Chapter 89
“A sparring sword doesn’t mean it can’t pierce flesh!”
If he were to die in a single blow, he had planned to claim, “I never imagined I’d die so easily.”
But there was no need for such worries.
Clang!
The sharp clash of two swords echoed deafeningly throughout the training grounds.
“Blocked?”
Edmund couldn’t hide his surprise at how easily his attack had been parried. Even if Laszlo had managed to block, Edmund had expected him to stagger several steps backward.
Yet Laszlo, despite stopping a blade filled with killing intent, maintained a blank expression. Was he bored? Angry? Mocking him? Nervous? It was impossible to tell.
Of course, Edmund had no time to dwell on the matter.
Laszlo deflected Edmund’s sword and retaliated with a fierce strike.
“Ugh!”
It was a style devoid of elegant footwork or graceful swordsmanship—a seemingly clumsy approach at first glance. It wasn’t even as fast as Edmund’s technique.
Yet each strike was unnervingly threatening, making it hard to predict where the blade would land.
No, even if Edmund could guess, it was difficult to block.
Clang! Clash! Thwack!
The sound of blades colliding continued noisily.
Laszlo advanced with heavy strides, swinging his sword, while Edmund scrambled backward, desperately parrying each blow.
When Laszlo briefly paused his onslaught, Edmund swiftly counterattacked. However, his impressively fast and fluid swordplay was effortlessly intercepted by Laszlo’s seemingly indifferent blade.
“Well… Sir Milton’s swordsmanship does look more impressive, though…”
“True, but it’s not getting through at all.”
To an untrained eye, the scene appeared peculiar.
Edmund’s sword slashed through the air in countless directions, his agile footwork leaving a chaotic trail of footprints before Laszlo. It was a sophisticated level of swordsmanship, enhanced with flashy techniques.
In contrast, Laszlo moved with an almost lackadaisical ease. Strangely, however, Edmund’s sword seemed to collide with Laszlo’s blade wherever the latter chose to position it.
But to the knights who recognized Laszlo’s complete understanding of Edmund’s moves, this sparring session was painfully one-sided—a demonstration of a vast gap in skill.
“Wow, he’s incredible…”
“Right? I’ve heard tales of Sir Crises being terrifying on the battlefield, but this…”
“Ugh, what’s going to happen to the vice-commander’s reputation after this?”
“Well, he’s the one who challenged him. The vice-commander was getting cocky, thinking he could aim for the captain’s position after doing well in the Order.”
The onlookers murmured behind their hands, while Edmund struggled to believe what was happening.
“Am I losing? To this mercenary scum? Me, an elite knight?”
The potential repercussions of this loss dawned on him.
If he were defeated by Laszlo, both his father, Count Milton, and the Marquess of Wynblair—whose favor he had worked so hard to secure—would never forgive him.
All the trust and admiration he had painstakingly built might crumble to dust.
“Damn it! Why did I agree to this?”
Regret surged within him, but it was too late to undo what had already transpired.
Grinding his teeth, he summoned every ounce of concentration and strength he had left.
“I’ll turn the tide with one final strike!”
Recalling the praise he’d received from his swordsmanship instructors and the knights’ captain, Edmund envisioned himself achieving a dramatic victory.
He feinted with his gaze, directing it away from where he intended to strike, and lunged in the opposite direction.
No matter how good Laszlo’s reflexes were, he would naturally follow Edmund’s line of sight first, making it impossible to block in time.
It had to work.
But—
Clang!
Laszlo parried the attack without even looking.
Caught off guard by the failure of his final gambit, Edmund’s grip faltered, and he dropped his sword.
Clatter, clatter, roll.
The sound of Edmund’s sword skittering across the ground echoed eerily in the now-silent arena. The spectators held their breath, staring at the scene in shock.
“…You can’t be dropping your sword so easily,” Laszlo said flatly.
“……”
“Swinging your sword quickly isn’t everything. You should apply strength only when driving your blade into your opponent. Otherwise, there’s no need to waste energy. A slender waist might look appealing, but for a knight, it’s a weakness. Strengthen your core and lower body.”
Laszlo offered his advice as he withdrew his sword.
