He entered Castle Memoria through the front gates, while most of the ‘knights’ didn’t recognize him, the few Blythes immediately stood at attention. Giving him a Blythe’s salute―their sword pressed to the ground, their hand at their blade’s handle.

  “They really came…” “Polis’ red mane knights.”

  “Must be important with so many knights escorting him…”

  “That’s how it looks to you, huh?”

  A row of armored knights followed the red-haired swordsman, yet their choice of weapons were mismatched between longswords on their back, pikes rested by their shoulders, and the abandonment of melee weapons in favor for crossbows and the likes―and the lot of them numbered up to ten.

  “Mathers and I met him a few times on our visits. We thought the same thing as you did back then. But we were wrong.” “The boy at the front is the one escorting them, the folks following behind are the aristocratic dregs of the Brisean cult.”

  Good to see that despite the nation of Reigns on the verge of collapse, the Blythes are ever proud and nationalistic. Had the motherland still stood, they would meet their match in terms of valor and dignity. Perhaps long ago they stood at odds against one another, but he would hate to see history repeat itself, hate to see another chivalrous nation be felled by beings made to eradicate histories and cultures―

  ―He would resort to all manners of crimes, deals and sacrifices, if it meant another place like home would not be lost.

  Yes, even if it means making deals with blackguard serpents. Before the throne room doors, he was escorted to the second floor viewing area, and there he is, his current biggest headache.

  “Lord Xerceid Astrophel.”

  “Ah, Lord Trias Hiestritt.” Perhaps he bears a semblance to a Kerusian man, his black hair certainly would, but that’s a stolen face, his true nature is among Arvenia’s kin. “And I see you’ve brought my payment? Good, send the fellows to my manor. We’ll talk business as we watch this farce play out.”

  His hollow smile is yet a large pain in the neck, every conversation with this man has to start with him keeping his guard up, and double- triple- quadruple checking to ensure his own words didn’t betray him at all.

  “A farce?”

  On Memorial Palace? He didn’t see the Blythes as the artistic types, perhaps the Roderichts but… their vision has always been to create a safe world for her citizens. So what could . . .

  “Wait―”

  No, he forgot, that man’s Arvenian. Lord Astrophel just has naturally bad taste in things, to call this a farce would be lunacy . . . and they called the Briseans barbaric?

  “―That’s her isn’t it? Dueling with her mother on top of that.”

  Before the viewing areas is a massive, circular throne room. The very back where the throne lies is a flat wall―he doubts that any fighting would happen there. Instead it will happen in the large center. The only thing that could act as an obstacle to their fight are the enormous pillars leading up to the throne, each one as massive as a titan’s leg.

  The lights from the second floor must be far too weak to keep those areas properly lit, otherwise they wouldn’t have placed so many light fixtures on them.

  “My my, you catch on quick. The girl hasn’t matured into a proper swarm, and though the risks are unlikely, the odds of a full manifestation is not zero. So what would you do?”

  Such a sacred place where the finest of knights trained, now turned into a bloody dueling ring―with a mother of all people, acting as the executioner to her child. Is this how you children of Blythe will face this era?

  “Let them suffer their misguided choices,” Trias sighed. “If it comes to a point where the swarm factor progresses too fast, I’ll stop her then.”

  Reigns has enjoyed her ancestor’s glory for far too long, in this age they are no longer the dominant force. If they are to survive as a nation, then cruelty is not the way, facing such hatreds to the forces designed to wipe them out is the height of hubris―the very heights that they need to see for themselves.

  “Whether it’s Reigns, Brisea, Thracis, even Arvenia, none of our mighty nations have subjugated the world’s horrors. It’s time they remembered that.”

  △▼△

  A challenger may pick their best weapon, and the recipient of the duel must do the same―proving the worth of one’s life depends on being the victor.

  ‘In honor, through valor, for basis.’ ― Reigns is a nation of valor, might, and restraint―the last of which her mother so neatly ignored.

  “None of these weapons belong to me.”

  Raseyla looked at the weapon’s rack, searching for a specific one.

  “Can’t you get someone to get my weapon back at home?”

  Rignette had already chosen her weapon, a standard longsword, the family favorite for any Blythe out there. For all her free-time―she ignored Raseyla.

  “Alright.”

  She doesn’t want to give her a chance. The duel hasn’t officially started, but the battle’s already begun, and unfortunately, she’s already being made to show one of her cards. Raseyla stepped forward, grabbing the handle of a silvery whip―

  “Haa…” An immense sorrow washed all over her, “. . . Right, I promised to wield you with a clear mind.”

