the impact or angling his blade to disperse the force.

The soldiers’ mouths slowly fell open.

Anyone could see that Besimer was striking with full power.

And yet—

This frail boy, who looked like he would snap if touched, was defending as if it were natural.

Clang—!

By now, Isaac’s clothes were filthy, his neatly kept hair disheveled.

Cold sweat trickled down his forehead despite the chill air.

But his eyes—

Remained unchanged.

In a life-or-death struggle, he wasn’t even focused on Besimer.

His gaze seemed fixed on something far beyond.

In those empty-looking eyes, Besimer wasn’t even worth noticing.

“You insolent brat!”

He should have fallen—but didn’t.

He should have broken—but didn’t.

He should have been crushed—but wasn’t.

To Besimer—who had always been both feared and respected in this camp—

That indifference was unbearable.

It enraged him.

And in that rage, he failed to notice—

The dulling sensation in his hands.

The creeping cold spreading up his arms.

Each strike sent Isaac flying back, only for him to regain his stance.

He was holding on—but no one could see a path to victory.

But when the eighth strike came—

Besimer felt it.

A vague sense of unease.

The instinct of a seasoned warrior.

A warning he could not ignore.

Whenever he had ignored such instincts, it had always led to danger.

And this time—

That instinct was right.

Isaac’s stance looked defensive—

But he was preparing a counterattack.

The descending axe met the rising blade.

Logically, a downward strike should always overpower an upward one—unless backed by overwhelming strength.

In other words—

It was impossible.

It shouldn’t be possible…

With a sharp, ear-splitting crash—

Besimer froze.

His head jerked upward instinctively.

His axe was flying through the air.

His hand grasped at empty space—

But there was nothing.

That falling weapon—

Was his.

Thud.

Besimer’s axe buried itself in the muddy ground.