Chapter 104

Field Duel (2)

The day before the duel.

Although he had finished dining with Baron Vinfelt, Rutger ordered his personal chef to prepare lunch once more. He hadn’t taken a single bite during the meal with the baron.

“I didn’t expect the baron to agree so easily.”
“Heh, his body may have grown, but he’s still a twelve-year-old who can’t tell heaven from earth. Isn’t he that infamous brat? Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“Still, it bothers me how he spoke as if he had thoroughly examined our side.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. As I said, he must have just repeated what he heard from those below him.”

At Rutger’s unease, Bishop Alquin smiled generously.
The bishop was in a good mood. Rutger had moved exactly as he intended, and Isaac’s response had also been precisely what he wanted.

When Rutger asked for his counsel, the bishop proposed a ten-versus-ten duel.
Isaac might have one or two strong knights or warriors—but this would be a 10-on-10 clash.

Each side would select ten participants, who would fight in one-on-one duels; the winner would continue on to face the next opponent.

This overwhelmingly favored Rutger’s side.
Not only did he have the knight Chevalier, but he had also brought fifty elite soldiers. Among them were fighters who, while not aura users, possessed skill comparable to knights.

Unaware of such calculations, that foolish madman had accepted the duel.

“Chevalier, what do you think?”

Rutger turned his gaze toward his escort knight, who was quietly continuing his meal.

“You must advance.”

Chevalier answered calmly, still eating.

“You would abandon a path that spills less blood, and insist on full-scale battle?”

The bishop frowned.

“In trying to spill less blood, the young master’s head may be lost.”
“What nonsense are you spouting!?”
“Bishop, hear him out. What are you talking about?”

Rutger asked, calming the furious bishop.

“Do you remember the guard standing behind Baron Vinfelt?”
“The black-haired man?”
“Yes. Do you know who he is?”
“He looked familiar… but I don’t know who.”
“He is Kyle, son of Kayen.”
“…!”

Rutger’s relaxed expression hardened.

“Who is that? Someone you know?”
“He’s someone tied to our family through ill fate. I only saw him once before going on the Grand Tour… and when I returned, I heard he had died…”

Rutger answered the bishop’s question.

“Do you remember the condition Baron Vinfelt added?”
“He said we would wager our heads… then…”

Rutger’s expression shifted by the second—toward the worse.

A ten-versus-ten duel.

And Isaac had added one more condition:
The losing side would be executed in front of both factions.

Rutger had accepted it, dismissing it as the reckless bravado of a mad brat.
In fact, it was a condition he himself would have liked to propose.

An honorable victory.
An unavoidable justification for war gained by executing the count’s eldest son.

He could have everything.

Conversely, if he lost, he would have to offer his own head.
That would never happen.
He had believed it wouldn’t.

“In my opinion, Kyle came here prepared for revenge.”
“Then Baron Vinfelt… is merely a puppet?”
“That is also possible.”

Chevalier replied, finishing the food before him.

—

Two fully armed soldiers clashed.

Calling it a clash was almost embarrassing.
One side was being completely overwhelmed.

Every time Vinfelt’s soldier blocked the long sword swung by Botmer’s soldier, he staggered, looking as though he might collapse at any moment.

“If they’re sending a servant who used to boil soup into a duel, they must really lack capable men.”

The bishop looked satisfied.
Rutger, however, remained troubled.

“Do not take Chevalier’s words too seriously. He is not of noble blood. He was born with limitations.”

The bishop spoke without hesitation, even with Chevalier present.

“Weren’t all humans equal in value before God?”
“The Lord established order to maintain harmony in the world—those who pray, those who fight, and those who labor. Each must follow their role. To reject this is to disrupt His order.”
“I have no intention of debating doctrine. Chevalier, are you confident you can win?”

Rutger looked toward Isaac’s group standing far away—too far to clearly read their expressions.

“I have never faced Kyle directly. But he is certainly skilled. I cannot guarantee the outcome.”

Chevalier answered plainly.

“It seems the first duel is about to end. As expected, Gilliam is overwhelming.”

Gilliam relentlessly pressured Vinfelt’s soldier, yet deliberately left openings.
It was a match he could end instantly, but he toyed with his opponent on purpose—to break the enemy’s morale and instill fear.

Yet Rutger’s gaze was not on the duel.
It lingered on withered bushes and yellowed grass.

A sharp wind, cold enough to cut skin, brushed past his cheek.

Unlike Vinfelt’s side, who had come as if merely to watch—wearing gambesons and carrying mismatched weapons—Botmer’s soldiers were fully equipped.

Behind their formation, beneath the hill, twenty cavalrymen waited.
By Rutger’s command.

Regardless of the duel’s outcome, victory would belong to Botmer.

From the moment Vinfelt’s forces carelessly stepped onto the open field, the tide had already turned.

—

Isaac’s eyes glowed gold.

“Why did you send Hans out first?”

Carlson’s black hair was tossed by the cutting wind.
To him, Isaac seemed uninterested in the duel, staring blankly into the distance.

“The first position has the lowest chance of dying. The atmosphere isn’t overheated yet, and the enemy still has enough leeway to show mercy.”
“He could be killed as an example.”
“Before that, Hans will surrender. If it looks dangerous, you go and save him.”
“That would lead to full-scale battle.”
“It’s going to be full-scale anyway. Do you see their equipment?”

At Isaac’s question, Carlson turned his gaze toward Botmer’s side.

He had already noticed it.

Botmer’s fully armed army—ready to charge at any moment.
In contrast, Vinfelt’s soldiers lacked tension.

