Chapter 28

Duel (4)

A month ago.
Isaac asked Carlson:

“Carlson. If I want to beat you in swordsmanship within a month, what should I do?”

For Carlson, it was the first time he had heard such a childlike question from Isaac.
Usually, noble children believed they had an innate talent for swordsmanship—and that they could surpass skills honed over decades in a short time.

“It’s impossible.”

Carlson answered without the slightest hesitation.

“Not even a one-in-ten chance?”
“No.”

“One in a hundred?”
“Are you serious?”
“You always assume I’m joking no matter what I say.”
“That’s because you only say things that make no sense.”
“Even so—what if I have to win? No matter what?”
“If it were magic instead of swordsmanship, you would win, young master.”
“It has to be swordsmanship.”

“……”

Carlson shook his head.
It was a firm expression of utter hopelessness.

“Then I’ll change the question. What would I need to do to have even a one-in-a-hundred chance of winning?”
“…Haah.”

Carlson let out a long sigh and fell silent for a moment.
By then, Isaac had already taken a thorough beating from Carlson’s wooden sword.
Most children would have lost heart by now, but Isaac was instead searching for a way to win.

What could possibly be driving this little kid so desperately?
Yet even so, no emotion could be read from Isaac’s face.

“There are three conditions.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“First, I must underestimate you and let my guard down.
Second, although we fight with swords, there must be a specific victory condition—something that narrows the gap in skill, even slightly.”
“That makes sense. And the third?”
“Finally, under those two conditions, you need a decisive move to exploit an opening and secure victory. With only a month, you’d have to train that one move relentlessly.”

“You’re really good at saying ‘impossible’ in a roundabout way.”
“In other words—it’s impossible.”
“Still… it sounds doable.”

From that point on, Isaac relentlessly pushed Carlson.
Every request was for achieving unrealistic goals—
for example, finding a way to overcome an overwhelming difference in physique and force the opponent back with even a single strike.

“Swing upward harder!”

“Haaah!”

“Your point of contact is wrong! The opponent is far from their center of gravity, while you’re close to yours! Deflect it with the blade near the crossguard if possible!”

The training Isaac requested from Carlson lasted only one hour.
However, Carlson quickly realized that Isaac’s practice didn’t end there.

At some point, Isaac began wearing leather gloves everywhere.
When handing him the wooden sword, Carlson glimpsed them—the palms were stained a dark reddish-brown.

A man who had lived by the blade like Carlson could tell at a glance.
Train relentlessly without rest, and first come calluses, then blisters, and eventually the skin tears open.

“Wouldn’t it be better to receive treatment?”
“You said you had to underestimate me, right? Then shouldn’t even the people around me be unaware?”
“This is a mad plan.”
“That’s exactly why it’s worth it.”

As the training continued, Isaac gradually revealed his plan to Carlson.

Even before being granted Vinfelt, Isaac had already finished analyzing it.
Its problems, the countermeasures, and its ideal use.

But to make any of that possible, he first needed to bring Vinfelt’s garrison under his command.

The problem was that more than half the soldiers were members of tribes that Goethe had subjugated by force.
They harbored resentment toward him and often caused trouble for royal administrators.
That was precisely why a tribal native like Fikel had originally been granted Vinfelt.

“If you try to use Goethe’s power or authority, it’ll only deepen their hostility. The only way is to respect and follow their traditions.”
“But it’s too reckless. Even after all this training, you still can’t block even a lightly swung strike from me.”
“I’ll block it. Just watch.”

And so, the final day before leaving Vinfeltro arrived.

Carlson didn’t have the slightest expectation that Isaac could block his blade.

“We’ll use real swords. And I’m not joking.”

“…And strike harder than usual.”

Carlson hesitated.
Where did this confidence come from?

Isaac had trained without rest for a month.
If he overdid it now, he could suffer a serious injury.

Besides, even with wooden swords, Isaac had never once countered Carlson’s strikes.

And yet—

Clang—

“…!”

With a sharp metallic sound, Carlson’s hesitation was blown away.

“Harder!”

Clang!
“Harder!”

Clang!

“More!”

Clang!

“More!”

Isaac caught his breath and reset his stance.
Carlson’s eyes wavered.

For the entire past month, Isaac hadn’t managed to deflect a single strike—
yet now he was deflecting them consecutively.

The stronger Carlson struck, the stronger Isaac repelled.
And his timing was flawless.

“…What have you done?”

“A small trick.”

Isaac smiled.

It wasn’t a grand trick.
Isaac’s scabbard was covered with torn pages from magic books.
They were pages of phase-shifting magic—the kind Bishop Levonius had used to launch stakes.

A spell that could change the position of objects in multiple directions.
Channel mana into it, and the recorded spell would activate.

