Chapter 105

Field Duel (3)

“I am Besimer, Great Warrior of the Baitur Tribe! UOOOO—!”

Covered in blood, Besimer beat his chest and let out a savage roar.

“Chevalier… can you defeat that monster?”

Rutger frowned.

He had sensed from the man’s build that he was no ordinary fighter, but he hadn’t expected this level of brute strength.
Before that monstrous power, all the blood-soaked efforts of his elite soldiers had become meaningless.

No matter what training they endured, what swordsmanship they mastered, or what future they dreamed of—
before Besimer’s axe, it all turned futile.

All became equal lumps of flesh… destined to feed the crows.

“He is not a monster. He was simply born with exceptional physical ability and the instinctive talent to use aura. Those called Great Warriors among the battle tribes are usually born with that level of ability.”

Chevalier watched Besimer with calm eyes.

“So can you win, or not?”

Rutger snapped irritably.

“I need certainty—not an evaluation.”

Chevalier was undoubtedly the strongest among Rutger’s subordinates.
Even among Viscount Botmer’s knights, he ranked near the top.

If he were to lose, there would be no one left on Botmer’s side capable of facing Besimer.
In that case, even a full-scale battle would no longer guarantee victory.

Besimer would appear almost immortal, and the ordinary soldiers—aside from the elites—would lose their will to fight and flee.

Rutger clenched his sweat-soaked fist.

If it were his brother or father, they would have rallied the soldiers with overwhelming authority and presence.
But Rutger was not that kind of figure.

No soldier entrusts his life to an inexperienced commander on his first campaign.

“I can win.”

Chevalier’s answer cut through Rutger’s thoughts.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. However…”

Chevalier’s gaze was not on Besimer, who strode across the battlefield as if it were his stage.

It was fixed on the black-haired man standing about a hundred paces away—
the escort knight of Baron Vinfelt.

“I cannot guarantee anything regarding Kyle. So when I defeat that Great Warrior and morale rises, order the advance immediately.”

“What nonsense is this!?”

Bishop Alquin, who had been listening quietly, shouted.

“Sir Rutger, a duel is a sacred ritual to discern the will of the Lord! I stand here as a representative of the Church! If you defile its sanctity before my eyes, will those who fear God continue to follow Botmer? What will the northern nobles think!?”

The bishop spoke with a trembling voice.

The Church framed duels as sacred rites governed by God.
If Rutger ignored this and ordered an advance, Botmer’s honor would be stained—
and the bishop himself would be seen as one who condoned sacrilege.
His religious authority would be damaged.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Unlike the agitated bishop, Rutger’s voice was calm.

“What you are about to witness—the clash between both sides—will not be caused by me. Baron Vinfelt will have broken the rules of the duel first. Just like a reckless brat would.”

“…What?”

“Chevalier. Defeat that monster. The moment you do, I will order a full assault.”

“Understood.”

Leaving the flustered bishop behind, Chevalier slowly walked toward Besimer.

“I trust you’ll cooperate, Bishop. If you won’t use your divine power to help, then at least do this much.”

“You expect me to speak falsehoods? When all these soldiers are witnessing events with their own eyes?”

The old bishop’s eyes trembled.

“Haven’t you committed plenty of sins where the Lord couldn’t see? No need to strain yourself. Just fabricate something appropriate. The Church will believe your words over those of mere soldiers.”

“I have no intention of losing while clinging to honor, nor of being cast aside as an heir and retreating into religion. Help me. Shouldn’t a shepherd guide a lost lamb?”

Rutger stared expressionlessly at Isaac across the field.

“You said it yourself, Bishop. Better to be a deceiving priest than a noble sacrifice. That’s exactly what I intend to be.”

—

Besimer’s axe tore through the air.

The air howled, and dry dust scattered.

Even a single direct hit would shatter armor—then flesh, muscle, and bone.
As an aura user, Chevalier understood this better than anyone.

Besimer’s axe could not be dodged by watching the blade alone.
Infused with aura, its effective range was far larger than it appeared.

Yet Chevalier avoided it as if taking a casual stroll.

Instead of a longsword, he held an arming sword loosely.
He carried no shield.

He had no intention of blocking, parrying, or deflecting the axe.

Only with footwork and subtle upper-body movement, he evaded every strike.

To Besimer, it was maddening.

The distance never closed.
None of his weapon-like body parts could reach.

Against fellow warriors or beasts, they would clash head-on—
using forehead, elbows, fists, knees, and feet as weapons.

But Chevalier maintained a distance of at least three steps at all times.

Besimer never even got the chance to attempt such attacks.

“You rat bastard!”

The open field had no obstacles.
With no spatial restrictions, Chevalier simply circled—sidestepping and retreating.

“How long are you going to keep running, coward!?”
“Running? Are you even aware of your own condition?”

Besimer’s face twisted.

His body was already covered in shallow cuts.
Fresh blood seeped through the dried blood of fallen enemies.

Focused entirely on attacking, he hadn’t paid attention to Chevalier’s blade.

Every strike had been precise—avoiding vital points, cutting from maximum distance.

For Besimer, who prioritized killing over his own life, such wounds went unnoticed.

“Forget rat… you’re a snake.”

“Call me what you want. You won’t defeat me.”

Chevalier still stood with his arming sword lowered.

He was nothing like this savage brute.

He did not enjoy fighting or violence.
He wielded his blade only to survive.

He never overextended.