“Uooo! Hans! Kill him! Kill him!”

Excited battle-hungry men shouted, while soldiers yelled things that sounded half like cheers, half like mockery.

“Hans! Fight back, you idiot!”
“If you give up, cut your balls off, bastard!”

They were simply reveling in watching the duel.

“Do you think Hans will win?”
“No. I sent him out to lose.”
“…Why?”

“This experience will make him painfully aware of his limits. He might even give up and return to the estate. If he’s going to be mediocre, that’s better. Because around me… there will be nothing but death.”

Isaac’s voice was gloomy.
Yet the golden light swirling in his eyes was chilling beyond measure.

Carlson watched the duel between Hans and the enemy soldier.
Their longswords collided, ringing with sharp metallic clangs.
As if his grip had weakened, Hans lost hold of his longsword.

“You idiot bastard! How do you drop your sword!?”

Besimer shouted at the top of his lungs.
Isaac frowned and dug a finger into one ear.

“I noticed the two Hell Wolves we often saw weren’t around.”

Carlson suddenly spoke.

“Really? You noticed that?”
“One had burns on its front right leg, and the other had a scar across its snout.”
“Sharp observation.”
“Rutger has always had an inferiority complex toward his older brother. Driven by that impatience, he likely made the reckless decision to march through the Black Forest toward Vinfelt. It’s the fastest route.”
“You know your stuff.”
“I once served in Botmer. So let me ask—were the beasts that attacked Rutger’s army in the Black Forest Hell Wolves?”
“That’s right.”

Isaac admitted it without hesitation.

The Botmer family, though noble, originally came from a merchant lineage that had migrated from a republic.
Because of that, Venders—the market master of Bern City—knew Botmer well.
Isaac had used the information he extracted from Venders.

That Rutger was desperate to earn recognition from his father through merit.

“It wasn’t just Hell Wolves. The other beasts we drove toward them played their part too.”
“Then those two Hell Wolves must be dead.”
“Three. There were quite a few capable fighters on their side. We took some unexpected losses.”

“…Besimer won’t like that.”

Hell Wolves were beasts transformed through the shamanistic rituals of the Baitur tribe.
In other words, they had once been comrades to Besimer.

“He already knows. He’ll probably try to collect that blood debt soon enough.”

Isaac scratched his cheek.

—

The duel was nearing its end.

Hans, who had barely managed to dive and retrieve his longsword, dropped it once again.

Boos erupted from the Vinfelt soldiers.
Hans couldn’t hear them anyway.
His life was hanging by a thread.

In the end, Hans gave up on retrieving his sword.
He realized he couldn’t win through swordsmanship.

The one small blessing was that, physically, he was on par—or slightly better.

The enemy soldier, clad in full plate armor, had grown exhausted as the duel dragged on.
His movements became sluggish.

Hans, on the other hand, wore relatively light gear and still had some mobility left.

All that endurance training had paid off.

Now, it was no longer that the enemy was choosing not to kill Hans—
it was that he couldn’t kill him easily.

He had been too arrogant.

Ragged breathing leaked from outside the enemy’s visor.
His heavily swung longsword missed Hans and instead split the dirt.

Hans recalled Carlson’s advice.
His footwork is sloppy.

He aimed for the flank.

As the enemy raised his longsword—

Hans lunged into his side, throwing his body forward.
The exhausted soldier couldn’t bear both the weight of his armor and Hans’s impact.
He lost balance.

The two rolled across the dirt, tangled together.

The enemy still gripped his longsword, trying to push Hans away or cut him,
but the distance was too close.

Without proper force or momentum, the blade couldn’t pierce Hans’s chainmail.

They devolved into a savage brawl—punching each other with gauntleted fists until both were gasping for breath.

For now, it favored Hans.
He was on top, pressing down with his weight.

But Hans could feel his strength fading too.

He had to finish it somehow.

He was unarmed.
Both longswords had long been flung far away.

But there was still one blade left.

The enemy’s secondary weapon—
a dagger at his waist.

Holding down the struggling opponent, Hans grabbed the dagger from his belt.

The enemy panicked and thrashed violently.

Hans panicked too.

Every time he tried to stab, the blade struck armor.
Even when he aimed for gaps, the metal gorget between neck and helmet blocked the blade.

The enemy tried to roll over.
Hans pushed down with all his strength.

In desperation, he stabbed toward the visor slit—
the narrow opening meant for vision.

“GRAAAAH—YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”

A horrifying scream tore through the air.

The enemy convulsed.

The dagger slipped in at an angle.
It wouldn’t be enough to finish him.

Hans pulled it out and stabbed again from a different angle.

“AAAGH!”

This time, the blade went in straight.

The enemy’s convulsions weakened.
His screams faded.
His body trembled violently.

Fearing a counterattack, Hans stabbed again.

But the enemy no longer reacted.

“Haah… haah… haah—”

Only then did Hans hear his own breathing.
His heart felt like it would burst.

“WAAAHHH—!”

Cheers erupted from the Vinfelt side.

But Hans still didn’t understand what he had done.

He simply sat there in a daze, staring at the corpse.
Blood continued to seep out from the helmet.

—

Compared to the long, grueling first duel, the second ended instantly.

Besimer swung his axe.

CRACK!

The second enemy soldier was split in half—helmet and armor alike.

Another swing.

The third enemy was cleaved apart along with shield and armor.

The fourth.
The fifth.

Botmer’s soldiers met the same end.

Rutger could feel it—

The fear spreading like a plague among his troops.

A decision had to be made.