Isaac had selected only the pages containing the necessary spells, attached them to his scabbard, and wrapped them in cloth to conceal them.

It looked like Isaac was gripping the sword,
but in reality, he was merely pretending—
the blade was floating in midair.

Lifting objects with phase-shifting magic was possible,
but manipulating them as freely as if wielded by a human was, in theory, impossible.

Unless one had more than one brain.

But Isaac could do it.

The swordsmanship he had learned from Lucas in his previous life,
combined with countless simulated duels he had run in his mind while trapped underground.

Just by observing Besimer’s footwork and shoulder movement,
he could predict the next strike.

Using imagination, he foresaw seconds ahead and controlled five mana circuits simultaneously.
Like five fingers, they activated the necessary spells in each moment.

The most crucial part was mana control—
precise regulation of magical output.

To block the blow of a powerful warrior with a sword floating in midair,
balance was everything.

Even the slightest excess or deficiency would destabilize the blade.
It might be blown away—
or worse, spin wildly and cut its own wielder.

With gestures, he determined the sword’s position, angle, and direction of force.
Not a moment too late, not a moment too early.

Isaac’s consciousness moved like a musician,
matching Besimer’s rhythm.

It required extreme concentration, control, reflexes, and physical coordination—
something no sane mage would even attempt.

But Isaac was ready.

No—he had to succeed.

And then—

Clang—

At the moment their blades first clashed,
Isaac was certain of his success.

‘His strike yesterday was much heavier.’

At the same time, Isaac applied cold to Besimer’s arm within his range.
Freezing a living human solid was impossible,
but inducing frostbite was not.

A single application wouldn’t matter much,
but repeated cooling with every clash of blade and axe would accumulate.

A chilled hand loses sensation,
and grip strength weakens.

No matter how strong a man was,
he was still human.

Especially one who had never even imagined such a trick—
he wouldn’t be able to respond at all.

The sound of the axe falling into the mud rang clearly.

The soldiers were watching the duel in complete silence.
Even seeing Besimer drop his axe, they couldn’t comprehend what had happened.

Nearly a hundred people stood there,
yet an eerie stillness filled the air.

“My victory, Besimer.”

“….”

Besimer stared at Isaac like a broken wooden puppet, his head creaking as it turned.
Disbelief was written all over his face.

“H-he won. That kid really won!”

Only then did a soldier realize what had happened and shout.

“The young master beat Besimer!”

Waaahhh!

The soldiers erupted into cheers.

Whether tribal or loyal to Goethe,
this was a spectacle few would witness in their lifetime.

Their blood boiled.
The underdog child’s comeback was enough to ignite them all.

“I’m not some ‘young master brat.’ I’m Isaac! Isaac von Goethe!”

Isaac raised his sword high.

Isaac!
Isaac!
Isaac!

The soldiers chanted Isaac’s name in unison.

“Shut up! All of you, shut up!”

Besimer, his face flushed red as if it would burst, roared at the top of his lungs.
But no one paid attention to the words of a man who had lost a duel.

“I said shut up!”

At last, Besimer picked up his axe and swung it threateningly.

“Whoa.”

Startled, the soldiers stepped back.

“Y-you… you cunning Goethe bastard!”

Breathing heavily, Besimer grabbed Isaac by the collar and lifted him into the air.

“What kind of dirty trick did you pull!?”

“You’re rejecting the result? Throwing away a warrior’s honor?”

“You’re the one who defiled this sacred duel! I’ll wash it clean with your blood right here!”

Besimer raised his axe high.

“What are you all doing!?”

Waller shouted urgently.

“You serve Goethe! If Besimer so much as touches a hair on the young master’s head, everyone here will be executed for treason!”

Only then did the soldiers come to their senses and rush at Besimer.
His strength was monstrous—each limb required two or three sturdy men to restrain.

“Let go! Let go, you rotten pigs!”

Besimer struggled violently.

“Get a grip, captain!”
“Are you crazy? You want us all dead!?”
“Damn it, the captain’s lost it again!”

More than a dozen men piled onto him, but Besimer flung them aside like straw dolls.
Still, as the soldiers fought with everything they had, his balance finally broke.

He fell face-first into the mud, and the others swarmed over him.

“I said let go!”

Besimer couldn’t bring himself to swing his axe at his comrades, so he could only shout.

The one who finished it was Carlson, who struck the back of Besimer’s head with a pommel.

***

“I’m not going.”

“Go. I won’t say it twice.”

“I won’t go. I already got enough crap from the other servants for attending you. If I lose even this position, how am I supposed to show my face in the estate?”

“No amount of whining will work this time.”

Go back to the estate—you’re no longer needed as my attendant.
Isaac repeated himself several times, but Hans showed no sign of listening.

To Isaac, it was infuriating.

