Chapter 82

Chapter 82

***

Those who have never participated in a duel to the death can never truly understand the mindset, the resolve, and the emotions involved.

The decision to kill an opponent by swinging or thrusting a cold blade, while also being prepared for one's own death, was perhaps something only possible with a touch of madness.

Whether driven by noble justice or base greed, all reasons became equal in the face of victory and defeat, life and death.

Rickart had engaged in countless such duels, yet he had never been as nervous as he was now.

Was it because, until now, there hadn't been a particular reason? In past duels, his only thoughts had been on winning, surviving, and killing his opponent.

His highly heightened focus made the thunderous cheers sound muffled and distant. Forgetting time and place, it felt as if only his heartbeats and the sound of his own breathing were clear in his ears.

He saw only the man in blue before him. He could feel the tension and resolve in the man's eyes. It was clear his opponent was also determined to kill him.

'Fine, then neither you nor I need to feel any guilt. Whatever the reason.'

Rickart gripped his sword, feeling the tension and relaxation of his muscles, and walked forward confidently. His opponent backed away, maintaining his distance.

Suddenly, Rickart took a large stride, closing the gap as if to deliver a decisive blow. A normal opponent would have swung their sword in surprise, but this man did not let his guard down or fall for the bait.

He quickly circled to the right, using Rickart as the center, and maintained his distance again. Rickart pursued him closely with nimble steps. In an instant, a sword swung to cut off his path.

Rickart's sword also swung like lightning, an upward diagonal slash from left to right.

Whoosh! Clang!

Blade met blade at an angle, sliding past each other. In that brief contact, they both felt each other's skill level.

'What now? Counter? Retreat? Another exchange?'

In an extremely short amount of time, a judgment was made almost by instinct. But in that brief moment, Rickart felt a strange aura from his opponent. The man was indeed prepared for death, but something was different.

Swoosh! Thump!

Once again, the swords crossed. Rickart's heavy meteor steel sword sliced through the opponent's skull, from the cheekbone to the brain.

However, as the man fell, the string tying his sleeve loosened, and a white powder scattered into the air.

The match was over, but Rickart quickly held his breath and covered his mouth as he backed away. But he had already inhaled a breath of it.

The muffled, thunderous cheers suddenly hammered his ears, and Rickart felt so dizzy that he collapsed onto the ground.

Waaaaaaah!

Thud.

"Cough! Cough!"

The opponent lay dead, blood seeping from his split skull, while Rickart continued to cough. Regardless of this, the crowd cheered.

"Winner! Rickart!"

"I knew it! Ricky won!" The Crown Prince hopped around with joy, and even Bellator's eyes sparkled after witnessing the brief but profound match between masters. 'Indeed, long weapons are not easy.'

Rickart tried to stand up, but his legs and arms had no strength.

Perhaps because the match was over, his focus shattered, and a wave of panic washed over him. He couldn't even properly assess his own condition.

Marie, sensing something was wrong, suddenly stood up and leaned over the railing, shouting.

"Ricky! Are you okay!?"

"Cough! Cough! Hack!"

Rickart kept his head down, covering his mouth and nose with one hand as he stared at the ground. He raised his other hand to signal to Marie that he was fine, but his gait was already staggering.

Along with a metallic scent, something welled up in his throat. When he spat on the ground, it was blood. Then, blood began to flow from his nose. He had been poisoned. Damn it...

'Who was it? Why? What grudge did they have? Or was it purely out of a desire to win?'

Reflecting on it now wouldn't give him any answers. Rickart forced himself to move toward the waiting area. A staff member approached and asked, "Are you alright?"

Rickart nodded while keeping his nose and mouth covered. If he were disqualified, he could no longer participate, and victory would be out of reach.

His head was spinning. He felt like he would collapse if he lost focus for even a second.

He barely made it back to the waiting area and slumped into his seat.

"Towel. A towel!" Rickart shouted irritably, and the staff quickly brought one. With trembling hands, Rickart pressed the towel against his nose and mouth.

The people noticed something was strange, but they didn't think it was enough to prevent him from fighting the next match.

In the midst of this, Rickart realized that if he breathed deeply, the poison would spread faster. But he couldn't just stop breathing, so he was stuck in a difficult position.

