Tomorrow, all the dukes would arrive at the castle. We had received a letter where they agreed to gather in the neighboring city and come in a caravan. I had thought I would receive them one by one, but this decision saved me work—now I only had to prepare one grand reception instead of several individual welcomes.

  Gonzalo had suggested it, and as such, he was rewarded for his service. No one in my entourage went without recognition after an efficient action.

  Anyway.

  The tournament would begin next week, so I only had today to test Sir Percival’s abilities. I was going to gamble on him—there was no other choice…

  “Thank you for coming, Sir Percival. Alda.” I met with my older sister and the blond knight, because I wanted to see the warrior’s capabilities—both as a duelist and as a jouster—with my own eyes.

  Mother arrived at the barracks as well, along with Ingrid, a few curious soldiers, and two knights of the Royal Guard: Sir López and Sir Armando—two veteran warriors who were rarely stationed on this side of the palace.

  “It is an honor for me to be here, Your Highness,” Sir Percival said. He was already armored in a new suit of silver plate, with his personal heraldry engraved on the breastplate: a field of flowers with a sword embedded in it.

  I had that armor forged for him myself. After all, I couldn’t have a “hero” wearing rags and old mail as his panoply.

  “Good. I’ve heard about your skill as a warrior, Sir Percival, but I haven’t personally seen your ability.” I glanced at my sister, and she stepped forward. “You will duel Alda. She’s trained in swordsmanship just like I am—we’re at the same level. So I need to see whether you can at least defeat her.”

  “Are you sure, my lord? I-I don’t want to hurt her.” Alda took that comment badly. My precious sister frowned and stuck out her tongue.

  “Excuse me? I should be the one saying that!”

  Alda looked annoyed. She hated being underestimated because of her slim build and lack of huge muscles.

  “A-Ah—sorry, sorry, Lady Alda. I forgot you’re a warrior as well. Very well. I accept the challenge, Your Highness.”

  Sir Percival’s timid, friendly gaze vanished. In its place, he faced my sister with fierce determination, and his aura shifted entirely.

  He went from a kind, gentle boy… to a real fighter. As if he were conditioning himself.

  “Alda is very strong, Sir Percival. Fight as if you mean to kill—because otherwise, you’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

  “Sir Percival.” Alda also changed from playful to serious. “I hope you don’t see me as the bandits you killed. With me, you’ll find a far more slippery opponent.”

  “Very well, Lady Alda. I accept your challenge!”

  Sir Percival put on a closed helm shaped like a lion—one I had personally requested for him. Then he drew his arming sword (blunted about eighty percent) and a small buckler.

  “I will be the judge,” I said, stepping forward to separate the two. Mother and Ingrid moved to a safe distance so they wouldn’t get caught in the fight. “When I say stop, both of you will stop.”

  “Alright, brother.” Alda wasn’t wearing full armor. Instead, she wore a cut breastplate that protected her abdomen and back; the rest of her body was covered with mail and a hardened gambeson.

  To protect her head, Alda used an open helmet that gave her better visibility—but less protection. As her weapon, she chose her usual longsword (also blunted about eighty percent).

  It was curious that Sir Percival—fully armored—chose a buckler style instead of the heavy, crushing approach most knights in this country favored.

  Was it a different strategy?

  “Begin.”

  My sister took the basic stance for greatsword fencing: blade facing forward, legs spread. We’d trained that posture for years; now it looked completely natural.

  Sir Percival, on the other hand, raised his buckler forward, while holding his sword above his head.

  Oh—I recognized that stance.

  The same one Spanish conquistadors used in their wars against the Aztec Empire…

  True mastery.

  Only here it must have had a different name.

  The knight didn’t move an inch. He held his ground, defense ready to counterattack. Alda didn’t fall into the trap; an inexperienced duelist would have rushed for the kill in the first second.

  Not so for Sir Marte Hogan’s student.

  Neither wanted to take the initiative—not out of cowardice, but because there were no safe openings. In real combat, one mistake meant death. Even in training, they took it deadly seriously.

  Sir Percival’s closed helm hid his expression, but the stiffness of his shoulders and the firmness of his bent legs made it obvious how badly he wanted to strike.

  It was like watching a hungry lion growl.

  But Alda wasn’t a deer.

  She was a crocodile with its jaws wide open.

  The tension thrilled me. I wanted to cross blades with Sir Percival too. I hadn’t felt this since I watched the trial-by-combat between Sir Marte and Gutiérrez.

  Alda made the first move—a lateral cut toward the knight’s breastplate. Sir Percival blocked with the buckler, a near-superhuman reflex. The moment metal met steel, his sword was already coming in for the first thrust.

  But it missed.

  Alda threw her weight backward, arching her spine in a way that looked painfully unnatural. She barely evaded Sir Percival’s attack and immediately gained a chance to counter—she swung a descending strike toward his helm.

  She meant to knock him out. Alda truly wanted to win—out of honor, and to prove her skill.

  CLANK.

