by Funa
Perhaps he could also accompany Mavis home via the capital—or else he could entrust that duty to his sons, and have them take her directly back to the estate. As he pondered whether it might be a cleaner break from her friends for Mavis to leave directly from here, time marched by, and soon, the time for the trial match with Mavis’s party had arrived.
The count called to his sons and his attendants, and they all headed for the arena on the outskirts of town.
“Wh-what is this…?”
The count’s party arrived to find a massive crowd, so big that they wondered whether the entire town had gathered there. Food stalls and carts and roaming peddlers shouted over one another, hawking their wares.
“Ah, Count Austien, please allow me to show you to the waiting area!” said Pauline, rushing up to greet them.
“Wh-what is the meaning of all this…?” the count demanded.
“Well, these townspeople are starved for entertainment, and we thought this would be a great opportunity for the local merchants to do a bit of advertising, so we put this together… Is that going to be a problem for you?”
None of this was a lie. Indeed, it was just as Pauline said. However, there were also other reasons for this setup.
First off, the prideful count was not the sort of person to break a promise. That was the conclusion they had reached from analyzing over half a year’s worth of stories involving the man. However, no one knew what her older brothers might do when it came to protecting Mavis. For that reason—to assure that their agreement would not be broken—a large assembly of witnesses had been gathered.
Additionally, they had established a contract with the local merchants’ guild to collect twenty percent of the profits from the food stalls and merchandise carts. After all, it was going to take a lot of money to rebuild the reclaimed shop.
The count grasped this much from Pauline’s initial explanation. To rebuild a shop whose name had been dragged through the dirt, it was crucial to let everyone know that they were now under new management. That was an indisputable fact. Plus, it was difficult to spread information very quickly, so there was no one who would pass up an opportunity as promising as this one.
“Where is Mavis?”
“Ah, even if this is just a mock battle, she said, it’s not good for the opponents to interact before the fight. She’s waiting over on the opposite side.”
“Hm, that’s a very mature way to think about it…”
The count made a peculiar face, which was almost endearing.
“The other side has already completed their preparations. So as soon as you are ready, your lordship, we will proceed with the match between Mavis’s master and yourself.”
“Understood,” the count replied, and began his preparations.
“Thank you for your patience, everyone! What we present to you now is a battle for freedom, between the young lady hunter who helped to deliver this town from the wicked merchant, and her father, who wishes to drag her home against her will and force her into preparations for an arranged marriage!”
“Woooooooooooooo!!”
“Wait a minuuute!!”
Just then, a voice rose up from somewhere in the crowd.
Pauline heard the random cry of protest, but ignored it, continuing her patter.
“The conditions for victory on the young hunter’s side are that her own master must win a fight against her father, and she must win against her older brother! You should know that her father is a renowned master of the sword, and her brother is also a skilled swordsman, from the first division of a count’s own knights. What a foolish, one-sided bout this is sure to be!”
“Heeey!!!”
Pauline was more than aware that someone was raising an objection, but she had an important job to do, so she chose not to concern herself with interruptions. Taking care not to let either their family nor given names slip, she continued.
“The first match will be the young hunter’s father versus her master! Now then, Father, please step forward!”
It was a rather harsh introduction, but he had to proceed. To accept a loss by default would be even worse. Count Austien stepped out onto the arena’s field with a dour expression.
“And now, if his opponent, the young lady’s master, would please step forward!”
At the call, a figure appeared on the opposite end of the field from the count.
The moment they saw this person, the chattering from the crowd was subsumed, and a hush fell over the arena.
It was a woman, silver-haired and with the stature of a child.
She was the young lady hunter’s master, so it was not peculiar that she should be a swordswoman herself.
There were plenty of people who were small even as adults, and if she were an elf or a dwarf, it would not be strange for her appearance to diverge from her age. Considering it from that angle, she was not all that bizarre. Indeed, there was nothing unusual about this whatsoever.
Or at least, there wouldn’t have been, had she not been wearing a mask to obscure her appearance.
“My name is Evening-Gown Mask!”
“What kind of a name is thaaaaaaaaaaat?!” the crowd roared.
In the first place, this woman was not wearing an evening gown at all, but standard hunters’ garb. Then again, that wasn’t really that much of an issue.
“Wh-what a bizarre… Are you really Mavis’s master?!”
“And what if I am? You are just a foolish man who cannot recognize my pupil’s abilities…”
“Wh-what exactly is there to recognize? I am well aware that that girl has above average ability when it comes to the sword. However, that says nothing in and of itself! I’m sure you’re aware that, among all swordsmen, half of them have abilities below the average, while the other half have abilities above the average. One will either be above or below—that is but a matter of chance. There’s nothing special about that, is there? I have no intention of allowing her to pursue a path of mortal danger on that basis alone! She should live a life of happiness, as a noble’s daughter and a noble’s wife…”
For some reason, Evening-Gown Mask made a rather displeased face upon hearing the word “average” bandied about so many times. Enough that it was visible even from behind the mask.