As long as he remained in Vinfeltro, he would have to face countless life-and-death crises.
Even immediately—hundreds of hell wolves would soon descend upon the camp.

Originally, within weeks, Vinfeltro would cease to function as Goethe territory.
It would become a habitat for magical beasts.

Isaac’s first task in Vinfeltro was to stop that from happening.

And in the process, who knew how much blood would be spilled?
Even Isaac himself might not survive.

He hadn’t come here to live comfortably—he had come to change Goethe’s future.
If he survived, he could attempt the next objective.
But the looming possibility of death couldn’t be ignored.

To save his house, to protect those he cherished—he was ready to throw himself into a blazing inferno.

And now, someone he cared about wanted to jump into that inferno with him.

That was something he could not allow.

Shing—

At last, Isaac drew his sword.

“I’ve indulged you once or twice, and now you’ve gotten out of hand. Leave. Or I’ll kill you myself.”

No matter how loyal Hans was,
he still had a family—things he needed to protect.

This was Isaac’s final measure.

“If I can’t serve you, then dying by your hand wouldn’t be so bad. Go ahead. Kill me. What are you waiting for?”

Hans grabbed the blade Isaac had drawn with his bare hand and pressed it to his own neck.

“How lightly must you think of me to try and deceive me like this? You think I can’t cut you?”

“Then do it already.”

“….”

“I may be a fool, but do you think I don’t know you? The moment you said you’d duel that giant—Besimer or whatever—I knew. You were prepared to die. And you think I’d let you go alone to a place like that?”

…

“I don’t know how you see me, young master. But to me, you’re family—no, more than that. Because of you, my son lived, and my family survives. I’ve spent more time with you than with my own family. I’d die for them… but I’d die for you too. If my family dies, I’ll follow them. If you die, I’ll follow you as well.”

“…That’s all very dramatic, but your face is pale as hell.”

“With a blade at my throat, if I’m not scared, that’d make me insane.”

Hans trembled, yet he spoke every word clearly.

“I envy whoever’s servant you are.”

“Carlson? What, you were listening?”

“You were shouting so loudly. It nearly brought tears to my eyes.”

Carlson entered the tent, speaking with a blank expression.

“Let him stay.”

“Why are you like this too?”

“Because I know better than anyone the pain of failing to protect what must be protected.”

At Carlson’s words, Isaac looked at Hans.
Hans met his gaze stubbornly, as if trying to convey his sincerity with his eyes alone.

“I’ll train him. I’ll make him into a proper sparring partner for you.”

“…Haah.”

Isaac let out a deep sigh.

The pain of failing to protect what must be protected—
how could he not know it?

He had lived with it his entire life.
Being trapped forever in the moment you failed to protect something…
that wasn’t living at all.

If Isaac had miscalculated anything,
it was the depth of Hans’s feelings toward him.

“…You fool.”

Isaac muttered as he sheathed his sword.

“Hans.”
“Yes, young master.”
“From now on, you are both my attendant… and Carlson’s squire.”
“Carlson’s squire?”
“And Carlson—you’re coming with me.”

***

Isaac left the tent and walked through the camp.

It was still afternoon, sunlight lingering.

News of Isaac defeating Besimer had spread among the soldiers.
But that didn’t mean they welcomed him.

They glanced at him, whispering among themselves.
No one approached him or showed friendliness.

They simply avoided him quietly.

If one were to borrow Besimer’s words,
he had only become slightly better than a cursed cripple in their eyes.

Isaac walked on silently, heading outside the camp.
Carlson followed without a word.

Once they left the camp and no one was around, Isaac spoke.

“Carlson.”

“If Hans dies in Vinfelt, I won’t help you.”

“If you break your word, I will cut you down.”

“Even so—I won’t help you.”

“….”

Only then did Carlson realize the price of changing Isaac’s mind.

“Is a mere commoner servant really that important?”

“He is to me. So either protect Hans—or if that’s too much trouble, make him strong enough not to die.”

“That’s an impossible order. Everyone dies eventually.”

“I’m telling you to do your best.”

“I’ve thought this before, but you’re a very strange noble, young master.”

“You’re not exactly normal either.”

Isaac smirked and kept walking.

“Let’s go back, Kyle.”
“It’s Carlson.”
“Someday you’ll be Kyle, son of Kayen.”
“Until then, I’m Carlson.”
“Fair enough.”

“…About Hans.”
“Yeah?”

“Is it acceptable to train him so hard he nearly dies—so that he won’t die?”

“I like that. Turn that disobedient attendant into an obedient squire.”

“As you command.”

Isaac and Carlson exchanged smiles.

I’ve gained one more reason to become stronger.

Isaac thought to himself.

If he couldn’t even protect Hans,
he had no right to speak of protecting his family.

So—

He had to become stronger.