Reinhard blinked, a series of slow, deliberate movements that betrayed his surprise, though the kind, placid smile never left his features.
Reinhard: ["Should I take this as a request for a duel?"]
In response, the black-haired boy gave a single, sharp nod.
Lacerta: ["If that's what it takes to spar, then yes. I can feel it from you—an aura of immense power, greater than any I have ever encountered."]
Reinhard's smile wavered for the barest of moments, and his gaze drifted past Lacerta to the rooftops beyond. A soft, almost melancholic chuckle escaped his lips.
Reinhard: ["...I see. In that case, I accept your challenge, Lacerta. I will do my best to meet the high expectations you have of me."]
Lacerta: ["You ask no questions about who I am?"]
Lacerta noted, intrigued.
Reinhard shook his head, his brilliant red hair catching the light.
Reinhard: ["I imagine it's for the same reason you can perceive my strength. It is clear that you are mighty yourself—perhaps even more so than I."]
Lacerta was silent, processing the words. In Vollachia, such a statement would be dripping with sarcasm, a prelude to mockery. But the earnestness on Reinhard's face held no trace of deceit. The redhead wasn't being ironic; he was simply, impossibly, sincere.
A murmur rippled through the onlookers, and Lacerta's eyes swept over them with a frown.
Lacerta: ["This is no place for a proper fight. Where can we go?"]
Reinhard: ["A wise concern... while I am not yet a full-fledged knight, my... name should grant us access to the official training grounds. It would be a far safer and more suitable venue."]
Lacerta, unfamiliar with the city's customs, could only nod in understanding, his focus already narrowing on the battle to come.
———————————————
The carriage ride wasn't long, but it was long enough for Lacerta to grow unnerved by the unwavering smile of the boy seated across from him: Reinhard van Astrea.
They arrived at an estate of such staggering opulence it made Haldran's manor look like a peasant's hovel. A flicker of paranoia sparked within him. Was this a trap? Had his Vollachian origins been exposed already? Was he being led to his execution?
In all honesty, it didn't matter. The chance to cross blades with the red-headed prodigy was a temptation too great to ignore.
Reinhard's name, it seemed, carried as much weight as his sword. No one questioned the black-haired boy at his side as they were ushered into the lavish domain.
At Reinhard's request, the training ground was cleared. Lacerta stepped from the shadows of the gallery into a sprawling, circular arena of hard-packed earth. Alone, across the expanse, his sparring partner awaited him.
Lacerta: ["Well, Sword Saint, huh. It's a fancy title, that's for sure."]
A soft, almost sheepish chuckle was Reinhard's reply.
Reinhard: ["I suppose that's one way to put it. Whether I can ever truly live up to it... that remains to be seen."]
Lacerta hummed, his attention drifting to the murmurs from the knights now lining the gallery above. They weren't mocking him, but their confidence in Reinhard's victory was absolute.
So these are Lugunica's knights... individually, they seem no great threat.
Lacerta: ["Though, I wasn't expecting an audience."]
Reinhard's eyes widened, a hint of panic touching his flawless features as he scratched his cheek nervously.
Reinhard: ["My apologies, Lacerta! I didn't consider that you might prefer privacy—"]
Lacerta: ["It was a joke, I don't really mind at all."]
A wry, fleeting smile touched his lips.
Lacerta: ["And here I thought I was the one who didn't understand humor."]
Silence fell. They both held the same weapon: a simple wooden short sword, the kind that would splinter without a steady flow of mana. A good test of reinforcement, at least.
As he prepared himself, a strange sensation prickled at him—a subtle, unnatural drain.
My mana... it's draining faster than it should.
His eyes narrowed on the redhead, who had just raised his own sword, sinking into a flawless, battle-ready stance.
Is it because of him? Is that even possible?
That realization was all the catalyst he needed. There was no time to waste if he wanted even a sliver of a chance to win.
With an explosive crack, the ground beneath Lacerta's foot shattered. He didn't move; he erupted forward, a black-haired blur of motion. He had never opened a fight with his full strength. Until now, at least.
Lacerta: ["———!!"]
Reinhard: ["———"]
Wood met wood with a sharp report that echoed through the arena. Reinhard's footwork was a flawless dance, his feet gliding over the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust that seemed to part reverently, refusing to soil his pristine uniform or hinder his line of sight.
