——Perhaps, no one would believe it.
"My name is
That moment, the grand boast that had turned everyone in the great hall of the royal castle into an enemy.
A statement where even the speaker himself couldn't hide the slightly excited emotion and the impulsive words and actions——and there was just one man who was moved by it.
※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ The sword he had picked up fit his palm in a way that almost brought him to tears. It felt as though he might delude himself into thinking the sword itself had chosen him.
Though, in truth, he had absolutely no reason to feel that way now.
"Shit!"
Compared to his broken beloved blade, it was slightly wider and heavier at the tip. However, if he fought with that in mind, the minor differences could be quickly corrected in the flow of combat.
He prided himself on his training to fight with any weapon, not just one that fit perfectly in his hand. He had prepared for every possible scenario and striven to be able to fight without relying on a specific sword.
"You're boring, you know."
A sharp thrust, carrying that very pride, was aimed at the man's brow. But the man dodged it with a simple tilt of his head, lightly ran the wooden staff through the tips of his hair as if grooming it, scattering his red locks, then leaped straight backward.
Closing the distance again with swift footwork.
In combat, when evaluating swordsmanship holistically, what becomes important is not just sword handling, but also foot movement and agility.
Naturally, swords have an optimal range. To reach that optimal position with maximum speed and exploit the opening to its fullest, one must use not just the arms, but the legs, and thus the entire body.
Therefore, when he first started training in swordsmanship, footwork was the very first thing his master drilled into him.
He believed he had been fortunate in his teacher. His master's swordsmanship might have been somewhat inferior compared to his own now, but that was inevitable given the age difference.
However, there was no denying his master was exceptionally gifted at teaching others, far beyond his own skill level. He was a man who enjoyed talking not just about the practical application of sword techniques, but where those techniques originated and how they were passed down.
Naturally, he came to enjoy listening and took pride in being able to put it into practice.
"———"
He caught up to the leap and slammed his sword down towards the man's landing spot. Feints from above and both sides created an opening for the main attack: a rising slash from below.
"Textbook stuff, huh."
The man effortlessly altered the trajectory of the slash meant to cleave him from groin to chest using his wooden stick. When the stick intercepted the blade, it deflected the force with astonishing ease. Even as he tried to resist, a sword swing is a matter of a fraction of a second——and within that instant, the man added a delicate, thread-through-needle level of force control that was simply overwhelming.
"Urgh!"
A gasp of shock escaped the back of his throat, and his strike shot upward into empty air. Not giving the opening created a chance, he twisted his body and commanded his mind to summon the wind blade——no, that option was gone.
The distracting magic couldn't be cast. This had only created an opening.
"Kuh!"
A front kick, thrust forward, pierced straight into his side. The bare toes dug in like claws between his organs, and the moment his body buckled from the pain, the embedded foot twisted, and every organ inside him screamed.
He was sent flying. In that instant, he threw himself in the direction of the impact to prevent his inertia from throwing him further off balance.
However, that didn't neutralize the penetrating force of the kick. His vision swam, and the shock through his torso resonated in his brain, bringing a wave of nausea, but he forced himself to focus on the enemy, slammed his feet down as the floor rushed up, and managed to keep his stance.
His breathing was ragged. Deep breaths would take too long to recover.
He forcibly squeezed his lungs, expelling all remaining oxygen. He emptied himself completely, then forced the memory of calm back into his labored breathing.
"———"
He exhaled, emptying his lungs entirely. *I can still fight. I can fight.* "———"
About ten meters away, the red-haired man stood there with a grin.
*I have to close that distance again. Pursue, strike, and tear off that cocky smile.* From there, the real fight would— "Getting all dramatic. What's true or false in a fight, huh? Are you reading storybooks?"
"Ah—"
In the blink of an eye, the distance was closed, leaving him dumbstruck.
Right after the blink, indeed. The man crossed ten meters in an instant, thrusting his wooden staff right before his eyes. He instinctively raised his sword to deflect it, and in that moment of wide, vulnerable movement, two arcing strikes smacked him in the temple and chest.
A sharp impact, his consciousness nearly swept away more by the precision of the blow than the pain. He gritted his back teeth, desperately gathering his fraying awareness, and stamped his foot hard against the floor.
"Oraa!"
With a guttural roar, he unleashed a crescent slash at the man. The man dodged it with a dancer's grace, and an elbow slammed into his cheek. Once again, his consciousness wavered.
He stamped his foot down, the dull ache spreading through his sole anchoring his will to fight. However, his instantaneous judgment was impaired. Therefore, he chose the strike his body knew best.
Simultaneous chant of fire and water, adding a sword slash for a three-pronged attack—fizzle.
No support of flame or ice came; only the one "optimal" flash, refined through countless hours of training into art, was released. Against an ordinary opponent, that alone might have been enough to finish them.
"Pei."
The pinnacle of knightly swordsmanship was easily batted aside by the casually swung wooden stick.
A knee drove up into his solar plexus, squeezing out gastric fluids along with a pained retch. As he was about to crumple, a barrage of strikes from the front slammed into him, preventing his collapse.
"Oh?"
The impact nearly threw him backward; he threw out a hand instinctively to brace himself. Using the momentum of the backflip, he lashed out with a kick, which the man dodged with a surprised grunt.
Backflip, creating distance. Blood dripped from his nose. He wiped it with a white sleeve. His uniform was now starkly stained with vivid red paint.
*No matter.* He exhaled sharply, pouring his very soul into the sword still gripped in his right hand.
*I have to reach. I must reach. I have to be strong. I must be strong.* "You're pathetic, holding a sword. How long have I even had it, huh? I've only had this thing for three months! I can cut light, but what can you cut, huh?"
