The swords clashed, their edges competing in sharpness as they scattered flashes of light into the night darkness.
The sensation transmitted through my hands was heavy, yet strangely off-center, making it difficult to either return or deflect, an odd sensation that defied logic.
“Ho, my lord, you fight well.”
“Fuh… never… brat! A rootless… bandit like you knows nothing of the sword!”
A peculiar sword that felt both heavy and light, soft yet firm. The two-handed sword, towering over the wielder, seemed oddly nimble. Combined with its razor-sharp edge and the wielder’s massive physique, it was clear that this was no mere amateur. A less skilled swordsman would have been swiftly overwhelmed. This was no ordinary skirmish, but a superb example of a first-encounter killing blow.
Involuntarily, words of praise slipped out for this remarkably accomplished swordsman. But all I received in return was a curt insult.
Unfortunately, he truly is skilled. If I were to evaluate him in the same manner as myself, he must have reached the “Master” or “Expert” level in the two-handed sword techniques of some school. To that, numerous add-ons and traits were applied, and his enchanted armor bolstered his defenses even further, transforming him into both a wall and an offensive force.
How had such a highly refined individual ended up here, sullying their hands with such base tasks? Or rather, had they been forced into such a situation? It was indeed difficult to comprehend.
I flowed away from his attempt to bring the duel into a deadlock, redirecting him to my left while delivering a knee strike to his abdomen.
“Mph…”
Though slightly staggered, the opponent quickly recovered and retaliated with an upward slash as he spun around. Since it’s impossible for a kick to penetrate plate armor, the objective was merely to destabilize him. His swift recovery and adaptability to “vulgar” combat styles became apparent.
He wasn’t a gilded knight polished through jousting or genteel mock battles. This was a genuine warrior seasoned in real combat—surviving ambushes, excelling in chaotic battlefields where a single individual might be surrounded by many, and where arrows flew like rain.
Unfazed by my crude battlefield swordsmanship, his seasoned demeanor clearly demonstrated his experiences in border patrols, bandit extermination missions, and minor territorial squabbles between lords.
This was excellent—engaging and satisfying.
As I sidestepped a diagonal slash aimed to mow me down from below, I retaliated with a low strike aimed at severing his legs below the knee. He rolled to the right, cleverly using the momentum of his previous attack to create some distance.
His eyesight was exceptional, his judgment of distance diabolically perfect. Even with both of us wielding lengthy swords, he managed to maintain a stance where any misstep would make wielding the sword or defending oneself a challenge.
Sensing my rising spirit, the Sword of Desire emitted a high-pitched wail. Grasping the hilt with an inquisitive intent, a wave of impatience surged into my brain, urging me to hurry.
Alright, alright, settle down now. Isn’t this enjoyable for you as well?
That’s right. It understands; recognizing the worth of the opponent’s weapon, the Sword of Desire has grown even more delighted.
Its edge is devastatingly sharp even without interference from my magic. A mere dull blade would have been cleaved in two with the very first strike.
It must be a magical sword of considerable quality, having undergone exceptional enchantments.
I’m certain it’s been forged through magical means, with inscriptions upon its body, followed by large-scale rituals to grant it potent blessings. Though I can’t discern the precise magical formula, the sword’s strength surely stems from some sort of concept bestowed upon it. Were it merely protected by a weak magical defense, the Sword of Desire would have already shattered its blade, formula and all.
This warrior, wielding an unparalleled masterpiece, clad in sturdy armor, and possessing combat skills honed in the field, possesses abilities that can certainly be deemed “unreasonable.”
It’s truly regrettable. If we had met under different circumstances where we could proudly announce our names and exchange honors, the duel would have been extraordinary—a clash worthy of pride.
Unfortunately, each passing second feels as heavy as a moment of gold; I can’t afford to engage fully. My Lord, you cannot imagine how truly frustrating this is.
A skilled opponent, with dedicated comrades having sacrificed themselves to clear the frontline for this moment, all to allow him to be dispatched with a fatal intent. This sequence of events is so thrilling that I am confident no boy could stay unimpressed. Could one even claim to be a man without answering such a compelling situation?