  But she hadn’t accounted for the armored knight’s speed. Sir Percival stopped her with his arming sword—not his buckler. Then he stepped in and slammed Alda’s face with the buckler.

  “Ah!” My sister’s cry was deceptive—her steps wobbled as if she were about to faint from the hit. Someone else might have collapsed…

  But Alda wouldn’t be beaten that easily.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Sir Percival didn’t drop his guard for even a second. He didn’t buy Alda’s cheap “weak girl” act. Because of that, he had no trouble evading the side kick Alda threw to unbalance him.

  The kick missed, but it wasn’t wasted.

  Alda let herself fall and rolled expertly—ending up beneath Sir Percival’s legs.

  That’s a jiu-jitsu technique.

  Sometimes I taught her close-quarters moves—mostly locks and ground holds. Common in Mexican gyms, almost nonexistent in Etrica.

  Before he could react, Sir Percival’s entire body slammed backward onto the ground. Alda climbed on top of him and quickly pulled a mercy dagger from her belt (unsharpened).

  That surprised Sir Percival.

  He clearly hadn’t expected to be taken down so easily. Still, he stayed calm and used the buckler like an improvised weapon, striking Alda’s head again.

  Alda’s helmet wasn’t as sturdy, and taking a blow that could knock her unconscious didn’t seem wise—so she rose and put the dagger away.

  This reached a deadlock.

  Both fighters retrieved their weapons and reset at about six meters apart.

  Damn—this fight was worth every second. Even Ingrid, who didn’t understand martial matters at all, watched closely. The guards and occasional servants paused their duties to witness it.

  High-level duels were rare. Most fights—real or practice—ended in the first exchange.

  “You’re strong.” Alda smiled. Despite a cut on her left cheek, she didn’t look angry. “I’ll see whether you’re worthy of protecting my brother.”

  Now it got serious.

  Alda changed her grip. Instead of holding the sword by the hilt, she placed both hands midway along the blade—

  “The Killing Blow.”

  The deadly technique Sir Marte Hogan taught us years ago, which we now nearly mastered.

  “You are strong too, Lady Alda.”

  Sir Percival tossed his buckler aside and drew his own dagger. This wasn’t a mercy dagger—its crude blade had curved teeth, giving it a more intimidating look.

  “You are worthy of seeing the full power of the Wolf Discipline.”

  The moment Sir Percival said those words, the knights under my command widened their eyes and stood slack-jawed.

  I did too.

  Impossible. Impossible…

  Was Sir Percival a practitioner of the Wolf Discipline?

  A sword art so powerful that its users were considered living weapons.

  Sir Marte Hogan had killed a Wolf Discipline user before entering my father’s service. Because of that feat, he was hailed as the best swordsman in the kingdom.

  That’s how famous they were.

  And despite his age, Sir Percival was already a master—and yet my older sister stood at his level.

  “Let’s give it everything, Sir Percival!”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear!”

  What followed was a spectacle.

  Alda opened with an implacable strike straight at his head. The pommel crashed into Percival’s parrying dagger, and immediately the short blade sought the gap under his left armpit—

  A smart move. The weight of the weapons shifted her line a few centimeters to the right, and the point threatened the seam that was only protected by mail and cloth.

  But Alda evaded.

  She threw her weight back and launched another brutal attack at his chest, aiming to break ribs with a blunt impact. Unfortunately, her pommel kissed only air.

  It’s over.

  Sir Percival revealed one more surprise: he flipped his sword and grabbed it by the blade. His pommel wasn’t as thick as Alda’s, but the mass was enough to strike like a small war hammer.

  This should’ve ended the duel.

  But it didn’t.

  Alda exceeded my expectations. Instead of staying put and bracing for the counter, she surged forward. The improvised hammer strike hit her right side—not her head.

  “Ah!” It made her cry out, but it didn’t defeat her. Her cuirass dented, and the straps holding the plates loosened—until the breastplate fell with a heavy crash.

  Was that on purpose?

  Or had Alda strapped it poorly?

  In real combat, armor shouldn’t fall off so easily—unless she made it happen.

  Sacrificing defense for speed. What a reckless move.

  Freed from steel that restricted her movement, Alda tackled Sir Percival with all her weight. Shockingly, she brought him down and mounted him.

  Percival tried to “stab” her with his parrying dagger, but the blade couldn’t reach her.

  Why?

  Alda’s wrists were faster.

  Without heavy gauntlets slowing her, the would-be War Master seized Percival’s wrists and snapped the dagger free with a sharp jerk. She couldn’t hold him for more than three seconds, but it was enough to strip him of his weapons and put him at a terrible disadvantage.

  “Ah!” Now it was the blond who cried out from slamming down twice. He couldn’t even catch himself—without his hands, he took the full force. If not for the closed helm, he would’ve cracked his skull under the armor’s weight.

  Dazed and disarmed, Sir Percival struggled to throw Alda off. He was heavier, stronger, taller—it was only a matter of time before—

  “K-Kya…”

  Suddenly, the fight stopped.