The guards surrounding the training grounds nodded earnestly, taking Laszlo’s words to heart. But Edmund, overwhelmed with fury, didn’t register a single word.
“Damn it…! That bastard! Nothing works because of him!”
So consumed with rage that he couldn’t even think to control his expression, Edmund gritted his teeth, glaring at Laszlo as he retrieved the sword that had fallen far away.
To an outsider, the scene might have seemed admirable.
A stoic yet caring captain sincerely advising his vice-commander and even retrieving his sword for him.
But as Laszlo handed the weapon back to Edmund, he whispered in a low voice, inaudible to others, “Instead of plotting to bring me down, you’d do better to refine yourself, Sir Milton.”
He then took a few steps back and calmly asked, “Shall we go for best out of three?”
Edmund, however, clenched his teeth harder and turned on his heel, storming out of the training grounds.
The spectators stared at his retreating figure in astonishment, but Edmund didn’t look back.
“Hm, it seems Sir Milton’s pride has been deeply wounded,” Laszlo muttered to himself.
Only then did the onlookers begin to reassess their view of Edmund.
“I thought he was polite and well-mannered, but maybe not.”
“There were rumors before about Sir Milton being jealous of Sir Crises.”
“It’s embarrassing for Sir Crises. He went out of his way to offer advice, and Sir Milton left without even a word of thanks.”
As the tide of opinion began to shift, Laszlo allowed himself a faint smile and slid his sword back into its scabbard.
He recalled what Idel had once told him.
“Proving your worth solely through actions or avoiding verbal confrontations isn’t always effective in the battlefield of social circles.”
“So, you’re saying I should get involved in that circus of schemes and slander? Gossiping left and right?”
“Not always. But when the time comes to put your enemies in their place, it’s worth using their methods if it delivers the most decisive blow.”
“…You’re more ruthless than I expected.”
At the time, he had merely thought Idel wasn’t as naive as she seemed. But today, her words rang true.
“You shouldn’t dismiss the advice of someone who’s survived the battlefield.”
By slightly setting aside his pride and engaging Edmund on his terms, Laszlo had managed to humiliate him thoroughly in front of others, flipping the narrative without much effort.
What once felt like an injustice now brought him undeniable satisfaction.
“Long time no see, Marchioness!”
“Welcome, Dolores. And this is…?”
“This is my daughter, Catherine. Catherine, greet the Marchioness of Wynblair.”
The entrance of the Wynblair mansion bustled with warm greetings.
The Marchioness had recently refrained from hosting parties, but this modest tea party had drawn noblewomen and their daughters from aligned families, all bearing gifts.
Amid the lively atmosphere, Angela wore an awkward smile.
“Why did the Marchioness invite me? I couldn’t refuse, so I came, but still…”
The Bliss family leaned closer to the Emperor’s faction.
While not all invitations to social gatherings strictly followed political affiliations, small tea parties like this usually involved close allies.
With no acquaintances among the guests, Angela quickly discerned which faction dominated today’s event.
Still, she steeled herself, pushing aside her unease.
“Don’t act foolishly. There’s no harm in leaving a good impression on the Marchioness of Wynblair. Even if this is a ploy to pressure our family.”
Her grandfather, the Count of Bliss, had personally instructed her to accept the invitation, even providing her with an expensive gift to bring.
“Oh my, welcome, my dear. You must be Angela Bliss?”
“It’s an honor that you remember my name, Madam.”
“How could I not? Your reputation precedes you in the social circles. Hohoho!”
Contrary to Angela’s expectations, the Marchioness greeted her warmly.
She not only offered Angela a seat near her but also checked in frequently to ensure she was comfortable. This behavior made Angela increasingly suspicious.
“If she’s treating me this well because of my reputation, why would she have ignored me until now? There must be another motive.”
With a practiced smile, Angela waited patiently for the Marchioness to reveal her true intentions.
After a round of tea and some light chatter, the atmosphere grew slightly less formal. Seizing the moment, the Marchioness approached Angela more closely.
Gracias Rumi por traer un nuevo capitulo 🥰
Se aprecian tu esfuerzo y dedicación❣️