“Huh…! Why are you laughing!”
“Ah… my apologies. I wasn’t laughing at you, forgive me.”
“Are you mocking me?! You’ve been laughing all this time and now what nonsense is this?!”
Though there was a reason, after three years spent solely as a swordsman, I couldn’t help but smirk involuntarily at my own fixation on swordsmanship. Despite deciding to counter unreasonableness with unreasonableness, I unexpectedly began longing for a straightforward duel.
However, time is not on my side. The flow of time, akin to the flow of blood, should not be wasted. The situation is dire—a luxury of prolonged combat would be “wasteful.”
So, my apologies, but I cannot continue this match.
Though, feel free to verbally assault me later to your heart’s content. I shall endure it willingly; let me simply take the victory and leave.
As I displayed an obvious offensive posture, my opponent gripped his sword tightly with both hands and charged forward, defying his heavy armor with surprising agility. Attempting to deflect my horizontal swipe, he swung his sword—but it missed.
“Huh…!?”
Silently following my command, the Sword of Desire instantaneously resized itself to my preference—matching the proportions of its initial form when I first embraced it, “Sending Wolf.”
The sword of mad love, reflecting that very passion, can change its appearance into any form while maintaining its identity as a sword. In response to my desire, it assumed whatever form would be most effective.
The drastic shortening of the originally massive greatsword, practically too large to wield with one hand, confused even the keenly observant swordsman.
The magical sword intended to deflect the Sword of Desire overshot its target due to the sudden change, leaving him with no time to readjust his position. Just before completing his swing, I successfully rotated the sword in my palm using a “Gorgeous Precision” technique. As the sword pivoted, I seized its handle with the edge now pointing toward me.
Assuming a half-sword stance while lowering my center of gravity, I lunged forward decisively. With the unexpected miss, his body was already unstable, rendering an immediate counterattack impossible.
Resolving to thrust my entire body forward and tumble if necessary, I drove the hilt with full force into his left side.
“Guuh…!?”
Though armor might cover the joints, it can’t protect them entirely. No matter how meticulously the gears are crafted and covered with fabric and padded under-armor, maintaining mobility introduces limitations. Even magical treatments ensuring flexibility without losing hardness require thinness to avoid hindering movements, inevitably creating weak points.
Deeply embedded in the flesh, the handle penetrated with crushing force, shattering tender cartilage and inflicting fatal fractures on the bone. The sensation was heavy, yet gratifying—a grim confirmation of sheer power and damage inflicted.
The knight grimaced in pain and collapsed, his sword slipping from his hand. Even if one hand were still somewhat functional, I kicked the weapon away, eliminating any resistance.
Ah, but this knight remains a knight even in decline. Despite a crushed hand, his indomitable fighting spirit urged him to rise again, reaching for a dagger at his waist.
As I silently admired his relentless combat spirit from within, I drove my blade’s tip into the gap in his gauntlet without showing mercy.
“GAHAAAAAA!!”
The blade cut through muscle and bone, reaching midway through his wrist. He was no longer capable of wielding a sword or throwing punches. All that remained was futile resistance, which I would not allow.
Kicking the knight’s head to force him face-down, I reconstituted my previously dismantled “hand” and retrieved a rope from my waist pouch.
“Guu… you disgrace me! Me… kill me!”
Ah, ah. True enough, your tongue remains uncut, and you have the energy to shout. Excellent, excellent. I wouldn’t deny you the right to voice your prideful excuses.
However, there is a fundamental misunderstanding here. A noble death requires acknowledgment from the opponent.
“You dare come to kill others mercilessly and now expect a noble death for yourself? Quite the presumptuous luxury. Glory and honor have no place in this battle.”
I had anticipated a thrilling duel with you but did not expect a poetic or picturesque death scene.
On the other hand, your subordinates who faced the onslaught of swords until the duel’s conclusion deserve their own commendable glory.