Lacerta swiftly disengaged, sliding sideways to pivot his entire body's momentum into a devastating horizontal arc. Reinhard flowed backward, weaving just outside the blade's edge—but the swing was a feint. The instant Reinhard created distance, Lacerta took chase and reversed his grip, the wooden sword becoming a spear aimed directly at his opponent's eye.
And yet...
Lacerta: ["——Hrk!?"]
Reinhard's parry was impossibly fast, an upward flick of the wrist that seemed to defy physics. Lacerta felt a chill as he realized it wasn't a conscious block; it was an instinct, his opponent's body moving on its own to intercept every threat.
Slash after slash rained down, a frenzied assault of splintering wood. Yet Reinhard remained purely on the defensive, his parries and blocks flowing like a calm river, deflecting a raging storm not with power, but with perfect, effortless skill.
This was the might of Lugunica's Sword Saint. A prodigy favored by the world itself.
But so am I, aren't I?
The first counterattack made by Reinhard had grazed Lacerta's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. He took a sharp breath, ducked low, and lunged upward, both hands now gripping the hilt. Pouring a further amount of mana into the blade, a dangerous amount, he brought it down in a crushing overhead blow.
Reinhard met it, his own sword already raised to block.
Lacerta—the prodigy who could simulate a thousand battles in his mind in a single instant.
Reinhard—the Sword Saint chosen by the world itself.
The murmuring of the crowd erupted into a roar.
Knight: ["Woahhhhh!!"]
Knight: ["I've never seen anyone last this long against Reinhard!"]
Knight: ["Are all kids these days absolute monsters?!"]
For a fleeting instant, the battle paused, their splintering blades locked together.
Lacerta: ["As I thought... you really are… strong."]
Reinhard: ["As are you. Stronger than any opponent I have ever had the privilege to face."]
He replied, his blue eyes serious and sincere.
Right then, the lightheartedness of the duel evaporated in an instant. A profound seriousness settled over the Sword Saint's face, and a palpable aura of strength radiated from him, a physical wave of force.
It slammed into Lacerta, sending him sliding backward across the dirt, his boots digging desperate furrows to slow his momentum.
Lacerta: ["———!!"]
Reinhard blurred. It was a movement that seemed to push the limits of the natural laws of the world, quicker than sight, faster than thought. The space between them was erased, and a crimson silhouette coalesced before Lacerta, sword already swinging.
Instinct screamed. Lacerta dropped, evading ruin by a razor's edge. He felt the ghost of the blade pass over him—a surge of pressurized air that sliced free several locks of his black hair. From his crouch, he coiled and unleashed a counter, a semi-circular slash he'd never performed until now, born of pure necessity and desperation.
A solid thud confirmed yet another defense. The impact, however, forced Reinhard to skid three meters back, his boots tracing faint lines in the soil.
A cold certainty washed over Lacerta.
With every blow, he seems to get stronger. Not even mentioning, he's refusing to give me everything he has. Am I just not worthy of it at my current level?
After weeping, shedding tears for the death of a... friend—and making that declaration that he would become the strongest, this was the best he could do?!
Lacerta: ["——Tch!"]
With a sharp grit of his teeth, he hauled the wooden sword over his shoulder and took a deep breath. Mana flooded the weapon, raw and brilliant, until it glowed with the intensity of a miniature sun.
He saw Reinhard's eyes widen slightly. It wasn't alarm. It was recognition, startling and profound, as if he were seeing the reflection of his own soul in the attack.
Just to sustain the technique against the Sword Saint's oppressive presence, Lacerta had to funnel an agonizing amount of power into the wood. The unfairness of it was staggering.
—Slash...
The world seemed to narrow to the space between them. The knights in the stands scrambled back, sensing the imminent collision.
—And it shall...!
He then brought the sword down, ready to wrought, to unleash devastation against the Sword Saint.
BE SLAS——!?
The swing began, but never finished. Mid-arc, the wooden blade reached its limit and failed catastrophically. It exploded into a cloud of wooden shrapnel and vaporized mana, the attack dying like a collapsing star before it was ever truly born.
Lacerta: ["...Ah?"]
With a quiet frown, Lacerta opened his hand. The last remnants of the sword, little more than fine ash, sifted through his fingers and were carried away by the breeze.
Reinhard straightened, his expression unreadable as he lowered his own weapon.
The outcome was clear.
Lacerta: ["So... I lost."]