  ―Her hold tightens.

  As soon as she wielded the whip’s handle, much of the Blythes were already on-guard, but someone in the crowd―someone appalled by the Knight’s lack of realization, had already realized what was going on.

  Raseyla yanks the silver-whip out of the rack, and it shines in a blinding light; purging what it once was, into what’s meant for her―

  “A bonded weapon . . .”

  ―The whip of woven silver tears from the fibers, forged into a long manner of chains connected all the way to a mace-head with six flared flanges at the very end… absent of a spike at the very top, and in its place the slight opening of a hole.

  As the mace-head hovers as if a floating serpent, the slightest friction against the air creates a high-pitched, leaf-whistling sound.

  “You’ll treat me better than mother ever will, won’t you?”

  “――― ?”

  Most bonded weapons had no special characteristics, just having one is not an indication of someone having access to a special kind of strength―no, it just meant they fought battles so terrible that their weapons became another set of brothers in arms.

  “Have you made your peace?” Rignette asked.

  On her left she held both the whip’s handle and a bundle of chains, on her right, she held beneath the mace-head. Her eyes switched back and forth between the distance of her enemy, and her hand against the chain.

  Rignette marched with an ox-guard stance―her longsword raised over her shoulder, horizontal to her target.

  While Raseyla stood firm―the mace-head spinning into afterimages of itself.

  “Don’t have to, I’m dethroning you whether that’s today or next year.”

  “. . .” Nothing else, she had absolutely nothing to say to her child.

  She marches once more―and that vicious whip crashes towards her, striking opposite to her ox-guard―Rignette paces away from the weapon’s arc, switching to a left-sided ox-guard to deflect it away, and it does in a cacophony of firework sparks.

  Without pause, Rignette rushes into a lethal thrust, her figure blurring as the blade trained on Raseyla’s eyes.

  The mace-head flew from the swordswoman, but it did not matter, Raseyla yanked the handle back―clasped her right hand on the chain the moment it lined up to her mother, and sends it back! Crashing the mace-head against Rignette’s left-shoulder pad―

  “Ghhaaa!!--” A terrible cry, her throat ripping as if paper―Raseyla found joy in this.

  ―that piece of armor, metallic or not, crumpled against the focused points of a mace, that blunt force ultimately colliding with her shoulder to do more than just bruise.

  Raseyla draws first-blood, but make no mistake, she’s fighting a true Blythe . . .

  She doesn’t have experience fighting against weapons like these, Raseyla thought and sighed, Fighting a Blythe in a duel is foolhardy at best, I have until she gets used to how I fight with these.

  Raseyla reels the weapon back, and paces away, subjecting the mace-head to another set of revolutions in preparation for the next attack.

  The girl cannot afford even a moment of arrogance―

  “Your move, mother.”

  ―So she’ll fake it. Use guile, use space, and use experience, but never count on strength. She won’t win unless she does this perfectly–

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  “. . .”

  But Rignette makes no sudden moves, her head hung low, her lips parting into a long―yet surprisingly―steady sigh, especially from someone who tore at their throat earlier. Instead she looked at Raseyla, with a face she’d never seen from her mom . . . was that sorrow?

  ‘That was your chance―’ the woman mouthed with her lips.

  Rignette raises her blade into a high-guard stance―and then something invisible collides against her mace-whip’s spin―

  As if Raseyla wasn’t busy processing what she said, her eyes turned towards mace-whip, “. . . Huh?--”

  ―And there she was, her raised blade swung to the ground. The sparks are from her blade meeting the mace-head, sending it far away. She doesn’t have time to think. Raseyla steps back. Rignette pursues and brings up her sword for a thrust. Yet the swing of the mace-whip revolves around Raseyla, the chain wrapped around her once, bringing the mace-head back against the swordswoman!

  With barely any time to move her sword close, she met the mace-head with the side of her gauntlets―digging into her bones.

  “―!!”

  A slight exhale was all Raseyla got, before that same hand moved and hovered over the chains, grabbing it―only to fail―as her fingers won’t close. The mace-head was once again, out of reach. Just another quick fight, another quick skirmish.

  And yet.

  And yet!

  She responds much better, adapts a little faster, and to top it off she used that technique on her. Sending a slash forwards into space―turning the point of impact to an anchoring point pulling the sword arts user towards the impact site―then the immediate continuation of a slash. Reina’s strong so she never had to use it . . . but to see it at a time like this… was she worth using “Reach” on?