He never made attacks that risked a counter.

Only strikes that guaranteed advantage.

He feared pain.
He despised being wounded.

And precisely because of that, he was more patient than anyone—
and strove to remain cold and composed.

He did not lose himself in bloodlust or frenzy.

A reckless, all-in attack was needed only once—
when victory was certain.

Until then, he would slowly accumulate advantage.

Like chess.

No matter how desperately Besimer attacked, the outcome didn’t change.

By now, a cut near his brow had blinded one eye.
No matter how often he wiped the blood away, it kept flowing back.

More cuts appeared on his arms, legs, and sides.

“A so-called knight… scratching with a toy sword.”

Besimer muttered, wiping blood from his face.

“What are you doing, Besimer!?”
“Get a grip, you bastard!”

Shouts came from the Vinfelt side, followed by jeers.

“Tch, you bastards… you should be cheering me on!”

Besimer glared toward them.

“Drop your weapon and kneel. I’ll spare your life. You have no chance of winning.”

Chevalier shook the blood from his blade and took his stance again.

“Tch… just like a snake. Feels like you’re licking me with your tongue, not cutting. Did your mother teach you that? Did she lick boots like that to beg for scraps?”
“Your provocation is meaningless.”
“Or maybe it was your father? Which pigsty were you born in? Was the first thing you learned how to lick your master’s crotch?”

Besimer muttered whatever came to mind.

If he couldn’t close the distance, then he had to make the other come to him.
Otherwise, no matter how great a warrior he was, he would lose without even touching Chevalier’s collar.

“Keep talking. Even now, your blood is still flowing. Soon, you’ll run out.”
“Oh, you’re calmer than those other knights who babble about honor.”

Chevalier was right.

Besimer’s senses were dulling, and his body felt heavy.

“Then that’s it, huh. No snake of a mother, no pigsty-born father. Hah… I insulted a poor bastard for nothing. An orphan knight.”

Chevalier stood still, enduring the insults.

But Besimer noticed it—
a slight flicker in Chevalier’s eyes.

Grinning, Besimer rested his axe on his shoulder.

“Ah… so that’s why you fight like this. Even the gutter rats in the back alleys don’t fight like this, and they at least learn from their parents.”

Chevalier hesitated.

Taking a risk to attack should only be done when there was a certain chance to kill the opponent.

Was this that moment?

Besimer, too busy mocking to even raise his axe, was full of openings.
With the handle resting on his shoulder and no proper stance, even countering would be difficult.

Was this a trap born of provocation—
or a genuine opportunity?

Chevalier tightened his grip on the arming sword.

His instinct—perhaps his emotion—cried out:

Now. Kill him.

Chevalier infused aura into his blade.

And swung.

To him, Besimer’s response was unbearably slow.
Before the axe could even move, Besimer’s head should have been severed.

“Got you.”

But—

he was caught.

Besimer grabbed the blade with his bare hand.

Stopping an aura-infused blade barehanded was impossible.
His hand should have been severed instantly.

How tough would one’s flesh have to be to withstand aura?

Chevalier faltered.
Besimer’s grin widened.

But only for a moment.

Chevalier twisted the sword and pulled it free with both hands.
The blade slid out of Besimer’s grip, spraying blood.

Besimer brought his axe down.

This time, Chevalier did not retreat.

Thud!

With minimal movement, Chevalier drove his blade into Besimer’s abdomen.

“Ghk—!”

Besimer’s eyes widened.

“Advance!”

At that exact moment, Rutger’s mana-infused voice echoed across the field.

The monster had been pierced.

There was no longer anything to fear.

Now it was time to avenge their fallen comrades.

“WAAAAA—!”

Botmer’s soldiers charged across the field with a roar.

From behind them, the waiting cavalry surged forward in a straight-line formation.

Chevalier kicked Besimer’s chest and tried to pull his sword free.

Or rather—he tried to.

“Kh… heh.”

Besimer was still smiling.

Against his pale skin, the blood covering him looked even more vivid.

Even with his abdomen pierced, he did not fall.

Gripping the blade tightly, he refused to let Chevalier retrieve it.

“…?”

A chill ran down Chevalier’s spine.

It wasn’t just because of Besimer.

Awooooo—!

Wolf howls echoed from all directions in broad daylight.

“Neighhh—!”

The cavalry’s horses panicked, their formation collapsing into chaos.

They collided with each other, fell, lost direction—
some even trampled their own infantry.

Then—

on the hills scattered across the field, wolves with pitch-black fur appeared.

“M-monster wolves…!”

Rutger’s soldiers were forced to relive their recent terror.

The massive wolves that had ambushed them in the Black Forest.
The nightmare of comrades being dragged into the forest, torn apart limb by limb.

The memory of a single soldier being ripped to pieces by two or three Hell Wolves flashed vividly in their minds.

As the soldiers faltered, one Hell Wolf broke through Botmer’s lines and charged forward.

Elite soldiers bravely tried to block its path—

but their heads were severed in an instant.

There was someone riding the Hell Wolf, swinging a sword.

Carlson.

Breaking through the defensive line in one swift motion, he arrived before Rutger.

Rutger couldn’t even think to draw his sword.

Carlson’s blade was already upon his neck.

“…As expected, brother.”

Besimer let out a faint chuckle and collapsed.

Chevalier stared blankly at the fallen giant.

It was Rutger’s—

Botmer’s—

defeat.