Only a tiny corner of those empty eyes shone quietly.
So he really had grown old. The knight desperately calmed his startled heart. Recalling the face of the man who had commissioned the old man's murder, he spoke in a low voice.
"The master of the world wants you dead." "What a coward." "You bastard!"
Shing!
He shouted as he drew his sword. The clash rang out, but before the sounds of nature, it was pitifully small and weak. The old man stopped chopping firewood and brushed the splinters from his hands.
"You've come a long way. Have a drink of warm liquor before you go back." "Screw that. You're going to die here anyway. Who else is inside that cabin? Your child? Or maybe some woman you're keeping around? Whoever's in there, they're all going to die."
Though he was a knight, the foul-mouthed man had long since thrown whatever manners he had out the window. The snow reflected off the blade pointed at the old man, making it gleam white. The old man, who had maintained a composed air from beginning to end, flinched—but not because he feared the sword pointed at him.
"······I suppose you were never taught that you should accept a drink offered by your elder. It was a kindness, in its own way." "What? What kind of kindnes—"
Slash!
Splatter.
Bright red blood embroidered the white snowfield.
Click.
The old man retrieved his sword and seemed about to turn toward the cabin. Then he stopped dead. And spoke quietly.
"I was already feeling lonely drinking alone. I wonder which of you will become my drinking companion."
Clank, clank, clank, clank. Crunch.
No sooner had the old man finished speaking than the figures hidden beneath the snow approached. Their armor joints rattled with every movement. Most of them were mounted, but they were on an entirely different level from the knight who had just died.
"Leonhardt, captain of the Lion Knight Order." "Duke Helleim of House Helleim." "Lord Frost of House Frost has arrived, Master."
Three men stood at the front. Behind them stood rows of young knights, mercenaries, and soldiers. Anyone watching would have thought they were marching off to war. The old man gave them all an equal look. Every face was familiar.
"Huh. I wonder if there'll be enough liquor for all of you."
Clip-clop. Duke Helleim stepped forward on horseback.
"We'll drink among ourselves after we cut down our master." "Duke."
Leonhardt glared at the duke with narrowed, hawk-like eyes.
"We agreed to send him off with honor. With honor." "Dozens came to cut down one old man. Two of them are Swordmasters—and the Head of House Frost, from a magical house, came as well. Haven't you already thrown honor aside?" "A knight moves according to his liege's orders. The king's command was given, and we are merely obeying it." "How pathetic, Leonhardt." "You're getting on my nerves today, Duke. Are you nervous because we're before our master?"
Just then, another man at the front intervened between them.
"Enough."
It was Lord Frost. He was a blond man dressed in a mage's robe, but his hands were pale and delicate, as if they had never known hardship in his entire life.
"Let's not behave this way among ourselves on the way to our master's death."
His words sounded considerate, but every one of them assumed the old man's death. The old man looked at them and burst into hearty laughter. The sound and force of it were so powerful that the snow piled on the nearby trees came cascading down.
"All my pathetic disciples have gathered! By the way, William, my teachings aren't over yet. Why are you holding a sword instead of a broom?" "······He's senile."
Duke Helleim, who had been called William, turned his horse's head away entirely.
"Heh heh."
For an instant, the old man saw sorrow in the duke's eyes. He'd been caught trying to hide something. He still had a long way to go.
"Have a drink, all of you, and go home."
But even when the old man made one final offer—
"Leave the rest to us and withdraw, Master."
Thud!
Leonhardt drove his greatsword into the snow. His bearing and build suited the title of captain of the Lion Knight Order. His imposing presence was extraordinary. But—
"You're refusing the drink your master offers? I taught you wrong."
The old man did not yield. Still wearing a relaxed smile, he gripped the hilt of his sword.
"The young ones are cold. If you're going to do it, do it quickly." "Master! Do you truly have to shed blood?"
Leonhardt roared in anguish.
Tap.
Perhaps deciding the exchange had gone on long enough, Duke Helleim stepped forward.
"Enough with the 'master' nonsense now that we've come all this way. It's cold, just as the old man said, so let's hurry. It's also rude to the people who came prepared to die."
The duke glanced toward the rear. A force made up of knights, mercenaries, and soldiers of all kinds. They had come knowing they might die. Because their opponent was worth it. There was one name every person who chose to make a living by the sword was bound to hear at least once: 'Arthur Graham.' That was the old man's name—and the name of the continent's only Grand Swordmaster.
"William. Have a child. It'll dull the blade in your eyes." "Attack."
Duke Helleim ignored him and gave the order to charge.
Attack! Haaaaah! Dozens of warriors surged forward. And above them, Arthur's sword danced.
Slice.
Thud, thud.
The warriors collapsed in heaps, turned into corpses in an instant. Even so, far too many swords were aimed at a single point. And every one of those swordsmen had reached the peak of the Sword Expert rank.
Thrust. Thrust, thrust!
"Ghk."
Even for a Grand Swordmaster, avoiding injury was nearly impossible.
Whoosh!
Slash!
Only after killing the remaining ten with a single stroke did Arthur draw a ragged breath.
"Huff, huff." "You've grown old, Master." "I couldn't cut down the years."
Arthur staggered but maintained his battle stance. He had taken the pawn, but the knight and bishop remained.
"Let's cross swords for old times' sake." "One of the three of us will die."
Duke Helleim muttered. The others also readjusted their grips, their faces grim. But then—
"Grandpa!" "!"
Arthur's expression twisted.
"Don't come!" "Hm!"
Seizing the opening in Arthur's guard, Leonhardt's greatsword came flying.
Slice!
An ordinary death for a Grand Swordmaster. No—that couldn't be called ordinary, considering he had killed dozens of Sword Experts.
"Hic—waaaah!"
A boy of about eight began to cry. It was only natural. His beloved grandfather had just died.
"His grandson? He's the spitting image of our master."
Duke Helleim seemed mildly interested, but when the boy did nothing but cry, he soon lost interest.
"Kill him. He'll be trouble later."
Then he turned away. Leonhardt raised his greatsword with a whoosh.
"Very well." "Wait! I'll take him and raise him!"
Lord Frost shouted, but the greatsword had already been swung.
"Wait!"
Lord Frost began casting a spell. The greatsword flew toward the boy's neck. But at that moment—
Whoosh!
"What?!" "H-How?"
The boy dodged Leonhardt's sword.
"I nearly saw blood the moment I got back."
I rolled to avoid the sword, then shook the snow off myself. Lord Frost's magic probably would have saved me even if I'd just stood still, but my body moved before I could think. Everyone was staring at me with stunned eyes. Well, I could understand why. The little boy who had been crying at the top of his lungs until just now had dodged a sword. And not just any sword—the sword of Leonhardt, the greatest fighter here.
"Are you all right?!"
Lord Frost was the first to recover. He examined my body. He looked at me with concern and held out his hand.
"Come with me. I'll teach you magic."