It was lucky he had reacted so quickly; if he had inhaled just a bit more, he might already be dead. It was a truly lethal poison.

Yet, amazingly, at this moment, Rickart didn't blame his opponent. He didn't blame the world or fate for why this was happening now, and he certainly didn't think about giving up.

The event had already occurred, so his only thought was to maintain his sanity and fight the final match.

In the previous match, even the winner had sustained serious injuries, so Rickart would only have to fight one more match to win the title. How could he possibly collapse or give up here?

Huff! Huff! Huff!

Rickart focused all his concentration on taking short, shallow breaths while staring at the floor. Fortunately, the nosebleed stopped, but the problem was that his vision was still spinning.

The tournament continued, the crowd roared, and the surrounding noise felt like it was grabbing Rickart by the collar and shaking him.

Rickart was struggling to avoid wasting even a single stray thought on anything other than maintaining his mental strength, when someone called his name. Hearing that voice, Rickart felt a moment of dizziness.

"Ricky."

The person was none other than Marie. When Marie entered the waiting area, the others stared at her with wide eyes.

"G-go back. I'm fine."

"You've been poisoned, haven't you?"

"I'm telling you, I can still fight. Go."

Marie crouched down in front of him and looked up at him as he stared at the floor. The stains where he had wiped blood from his nose and mouth were obvious. Rickart could see Marie's eyes, shining like blue stars.

"Shall we just go?" Marie asked.

"No. I can fight."

"You might be able to fight. But what if you die?"

"I won't die."

"You're acting like such a stubborn child. Fine, then I have no choice either."

"What do you mean?"

"If you die, I'll kill everyone and then kill myself."

In this dire situation, Rickart couldn't help but let out a dry laugh at the absurdity.

"Don't do that."

"Saying 'don't do that' sounds too cruel to me right now."

"I told you, I'm not going to die."

Marie stared at Rickart as if she were angry, then turned to her Fretful maid.

"Bring me my sword."

"Pardon?"

"Hurry!"

As Marie shouted with glinting eyes, the maid flinched and hurried off to get the sword. Marie turned back to Rickart.

"Since you said you won't run away, fine, I understand. But do not die. If you die, I die, and everyone dies. Understand?"

He couldn't tell if this was a request, a warning, or a threat. 'A female Ricky, indeed... Bori-bori, your insight was spot on.'

Since she was determined, Rickart could say no more and simply nodded.

"Alright."

Only after hearing his answer did Marie stand up. Her heart was breaking, to be sure, but Marie was no ordinary woman. She was a warrior—just as Bori-bori had assessed, more courageous than Rickart himself.

Marie snatched the sword the maid brought and left the waiting area without looking back. A sword in a dress—what a sight.

Perhaps it wasn't that Rickart had saved her when the Princes were bullying her. Conversely, Marie might have ended up killing them, and Rickart's intervention had actually stopped her.

Anyway, the tournament continued. Some fights started as if they would be grand but devolved into messy brawls. Since lives were on the line, there was no time to care about looking cool or ugly.

In the end, only three of the eight participants were in any condition to fight. Two of them fought, and the winner was to face Rickart.

If the person who fought first won but sustained serious injuries, Rickart would automatically become the champion with just one match.

But it seemed Rickart's luck had run out, as he had to go out for the final match. Moreover, his opponent was a Sword Master.

Even if their swordsmanship skills were similar or slightly different, a Sword Master's blade could easily cut through steel, putting Rickart at an absolute disadvantage.

But being at a disadvantage didn't necessarily mean defeat. This was a fact he had already proven when he fought Steiner.

However, when the herald called Rickart's name, he didn't hear it. His sharpest sense, which had always been his greatest strength, had dulled.

"Swordsman, you must go out," a staff member said to Rickart, who was now alone in the waiting area, the other participants having either been treated or died.

Rickart stood up with his sword. The ground seemed to spin beneath him like a giant wheel.

But he gritted his teeth as if he would break his jaw, gathered his resolve, and stepped out through the tent flap with dignity.

The cheers of the crowd didn't just hit his ears; they felt like vibrations passing through his body. The very earth seemed to throb, and Rickart took a firm, wide stance in the center of the arena.

No one noticed that he was in poor condition—only a few truly skilled individuals realized he wasn't himself.