  That wasn’t a pain scream.

  No… no…

  This couldn’t be happening.

  A situation this cliché couldn’t occur in real life, right?

  Soldiers whistled. Ingrid blushed and covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter.

  I tried.

  I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t—

  “Well, well… unexpected,” Mother murmured.

  In the scramble, still dazed from the fall, Sir Percival tried to push Alda off him—but didn’t measure where his hands landed.

  And as a result…

  Both of his hands firmly grabbed Alda’s breasts.

  T-This looked like a cheap ecchi scene.

  I’d seen it a thousand times in anime, manga, and Japanese light novels. I’d always thought it was just a stupid fantasy for ratings.

  But it happened in real life.

  Was Sir Percival born with protagonist luck?

  “U-Um, Sir Percival… y-your hands…” Alda sprang up and instinctively covered her chest with her forearm, her face blazing red. It was the first time a boy had touched her.

  “A-Ah! I’m sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Percival recoiled and looked away. “C-Can we call it a draw?”

  “Y-Yes…” Alda muttered, still crimson from the humiliation.

  The soldiers couldn’t stop laughing. Ingrid finally gave in and laughed too.

  “Enough. It was an excellent fight. Thank you for the demonstration.” I made an inhuman effort not to laugh. But I still let a teasing little smile slip—and it only embarrassed my sister more.

  “B-Brother, it’s not funny…”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—it was just so cliché I couldn’t help it.”

  “C-Cliché?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  I turned to Mother. She nodded and then walked with me toward the two duelists.

  “Sir Percival, stand. It was an accident.”

  “I-I truly apologize, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to behave like that in front of you. I’m sorry, Lady Alda, truly… We were having a fine duel and I ruined it.”

  The “warrior mode” shut off. Nothing remained of the ruthless aura he’d had during the fight.

  It seemed he could shift his presence depending on the situation.

  “It was an accident, Sir Percival. Please raise your head.” Alda’s cheeks were redder than I’d ever seen them. She looked like a completely different girl. “I hope we can repeat this demonstration again.”

  “Of course.”

  And so they shook hands in friendship.

  The blushes, however, didn’t fade.

  Ingrid and I gave them a very pointed look—both took it as mockery and turned their faces away.

  “In any case, Sir Percival.” Mother cut through the moment with her polite smile. By her expression, she wanted to tease them too—but there were more important matters. “We’ve seen you have the strength to be a great swordsman. Even so… how good are you at jousting?”

  “I’m good,” the blond answered without hesitation. “If you give me a lance, I can prove it.”

  “Will you joust against me?” Alda was already licking her lips for a second round—but I denied her this time.

  “No.”

  “Huh? Why not? I’m a good jouster too.”

  “Sir Percival will joust against Sir López and Sir Armando of the Royal Guard. You and I still haven’t been formally dubbed, Alda. It’s normal that he jousts against an anointed knight.”

  “Well… that makes sense.” Alda accepted it faster than I expected.

  I guess age made her mature. She’s eighteen now.

  “Fine. I’ll get my horse.”

  There was no need to describe the rest: Sir Percival unhorsed both knights without much trouble. They rode nearly ten passes, and the blond won every exchange by a wide margin—mind you, both opponents were proven, reliable fighters.

  Sir López and Sir Armando had earned their valor in the lists.

  Even so, they accepted defeat with grace. Instead of making excuses, they were pleased to have such a powerful knight as an ally.

  One thing I liked about my Royal Guard was that its members treated each other like family. I didn’t forbid them from taking wives or building households. I never believed in forced celibacy—and in truth, it made them more loyal.

  After all, their loved ones lived in my kingdom. If it prospered, so would they.

  “Attention.”

  With the demonstrations finished, the rest of my party focused on my words. Ingrid handed me a scroll signed by me and sealed with the kingdom’s official stamp.

  “I make the following declaration: Sir Percival—since I have not yet been dubbed a knight, I want you to joust in my name. You will bear my house’s arms, and I expect the greatest display of your life.”

  No one objected.

  Sir López and Sir Armando had felt the warrior’s skill firsthand.

  “Y-You… are you sure? Wouldn’t it be better to use Sir Marte? He’s a better jouster and knight overall.”

  “That’s true,” I replied. “But I have other tasks for the Captain of the Royal Guard. The dukes arrive tomorrow, and throughout the tournament I’ll need strict security. Besides, he’ll compete in the sword tournament.”

  “It will be an honor to bear your arms, Your Highness. I will not disappoint you.”

  “I trust that you won’t. That will be all for today. You may return to your duties.”

  After the meeting ended, Alda and Ingrid approached me with different expressions. My sister didn’t look pleased—but Ingrid looked more excited than usual.

  “Ulric, wait—can we steal a bit of your time?” Ingrid spoke first. She grabbed Alda by the left arm and, contrary to how things usually went, pulled my sister forward.

  “Of course. What is it?”

  It was a curious sight.

  Normally, Alda took the initiative. This time, the roles were reversed.

  “It’s about the banquet…”