The Warrior’s Ballad

Translator: Willia

A life-or-death duel was something that those who had never experienced it could never truly understand, the mindset, the resolve, the emotions involved.

The determination to kill your opponent by swinging or thrusting a cold blade, while also being prepared for your own death - perhaps one needed to be slightly mad to do such a thing.

Whether it was for noble justice or base greed, whatever the reason, in the face of victory and defeat, life and death, all became equal.

Ricardt had fought countless duels like these, yet never before had he felt this kind of tremor.

Was it because there had never been a real reason until now? Until this moment, he had fought with only one thought, winning, surviving, and killing the opponent.

His heightened concentration was so intense that even the thunderous cheers of the crowd seemed muffled. He lost all sense of time and place, hearing only the vivid sound of his own heartbeat and breathing.

The only thing in his vision was the man clad in blue. He could sense the tension and determination in his opponent’s eyes. It was clear, the other had made up his mind to kill him, no matter what.

Fine, then. That meant neither of them needed to feel guilt. No matter the reason.

Holding his sword, Ricardt confidently stepped forward, feeling the tension and relaxation of his entire body’s muscles. In response, his opponent moved back, maintaining distance.

Then, at a certain moment, Ricardt took a large step forward, suddenly closing the gap, almost as if preparing for a decisive strike.

An ordinary opponent would have flinched and swung their sword in panic, but this man never let his guard down. He refused to fall for Ricardt’s provocation.

Quickly shifting to Ricardt’s right, the man kept his distance once more. But Ricardt immediately gave chase with rapid footwork.

For an instant, a sword flashed to cut off his opponent’s movement path.

Ricardt’s sword, too, swung from left to right in a diagonal upward slash, as swift as lightning.

Whoosh! Clang!

Blades clashed at an angle, sliding past each other. Even in that brief moment of contact, both warriors could gauge each other’s skill.

What now? Counter? Retreat? Another exchange?

In that extremely short span of time, an almost instinctual judgment was made.

But in that brief instant, Ricardt felt something off about his opponent.

He had certainly accepted the possibility of death, but... something about it was different.

Swish! Thunk!

Once again, their swords crossed. Ricardt’s heavy Meteoric Iron Sword sliced through the opponent’s skull, from the cheekbone all the way to the brain.

But as the opponent’s sleeve tie came undone, a white powder-like substance scattered into the air.

The match was already decided, yet Ricardt instinctively held his breath and stepped back, covering his mouth.

But it was too late, he had already inhaled a breath of it.

The once-muted roars of the crowd suddenly struck his ears like a crashing wave, and his vision swam.

Then

Waaahhhhhhh!

With a thud, Ricardt fell back, landing hard on the ground.

“Cough! Cough!”

His opponent lay collapsed, blood gushing from his half-split skull. Meanwhile, Ricardt kept coughing, but the crowd paid no mind. They were too busy cheering.

“The victor! Ricardt!”

“As expected! Ricky won!”

The Crown Prince jumped up and down in joy, while Bellator, though restrained in his reaction, had a gleam in his eyes after witnessing a battle between true warriors.

Indeed, fighting against long weapons was no easy task.

Ricardt tried to get up, but his arms and legs refused to move.

Now that the duel was over, his concentration faltered, and a wave of confusion crashed over him. He couldn't properly assess his condition.

Sensing something was wrong, Marie abruptly stood up, rushed to the railing, and shouted.

“Ricky! Are you okay!?”

“Cough! Cough! Gah!”

With his head lowered, Ricardt covered his mouth and nose with one hand while looking down at the ground. With the other, he weakly raised a hand towards Marie, as if to reassure her.

But his steps were already unsteady.

A metallic scent filled his nostrils, and something welled up in his throat. He spat onto the ground, blood.

Then, from his nose, blood trickled down.

Poison. He had been poisoned.

Damn it…

Who could it be? Who would have such a grudge? Or was it purely just to win?

At this point, thinking about it wouldn't change anything, and there was no way to know the answer. Ricardt forced himself to move and headed toward the waiting area. A tournament official approached and asked,

“Are you alright?”

Ricardt, still covering his nose and mouth, nodded. If he was disqualified, he wouldn’t be able to continue the competition, and the championship would slip away from him.

His vision spun. If he lost focus even for a moment, he felt like he would collapse on the spot.

Barely managing to return to the waiting area, he dropped onto a seat with a heavy thud.

"Towel. Toweeel!"

Ricardt snapped impatiently, and the tournament staff quickly rushed to bring him one. With trembling hands, he pressed the towel against his nose and mouth.

People sensed that something was wrong, but they didn't think it was serious enough to prevent him from continuing.

In the midst of it all, Ricardt realized that breathing in would only spread the poison faster. But it wasn’t as if he could just stop breathing, leaving him trapped in an impossible dilemma.

His quick reaction was the only reason he was still alive. If he had inhaled just a bit more of the poison, he might have already been dead by now. It was truly a lethal toxin.

And yet, at this very moment, Ricardt was surprisingly not resentful toward his opponent.

He didn’t curse the world or fate, wondering, Why now, of all times? And he certainly never considered giving up the tournament.

The incident had already happened. Now, his sole focus was on staying conscious and making it to the finals, nothing else.

The previous match had left the victor gravely injured, meaning Ricardt would advance by default. He only needed to fight one more battle to claim the championship.

How could he collapse or surrender now?

Huff! Huff! Huff! Huff!

Ricardt focused every ounce of his willpower on taking short, controlled breaths while staring at the ground.

Fortunately, the nosebleed that had been flowing nonstop finally ceased. However, the real problem remained, his vision still spun wildly.

The tournament continued, the crowd roared in excitement, and the deafening noise felt like it was grabbing his mind by the collar and shaking him violently.