Marie sat in her place, clutching her sword, 'Ricky,' tightly. It was a crucial moment for her too. Whether she would become a crazed sword ghost or a noble swordmaster.

Rickart's opponent was formidable at a glance—a veteran of countless battles. Regardless of whether Rickart's condition was strange or not, his eyes showed he was prepared to give his all.

"Match, BEGIN!"

With the herald's shout, the opponent drew his sword and tossed the scabbard aside.

As he held the longsword with both hands, the blade emitted a white light. The light was so bright that the blade seemed to blur into the surroundings.

As the Sword Master's blade glowed, the thunderous cheers subsided. It was partly out of curiosity and partly because it felt like witnessing a legend firsthand.

"I have no personal grudge against you. I only wish to test my skill in a full-strength match. Even if I win, I will see to it that the Princess is released," the unnamed opponent said to Rickart.

Was he already showing a victor's mercy? Or was it a tactic to distract him?

Whatever it was, Rickart also drew his sword and threw his scabbard far away. He thought to himself:

'In my current state, I can't move violently. If I do, my head will be taken in an instant. One or two steps at most. Let's settle it within that.'

Right now, he was seeing things as if through a hazy shimmer, so he intended to judge the distance the moment their swords met.

But would that work? His opponent was no amateur. Yet, he couldn't think of any other way. Rickart had never been one to overthink his battles before.

Perhaps that was why a sense of unease crept in. But suddenly, Armand's words came back to him.

'What will happen, will happen. Just like the past that has already gone, the future is as good as having already occurred.'

Then was there anything to hesitate about? If it was going to happen anyway, the only choice was to stand tall before fate. So there was nothing to be anxious about, and nothing to fear.

His head was dizzy, his vision kept twisting, and he felt like he might vomit. Yet, strangely, his spirit and heart were unshaken.

His eyes didn't waver, and seeing that, his opponent gave his all. The man's feet left the ground.

Would it end in an instant, or would it become a messy brawl? High-level duels weren't always filled with graceful scenes just because the participants were skilled.

In an instant, the opponent's sword, which had become a flash of light, aimed for Rickart's neck in a diagonal slash. Rickart reacted instinctively to meet it, but his distance was off. It was a strange action, neither a proper counter nor a proper defense.

When the swords collided, Rickart's meteor steel sword, which had been with him for so long, was sliced through effortlessly.

But it was as if Rickart felt the sword's final cry; in that extremely brief moment, he felt the sensation of his blade being severed. He used that to gauge the distance perfectly.

Instinctively, he twisted his body to avoid the blade and reached out, grabbing his opponent's wrist. Even in his dizzy state, Ilya's superhuman strength surged, and he crushed the man's wrist with his grip.

But the opponent also showed incredible focus; disregarding the pain, he let go of the sword. At the same time, he naturally drew his secondary weapon, a dagger. Rickart also drew his own dagger.

With the distance now so close it was meaningless, the opponent aimed for Rickart's abdomen, while Rickart aimed for the man's heart.

In the final moment, the opponent used a refined technique, but Rickart simply used brute force. The blade, which normally would have been stopped by the ribs, pierced through the bone and into the heart in one go.

As the opponent stabbed Rickart's abdomen, his muscles spasmed and he jerked. To spill the guts, one would have to stab and then slash, but he couldn't reach that point.

Rickart gritted his teeth and gave his all. Even though the match was practically settled, he pushed the man down, and as they fell together onto the ground, he drove the dagger even deeper.

His hand almost entered the man's body, and the blade passed through the heart and severed the spine.

"Huff!" The man pinned beneath Rickart gasped and trembled. Then, he left his final words.

"A good match..."

Only then did Rickart pull the deeply embedded dagger out and stand up. Blood flowed from his abdomen, but he forced himself to stand on both legs, showing thousands of people clearly who the winner was.

The arena was as quiet as if everyone were holding their breath. Among them, Helauman felt a strange sense of deja vu. 'It seemed he used the moment his sword was broken to calculate the distance. Was it premeditated, or a split-second reaction?'

It was a question similar to one he had felt over a hundred years ago, when he first saw the original Sword Master, Ricky.

Regardless of his suspicions, the herald shouted, "Winner! Rickart!"