  More importantly, Raseyla’s sure her mace struck bone, her gauntlet’s all crumpled up too―so how on earth was she improving as the fight goes on?!

  “You lose the moment this fight goes on for too long. So I don’t understand why you didn’t attack me earlier, were you cautious?” Rignette swung her arm up and down, as if shaking off the pain, “Or were you scared? ―they share the same kind of face, after all.”

  . . . Huh- scared? Me?!

  After everything she’s seen beyond the city walls, after going through the absolute worst the world has to offer―Raseyla’s supposed to be scared of this joke of a duel?!

  “What do you even know of my life... What about Father? Vesaila? What do you know of us when your fucking coup took the both of their lives! Took them the one day we came back home… what do you have to say to them?!”

  “What? . . .” Rignette stopped completely.

  . . . She didn’t even know. She didn’t know. Know that he– know that…

  The mace-whip glowed in that ethereal white, shining bright as it unraveled around Raseyla and straightened up.

  “Don’t talk as if you know me.”

  In one swift arc, she swipes her whip-mace above Rignette, shattering every single light source hanging by the wall. That light emanating from the mace soon vanished, leaving their dueling zone in a mist of darkness.

  △▼△

  The audience watched through the brief clashes their weapons made. Raseyla’s broad swing with her chain-whip sometimes colliding with the ground. Sparking a short breath of light―

  ―Through those briefest moments is a flash of the two going into motion, then the next point of collision leads to the mace-head parrying away the longsword’s thrust, followed by the screeching sound of dying metal.

  “Miss Rignette…” “No! You can’t lose!” “She’ll kill us– you have to kill her first!”

  They’re over-exaggerating, but it’s certainly true that Raseyla has the advantage. Her reach is far greater, and Rignette can’t afford a careless swing, otherwise she’d be taken advantage of―and yet…

  “Ghhh!!”

  Another one of Rignette’s gruesome cries, this has happened thrice now since the darkness pulled in, who knows where she was hit this time.

  Their next clash brought sparks flying as high up as the second floor, some of the spectators pulled away, while Trias and Xerceid remained unflinching. Xerceid in particular was in thought.

  “This has been going on a while.” Trias said.

  “Quite, though the audience seems rather fooled,” Xerceid sighed. “As inept as I may be when it comes to this kind of combat, this isn’t looking good for the girl, is it?”

  It has been ten minutes, and apart from that blows right at the start, things aren’t going in the half-blythe’s favor. Despite all the direct hits Sir Rignette sustained, she’s not slowing down at all. It’s what anyone would expect from a Blythe Knight, but it must be quite a shock fighting it in-person.

  Though before he could properly respond to Xerceid, a guard from behind walked over, leaning over to his ear―Trias overhears:

  “There’s signs of an infiltration, likely the same ones our assassins had trouble with.”

  “Well played, have Raid-Captain Balhardt prove his worth.”

  Xerceid must have wanted him to overhear, otherwise Trias would never have been able to hear right from the start. Whatever the case, that proves that he’s just the security detail. Given his status as one of Avestia’s Lord-Magi, he’s definitely an expensive man to hire―the kind that only a nation could afford.

  △▼△

  How she wished she could stay in this darkness, be embraced by it, forget about the enemy that lies beyond the veil. Each time she raises that handle, each time she lashes it against the ground.

  The sparks that fly light up just enough that Raseyla could see her, ready to attack, her blade trained for a thrust.

  Then it’s dark again, she swings at the blade and pushes it away―

  And then it’s dark again.

  . . .

  . . . .

  . . . . . . Her hair was once grayish white, much closer to dad’s, but in the many times they were at camp, the many times he would brush her hair… he’d talk about mom, how smart she is―how brave she could be―how we should love her. She didn’t know how to love someone she never met, never spoken to, and then she did… and she hated it. Just like right now, she hated fighting her.

  The next time father brushed her hair, it changed from grayish white to wheat-blonde much like mom… she hated it, but dad was so happy he cried… so she kept it.

  He hoped she would come back, and against her better judgment, she hoped so too. Dad’s clever, he’s smart and he knows people… so he must be right when he says that she can be kind, and smart, and brave―

  ““Haaahhh!!””

  ―He’d definitely cry if he figured out we’re fighting. No, he’d get angry, do his best to break it off―but she can’t.

  Not after everything, not after damning them.

  Their weapons clashed once more, but this time Rignette overpowers her swing and pushes it off―

  “I suppose it’s time we all could see again, aye?”