“Nghaaa! Enough!”
As the “Invisible Hand” removed the retainer and tore off his helmet, a rugged yet handsome face appeared, dirtied by sand and sweat. His thick, well-maintained black mustache and beard aligned with the Western Empire’s preference for a martial appearance.
Despite being sunburned, the absence of blemishes and stubborn filth revealed that this wasn’t a mere mercenary equipped with high-quality armor reserved for critical battles. His hair, neatly braided to avoid disturbance inside the helmet, betrayed a discipline uncommon for rough and tumble soldiers.
This was clearly the garb of knightly rank.
What was regretful, however, wasn’t his breaking of the rules of chivalric combat.
Through serving the nobility, some learn the customs and etiquettes of war, including the “battle makeup” expected of knights.
Upon decapitation, a face rapidly loses color, turning a sickly brown as blood drains away. On the battlefield, where frequent cleansings are impractical and salting or preservation with honey is not immediately feasible, preserving the appearance of a captured head is considered a respectful gesture towards defeated adversaries.
This custom of applying light cosmetic touches before battle not only demonstrated respect but also allowed knights to solidify their resolve in the face of death, preparing for any eventualities.
Yet, his face—though dirtied with sand and sweat—lacked even a touch of red makeup.
Did he think death was utterly impossible, or was he deemed unworthy of such courtesies? Either way, it didn’t sit well with me.
I prepared accordingly, even applying a modest touch of lipstick—a cherry-red shade selected by Margit, a special keepsake for the battlefield.
Then let me meet your expectations by ensuring you live.
“What… are you…?”
The invisible hand tore his clothes to form a wad and forced it into his mouth as a gag to prevent suicide. Simultaneously, his hands and feet were securely tied to immobilize him—a complex knot structure designed to withstand even joint dislocations if necessary.
Of course, no matter the intricacies, he could always cut these restraints with a blade, necessitating a thorough body search. No matter how much the armor seemed immaculate, work was work.
Ah yes, better check for magical rings or necklaces as well. Certain items can grant swift, merciful deaths once their bearer realizes resistance is futile.
Reminiscent of past encounters, such measures weren’t always thorough. I once secured a hostage only with ropes, resulting in their death by self-inflicted harm just as our group debated our next move in confusion. The GM’s smug “oh, just tied them up with rope?” resonated in my memory.
So… there are others still alive. Though most are critically injured, they would survive with treatment. I would love to reward their loyalty and zeal for battle, but time is short.
The Sword of Desire emitted a high-pitched vibration, its contentment clear. My satisfaction in subduing the enemy resonated deeply within it.
Perhaps my persistent explanation that “subduing without killing requires greater skill and a superior weapon” bore fruit. Although, it would not look proper were others to witness this.
As my heated battle fervor slightly subsided, I noticed an aura.
Turning my head, I saw the Sword Friends Association and the manor’s men standing bewildered.
Etan and Karsten, along with several male villagers who had earlier been evacuated, had returned with weapons in hand, unwilling to abandon me despite my orders to the contrary. Such dutiful companions.
Judging from the row of men standing dumbfounded and staring at me, at least a good portion of the battle must have been observed.
Though I had planned to utilize magic anyway, it still felt awkward, especially wielding such an unruly cursed artifact.
“… Did you not heed my orders?”
Trying to mask my unease with an awkward grin, I couldn’t help but laugh seeing them all snap to attention, oddly amusing.
【Tips】 Battle makeup, one tradition among knights. Captured heads which turn pale or earthy can be unseemly, leading to this custom of enhancing their appearance before their return to families. Currently, it is a ritual to show respect to opponents and allow knights to steady their spirits while applying makeup.
Volume 3, released in January, was selected in the Light Novel News Online Awards.
Thank you for voting even though the announcement was made three days before the deadline. We will continue to work hard on Volume 4.
The ability of the Sword of Desire to change form may feel like a trick designed to make a skillful reaction fail. Does it remind you of abilities that trigger absolute avoidance or force opponents to reroll reactions?