And then, cheers should have erupted like an exploding volcano. No, they should have. But just before the cheers could break out, a deeply ominous cry rang across the quiet arena.

"God of Condemnation! Open your eyes!"

What's that? People were puzzled. But regardless of their confusion, servants and maids scattered throughout the spectator stands suddenly began to stab their masters with daggers.

"God of Condemnation! Open your eyes!"

"Punish all those who oppress!"

It happened so simultaneously and so suddenly that no one even had time to scream.

While Helauman and the other Imperial champions were momentarily distracted, Daisy's mother, who was beside the Emperor, produced a dagger from nowhere and drove it into the Emperor's abdomen. Then, she slashed upward.

"Gah!" Emperor Claudius gasped, feeling the searing heat in his gut. But his other mistress stabbed him in the neck.

Only then did screams finally erupt from the spectator stands.

"Kyaaaaaaaah!"

Those who had assassinated the nobles did not flee. Instead, they went on a rampage to kill as many as possible. They seemed to consider themselves already dead.

The arena instantly turned into a scene of carnage. Nobles leapt from the high seats into the arena, trampling and pushing each other in a frantic escape.

Then, with a series of sharp cracks, the heads of Daisy's mother and the Emperor's mistresses flew off. It looked like a gruesome magic trick had been performed.

The Emperor's champion had killed them in an instant with a skill bordering on the divine, but the Emperor was already dead. He lay there with his mouth agape, blood gushing from his neck and abdomen.

"What...?" The bodyguard was momentarily stunned by the sight he couldn't believe. In that time, the assassins swarmed the Imperial family members.

"You idiot! Protect the Crown Prince!" Helauman shouted urgently. At the same time, he drew his sword. With a single swing, he sliced through everyone—assassins and regular nobles alike. A massive amount of blood sprayed, and severed corpses fell.

"Stay back!" Helauman roared like a tiger. But his actions only added to the chaos, and the champion couldn't find the Crown Prince. 'Where is he?'

Regardless of the chaos, Marie tore her silk dress and jumped into the arena, sword in hand. She grabbed the barely conscious Rickart onto her shoulder and rushed out of the arena.

In this mess, there were also assassins who weren't from the cult but were specifically targeting Rickart. They were the ones who had used the poison. But they themselves had no idea what was happening now—still, it was an opportunity.

"Stop right there! Red Cloak!"

"Do you remember Lorenz!? Rubens does not forget a grudge!"

But Marie could see nothing but Rickart. She placed the unconscious Rickart against a wall and stood before him, guarding him.

"You thought I stayed quiet because I couldn't fight!?"

The emotions Marie had suppressed all this time exploded. 'Illegitimate child? Imperial family? Who cares anymore. No one can stop me. I've endured enough! I'll kill anyone who stands in my way!'

Marie was prepared to pay any price to protect Rickart, and then, a purple light erupted from the blade of her sword, 'Ricky.'

It was a light forged by fate, yet at the same time, a light created by severing the chains of fate. It was truly paradoxical and ironic.

But such was the work of God—sacrificing countless lives while being infinitely loving.

Marie had finally grasped the freedom she had so long desired. Not by severing human compassion, but as a true Sword Master.

The assassins from the Rubens Guild were flabbergasted, wondering what was happening, but a sense of unease soon overcame them.

However, Marie's sword showed absolutely no mercy. Everything that came into contact with her blade—be it weapons or human bodies—was sliced apart.

The assassins sprayed blood as they died, and Marie was drenched in it.

Standing before the corpses with a glowing sword and disheveled hair, she looked like a witch or a demon.

The scene was so chaotic with people pushing each other to escape that it was impossible to tell if she had killed all the assassins or not.

So Marie simply killed anyone who approached her. With just a few swings of her sword, a pile of corpses reached waist-high.

Only after the crowd fled in terror did she once again lift Rickart and hurry away.

Her torn dress exposed her long, pale legs, but she was in no state to care about modesty.

In one way or another, Rickart and Marie might have achieved their goals, but a massive hole was being torn into the world. A vacuum of power.

There had been enough chaos when Steiner the Mad Dog died; if the Emperor was dead...

Perhaps just as Marie's suppressed feelings had exploded, so had those of the powerless who had been oppressed.

Thus, an age of fire, steel, blood, and death began to dawn upon the Empire.