“You fool…”
“Wh-what?!”
The count was enraged, believing that she belittled his feelings for his daughter.
“You’re rather fond of pickled cabbage, aren’t you? And you always tried to force Mavis to eat it as well, did you not?”
“Huh? H-how did you know…”
The count felt himself trembling at this strange accusation.
“Did you know?! That Mavis actually hated it? That pickled cabbage that you love so much?!”
“Wh-what did you say?! Y-you’re lying!”
“It’s no lie. You need to realize that the thing you believe will make Mavis happy may be something that will bring Mavis herself no joy whatsoever. What a fool you are.”
“Sh-shut up! You’re lying! That couldn’t be…”
“In that case, why does Mavis wish to remain with me and not return home with you?”
“Sh…sh-shut your mouth! I just have to show Mavis how weak you are, and then her eyes will open! Come!” the count said, drawing his sword.
The mysterious Evening-Gown Mask drew her weapon as well, and rushed toward him.
The count stepped quickly and brought his sword down upon his shorter opponent’s head. It was just like splitting bamboo. A young woman like this, he assumed, could not block such a blow from her disadvantaged position.
On the one hand, this was an overly showy move. Yet, he thought, it was just right for showing off their difference in power. But Evening-Gown Mask did not attempt to dodge or deflect the blow, instead blocking the attack head-on with her practice sword.
“Grrrrrrngh…”
The count, who thought that he could easily overwhelm his tiny opponent, was shocked at the strength of this
woman, who should have had difficulty blocking with any sort of force from such an inconvenient stance. So he pushed harder.
5 seconds, 10 seconds, 15 seconds…
The count’s face was turning red and beads of sweat were forming on his brow, but his sword showed no signs of budging.
After a bit more time had passed…
“Pah!”
Mi—Evening-Gown Mask let out a shout, and the count’s sword was forced back. Flustered, the count stepped back in retreat.
“Tch… Are you a dwarf? Or perhaps, a halfling…?”
Judging from the disconnect between her physical strength and her appearance, the count determined that his opponent could not possibly be purely human. And yet…
“Hm? But I’m just a completely ordinary, average, normal human girl.”
THAT’S A LIIIIIIIIIEEEE!!!
Well, at the very least, the last part of that statement might be true—that is, the “human girl” part.
However, the beginning of it was certainly a lie. An absolute lie! If this woman was not herself aware that she was lying, then perhaps she should go and review her language skills.
So thought the crowd, as one.
“Now then, let’s get this started for real…”
She was not going to use magic during this match. It would be meaningless if she did not win with her sword skills alone.
Mi—Evening-Gown Mask thought to herself, This should be just as fun as fighting Gren.
This time, Evening-Gown Mask—Mile was the first one to make a move. It was a high-speed assault.
In an instant, she closed the distance between them and swiftly drove the practice sword toward her opponent’s left flank. The count caught this blow with his own sword and struck back to fling her away. Mile’s sword was up, so she swung it down at the count’s chest.
What followed was a fierce volley.
This was not a reckless match where she could run around in circles, as in the battle with Gren. The count was a knight to the very end and chose a straightforward, head-on tactic, so Mile met him on the same terms.
There was little movement. Instead, it was a vigorous, static duel. One might assume that for a hunter, who made it a point to move around a great deal in combat, this might make things more difficult. Yet this had no impact on Mile. As hunters went, her swordsmanship was rather crude in the first place, so it made no difference what style of battle she was involved in.
Speed and power. That was what Mile had going for her. Nothing else mattered.
As the match dragged on and on, the count gradually began to grow impatient.
This was due, in part, to his partner’s incredibly crude technique.
A person with a reasonable amount of skill could hardly ever win against a truly superior swordsperson. The swordsperson would surpass them in skill, speed, judgment, and the ability to read their opponent’s movements. They could not be beaten.
However, an amateur moved in erratic ways. They made decisions that were not based in common sense, and they chose techniques that no person in their right mind would ever attempt. Because their speed and technique would still be inferior, their chances of victory were low. However, there was always the possibility of them striking an unexpected blow, which made them exhausting opponents for a veteran, who could not read their moves ahead of time.
This was an opponent who had speed and strength surpassing most experts, but the moves of an amateur.
This was dangerous. This was an incredibly dangerous opponent.
Her continued attacks were powerful and quick and completely unpredictable, and a moment’s lapse in judgment could lead to a fatal blow. In order to carry on, he needed to concentrate with every bit of his will, and this was making the count incredibly exhausted.