"Now, here, I will—"
"Give me a break. You? Can you? No way. You can't even swing to reach me. You haven't even swung to reach me. You can't swing to do it. You haven't swung to do it. You haven't done anything, so stop talking about what you wanna do!"
Instead of a retort, he drove his sword down with all his might.
As if in answer to that slash, over ten strikes rained down upon him.
"———"
His consciousness faltered. He didn't fall. *Why won't I fall?* Because— "You're lacking. Not enough. This isn't your place. Wrong field. Wrong player. You're not wanted here."
*He has to be strong.* He had to prove it with his sword.
He had lost his name, his home, his family, his lord, his comrades, his friends, his spirit partner bound by soul.
All that remained was this. All that was left was himself. What he had built up for himself, intangible, this was the only thing left.
This was his only proof of existence.
"You're disgusting. Hiding behind that pretty face? Just copying others and you're satisfied? Your sword and you are both boring."
There was a time he had aimed for the pinnacle of the sword.
A time he thought he might be able to reach that place.
He quickly realized it was overreaching and let it go.
The moment he saw the red-haired boy, the boy holding a sword, shouldering something immense, and understood with his eyes.
"Nobody's looking at you. Nobody's expecting anything from you. Don't get complacent thinking I'm just playing around. Even punching and kicking you isn't fun, you know."
He had aspirations. Stories overflowing with brilliance.
He felt he wasn't nearly enough to stand alongside them.
So he had struggled, clawed his way forward, thinking it was for that dream he'd abandoned so long ago.
"———"
A blue eye, not covered by an eyepatch, and tousled, flame-colored hair overlapped with the boy who had once forced him to let go of his dream, and one of the countless aspirations he'd held since.
He had wished to reach that someday, and had tried to live without neglecting the effort.
"Not enough. At all. Don't slack off on life!"
He was spat out by the very aspiration he'd wished to reach, beaten down by a single wooden stick.
Unable to even swing his sword properly, unable to make his swings land, his accumulated efforts rendered meaningless, the blood and sweat he'd built up now worthless, the one thing he believed in amidst the sudden collapse of his life—even that, trampled underfoot.
"———"
Something welled up, faint and deep.
It was swept away by something else that surged up even stronger.
"Kuh! Holding back? Even more boring, you know."
With a click of his tongue, light burst forth, piercing his limbs.
He crumpled like a doll with its strings cut. But the violence didn't allow that.
His torso was struck. His breath caught. His hair was seized, and he was swung left and right. Then he was slammed into the floor, and as he rolled, his face was kicked. Spinning like a disc, he slid across the floor, endlessly rolling through the white expanse.
He hit the floor. Pushed off, he looked towards the direction the kick had come from. The man's knee flew directly into his face. At the moment of impact, he drove his forehead against the knee. Despite splitting his skin, he managed to knock the man back.
An opening emerged. He could recover his stance—but his body wouldn't move.
"Ugh..."
His entire body was screaming. The damage to his head was especially severe. His consciousness swam unsteadily; if he lost focus, it felt like his brain might spill out in the next instant.
*The sword—where is the sword?* As if confirming, he slowly, deliberately put strength into his right hand. There, he felt the solid grip of the sword. A wave of relief.
He couldn't let it go. Not this. If even this was lost, what would he have left?
—Or perhaps, what he held now wasn't even a "sword" but something else entirely in its shape?
"———"
He had believed there was no fault in his way of being, that he was walking his own path.
It was still true now. He had thought that nothing would ever shake that conviction.
So, the fact that it had slipped from his grasp and vanished should have been a separate issue from right or wrong.
—Or was it a mistake?
Had he damaged his own way of being, chosen the wrong path, misjudged what he believed in, and thus ended up here?
He had lost his name, his home, his family, his lord, his comrades, his friends, his spirit partner bound by soul.
If even this one thing, which should have been left, turned out to be worthless, unworthy of clinging to, not a support but a mere façade— —He had sworn to his lord to be strong and support her.
—His one remaining friend had told him to remember his strength.
In a world where he had lost everything, that "strength" was the only thing holding him up.
That "strength" was the only unshakeable "certainty" for this fragile, weak self of his.
"You're hesitating. It shows in your sword, you know."
"—!?"
How much time had he spent in this self-debate?
Probably less than a second. But even that fraction of a second was, for this man—for the "Sword Saint"—an opportunity to slay his enemy countless times over.
He desperately raised his sword to block the incoming attack.
A high-pitched clang echoed. His eyes flew open, and he saw his sword tumbling across the floor.
It had slipped from his hand. In the end, he had lost even his sword.
With name, pride, and sword all gone, what did it mean for him to be standing here?
"You lack the qualifications to reach the Divine Sword. —You're not even fit to be a lackey, you know."
The hoarse voice delivered the verdict coldly as the "Sword Saint" gripped the wooden stick in a standard hold and lowered his stance.
—This was the first time the "Sword Saint" had truly readied himself.
Immediately, the stick screamed through the air, and a slash—an undeniable slash—was unleashed.
An absolute slash, and he was sent flying, tossed about by the shockwave.
"———"
A blow unlike any fist, kick, or previous violence.
This wasn't mere violence. This was the swordsmanship at the pinnacle, the absolute apex, the true "strength" unleashed.
Swallowed by light, his consciousness fled.
Would he see death? Or something beyond death? He didn't know.
Just as he was sent flying, a faint voice reached him.
"Julius—!!"
The strained voice, filled with a kind of desperate sorrow.
It sounded like someone who had fought hard, raced up a long staircase, and arrived at a crucial moment.
Because of that voice, an incongruous smile crossed his lips.
The "Optimal" Knight. The Royal Knights of the
"Do I... still have the right to be called by that name?"
With that final question, Julius's consciousness was swallowed by the light and abruptly cut off.