  ―A voice projected into the throne-room, and all at once, an artificial ball of light manifested right above their dueling grounds. But there’s no time to figure out who it was . . .

  All of a sudden, they could see again . . . and with a sudden burst of strength, and the force of resolve burning on her eyes, the swordswoman strikes first.

  Rignette unleashes a flurry of attacks, and after adjusting her spin, Raseyla parries each one―her thrust deflected, the coming slash blown away, and the next she stepped out of. Considering the injury she sustained, Raseyla expected her to go slower―

  She’s not letting up at all!

  ―There’s barely any time to breathe between each strike!

  “What did you mean? What happened to them?!” Said the aggressor.

  The swordswoman is a mere meter away. Stomping her feet, she releases a close ranged thrust. No time to avoid it! Raseyla kicks at the chain, sending the mace-head back at herself; sending it between the thrusting blade and her head―the mace gets in the way―colliding with the tip of her sword . . . causing Rignette’s blade to slide away, while sending the whip flying far off-course. The mace-head flies far and high, easily reaching the second floor when―

  ―Raseyla jumps and clutches on the chain, allowing her to be pulled in the air by the weapon’s momentum!

  “Haaaaaa!――”

  How much force did she put into that thrust?! One static block and all of a sudden she’s flying off with her weapon!--

  Focus. Breathe.

  She would fly to the second floor, right above the audiences, but she’s got no time to look at them. In the brief moment that her foot touches against the wall, the brief moment where she’s stabilized her footing―

  ―An attack: Rignette didn’t move, but she raised her longsword into a High-guard stance.

  No time to defend! Raseyla swung her mace-whip rightwards until it strikes and bores a hole through the wall―with that as a grapple point, she swung up and away from the audience.

  Once at the rising arc of her swing, she unlatches the mace-whip from the wall and turns to Rignette.

  “Shit!” Raseyla said.

  She stood at the same spot, high-guard at the ready―it’s a technique developed by Lord Richter Blythe―she strikes down her sword . . . and Raseyla forces her eyes to shut down, reorienting her body to maximize her hearing.

  Raseyla holds out the chains of her whip horizontally in front of her, intercepting the friction coming from an invisible―vertical air-slash.

  She felt the chains tug under a weight―

  “Fall already!!”

  ―Followed by a Blythe's rage, the invisible air-slash becomes an anchoring point that rapidly pulls Rignette and her blade to the spot that the air-slash hit.

  As soon as her chains tugged, her sight immediately returned―gritting her teeth against the sudden brightness and proximity of her enemy. This whip won’t break, as long as she insists on fighting then it won’t give up on her!

  “Make me!” Raseyla shouts.

  Before the fall, she wraps the blade around her chains and smashes her whip’s pommel against Rignette’s face―

  ―Only for her to tug against her own chains . . . it did not reach.

  I fought as perfectly as I could . . . better than I usually did. But when push came to shove, I ran out of surprises while she got used to them. That first strike hurt her, but it did not slow her down. Not at all. So it’s okay now . . . right, Vesaila? Nothing I could have done about that, nothing at all…

  Raseyla thought―

  “Excellent, all the way until the end.”

  ―As her back hurdles to the ground, robbing her of all her strength, breath, and resistance, as she listens to the story of her life.

  Maybe she should have stayed by Reina’s side, fought with her in that mystic village, at the very least go down trying to change the world―instead she’s dying, or dead, in the worst of the frontline battles.

  Instead she drowns in her guilt, and surviving in a lightless world.

  “I’ll always be with you, no matter what happens…”

  Not a person to call her family, not a place to call home.

  “A swarm much like Raseyla caused all of this.”

  Hell, it sounds as if she should have died with Reina… one person losing their family was enough, but then she’s gone and left a void in their hearts. So what if she’s unconscious? Her body still killed all those patients.

  “I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

  You too . . . mom, I’ve also taken someone from you. The city is right to hate me, they’re right to loathe and want for my head―who knows how much more will die because of her, who knows who else would . . .

  “I don’t care if you think that way, I think it is wrong. You’re just… different, and I’ve had enough of people being hated just because they are that way.”

  . . . Ah, right. He said that. He said that… didn’t he?

  God… God . . . ! Living hurts, it hurts so much… yet he’s out there preaching all that selfish crap without considering how it feels!

  It hurts . . . it hurts… it’s so shallow, it’s so stupid as it is… but he told me to live.

  Gave her a reason ― one reason above all.

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