Normally, such an amateur would quickly fall victim to a single blow, and it would all be over. In this case, though, no matter how many times he swung, none of the swings seemed to be connecting. They were evaded, or blocked, or deflected, and every action thereafter was met by another counterblow.
It was not as though things were not going well on the count’s side; rather, it was the way the battle went on and on, without an end in sight. By degrees, the count grew more fatigued, his impatience beginning to swell.
At this rate, we’ll come out evenly matched… Wait, is that true? Is this woman truly even using all of her power? If she can handle my attacks so nonchalantly and at such speed, does that mean that she’s capable of even quicker attacks? She isn’t showing even a fragment of impatience or fatigue.
C-could it be that she’s toying with—That’s impossible! There’s no way that could happen!
In his irritation and weariness, the count’s blade became unsteady, creating an opening.
Clack!
The lower part of his blade was struck, and the count stared, dumbfounded, as he dropped his sword.
It was not that the sword had been knocked away. He had been struck with blows of the same speed and weight up before now. No, he had dropped his sword. His sword had been dropped.
The crowd swelled, and a few broken cheers rang out.
What a disgrace for a knight. What humiliation.
His face was flushed, and his arms would not stop trembling.
“Please hurry and pick that up.”
“Wh…?”
She should have raised a cheer of victory and declared her win, but…
There were limits to how long he could be toyed with.
Normally, he would demand that he be taken seriously, kick his practice sword away, and leave—but he could not do that this time.
The life of his precious daughter was on the line in this fight. He simply could not allow her to continue to live the dangerous life of a hunter. No matter what.
He did not doubt that his son would win, but he could not shut his eyes to the thousand or even ten-thousand-in-one chance that his daughter’s life might continue to be put in danger. No matter how he had to humiliate himself in front of his subordinates, in front of this crowd—if there was even the slightest chance that he could still prevail, then he could not surrender this match.
And so, the count picked up his sword, and once more took his stance.
Thirty minutes later, Count Austien was on the ground, on his hands and knees.
He had reached his limit. He no longer had the strength to stand, or even to grip his sword.
It was a complete loss. There was no other word for it.
“Would you say that we can call this my win?” Mile asked, to confirm.
The count nodded silently in reply.
As Mile returned to her waiting area, and the count’s men jumped forth from theirs to lend him their shoulders, the crowd erupted into applause and cheers.
Not a single person there was laughing at the count.
The count was strong. So much so that it was unclear whether a B-rank, or even an A-rank hunter, would be able to win against him. He had merely faced a vexing opponent. That was all.
They applauded him freely and vigorously, and yet the count’s face was still twisted.
He held no hatred or disdain for his opponent. On the contrary, he was filled with admiration that such strength could be carried in such a small frame. Based on her technique, he could only assume that she had likely received formal instruction for but a short period of time, but that strength! That power could only have come from endless self-study and training. Truly, it was worthy of praise.
The count’s rage was directed only at his own shortcomings—self-hatred for the fact that he had not been able to ensure his daughter’s safety by his own hand.
When the count finally made it back to the waiting area, he said to his son, who stood, confident, “You must win. Don’t ever drop your guard.”
“Yes, sir!”
And so Waylon von Austien, the eldest son of the Austien family, stepped forth.
For the sake of his beloved sister, he would harden his heart, and face t
hat dear sister herself in battle.
Waylon had regrets.
After three boys, a daughter had finally been born to the Austien family: Mavis.
Their parents and grandparents doted on her, but her three brothers doted on her all the more. She was raised as the princess of the Austien family, wanting for nothing, and spent her days watching her brothers practice at swords, until she declared that she wished to do so as well.
Thinking that she would never be on her own, without anyone to protect her, she was offered only cursory instruction, but she proved an unexpectedly serious and patient student with a fair amount of talent. Her three brothers were shocked. Furthermore, they loathed the idea of their adorable sister being attacked by some man, and thought she should at least have some capacity for self-defense. So, her brothers took the time to give her a bit of instruction in between their own lessons.
When she came to Waylon, saying, “Big Brother, I want to practice with you!” he could not possibly turn her away. As was his privilege as the eldest brother, they practiced many things together, just the two of them.
It was not until much later that he found out that Mavis was also going to her other brothers as well, so she was actually receiving three times the instruction than he had imagined.
The way that she had watched him and his brothers at their promotion ceremony, her eyes sparkling with admiration, had made the joy of becoming a knight all the sweeter. But they had assumed that the look in her eyes was directed toward them.
Who among them would guess that her admiration was for the profession of knighthood itself—that her heart was already filled with dreams of becoming a knight herself one day?
He had failed. If they had realized this problem sooner, they might have been able to direct Mavis’s interest toward other things. At the very least, they might have been able to stop her from running away from home.
However, this time, he would not fail.
He would bring Mavis back home, no matter what. He swore it on his name, as the eldest son of the Austien family.