Ricardt fought desperately to avoid wasting any mental energy on unnecessary thoughts, but then someone called out to him.

The voice alone made his head throb.

“Ricky.”

It was none other than Marie.

As she stepped into the waiting area, the people around them widened their eyes in shock.

“Go. Just go. I’m fine.”

“You were poisoned, weren’t you?”

“I can still fight. That’s why I’m telling you to leave.”

Marie crouched down in front of him, gazing up at his lowered face. The traces of blood wiped from his nose and mouth were clearly visible.

In Ricardt’s eyes, Marie’s blue eyes sparkled like stars.

“Let’s just leave.”

Marie said.

“No. I can fight.”

“You probably can. But what if you die?”

“I won’t die.”

"You're really being childish. Then I have no choice either."

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll kill everyone and die, too.”

Despite the dire situation, Ricardt couldn’t help but let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“Don’t do that.”

“Telling me not to do that… sounds unbelievably cruel to me, you know?”

“I told you, I won’t die.”

Marie stared at him, as if she were truly upset, then turned to an anxious maid and ordered,

“Bring me my sword.”

“Pardon?”

“Hurry!”

Marie’s sharp gaze made the maid flinch before rushing off to retrieve the weapon. Then, Marie turned back to Ricardt and said,

"Since you won't run away, alright, I understand. But don’t you dare die. If you die, I die, and we all die. Got it?”

It was hard to tell whether that was a plea, a warning, or a threat.

So he called her the female Ricky… Boribori, your insight is spot-on.

Since she had already made up her mind, Ricardt had nothing left to say. He simply nodded.

“…Alright.”

Only after hearing his response did Marie finally rise to her feet.

There was no need to describe the agony she felt inside. But Marie was different from other women.

She was a warrior.

Just as Boribori had said, she was even braver than Ricardt.

When the maid returned, Marie snatched the sword from her hands without hesitation. Then, without so much as a glance back, she strode out of the waiting area.

A woman in a dress, carrying a sword.

Perhaps, when the Crown Prince and the imperial princes had tormented her, it hadn’t been Ricardt who saved her.

Perhaps, instead, Marie had been the one who would have killed them, and Ricardt had merely ended up stopping her.

Regardless, the tournament continued. Some battles started off looking refined, only to devolve into brawls. With their lives on the line, no one had the luxury of worrying about elegance or disgrace.

By the end, only three out of the eight remaining contestants were still in fighting condition. Two of them would battle next, and the winner would face Ricardt.

If the fighter in the upcoming match suffered a severe injury, Ricardt would automatically win the tournament after just one final bout.

However, it seemed Ricky’s luck had finally run dry. Ricardt had to enter the last match himself. And his opponent was a Sword Master.

Even if their skill levels were close or somewhat different, a Sword Master’s blade could cut through iron with ease. Ricardt was at an undeniable disadvantage.

But being at a disadvantage didn’t necessarily mean defeat. He had already proven that when he fought Steiner.

When the crier called Ricardt’s name, he didn’t hear it. His once-sharp senses, his greatest strength, had dulled.

“Sir, it’s time for your match.”

The other competitors had either been taken away for emergency treatment or were dead, leaving Ricardt alone in the waiting area. A tournament official addressed him.

Ricardt picked up his sword and stood. The ground beneath him spun like a turning wheel.

Clenching his teeth so hard it felt like his jaw might shatter, he steadied himself, pushed aside the tent flap, and strode forward with unwavering steps.

The cheers of the crowd didn’t register as sound, they felt like vibrations. The very earth seemed to shake beneath their voices.

Ricardt planted his feet firmly in the center of the arena.

No one realized he wasn’t in good condition.

No, only a select few experts noticed that something was off.

Marie sat in the stands, gripping her sword, Ricky, tightly. This was a crucial moment for her, too.

Would she become a mad sword demon, or a noble warrior?

Ricardt’s opponent was clearly no ordinary fighter. At a glance, he resembled a seasoned veteran who had been through countless battles.

His expression showed that, regardless of Ricardt’s condition, he had no intention of holding back.

“Let the match begiiiin!”

The crier’s voice rang out.

The opponent drew his sword, and flung the scabbard far away.

As he gripped the longsword with both hands, the blade emitted a white light.

The glow made the sword’s edges blur, blending into the surroundings, making it difficult to distinguish.

As the Sword Master’s blade radiated its brilliance, the deafening cheers of the audience gradually quieted.

It was mesmerizing.

It felt as though they were witnessing a living legend.

“I have no personal grudge against you. I simply wish to have a match where we both give it our all. Even if I win, I will ensure that the Princess is set free.”

Was he already offering the victor’s mercy?

Or was this an attempt to shake Ricardt’s mind?

Whatever the case, Ricardt unsheathed his sword and tossed his scabbard aside as well.

Then he thought.

In my current state, I can’t move recklessly. If I do, my head will be lopped off in an instant.

One or two steps at most, that’s all I can afford. I have to finish this within that range.

Right now, measuring distance was impossible, his opponent flickered like a mirage.

Ricardt decided to gauge the distance the moment their swords clashed and make his move then.

But… would that work?

His opponent was no amateur.

Still, no other strategy came to mind. Ricardt had never been one to overthink a fight beforehand.

Perhaps that was why an unease crept over him.

Then suddenly, Armand’s words resurfaced in his mind.

What is meant to happen will happen. The future is already written, just like the past.

So why hesitate?

If it was inevitable, then the only choice was to stand tall before fate.

There was no reason to be anxious. No reason to be afraid.

His head was spinning, his vision kept warping, and nausea churned in his stomach as if he might vomit.

Yet, strangely enough, his mind and spirit remained steady.

His unwavering gaze made his opponent also give it his all.

His feet left the ground.

Would it end in an instant, or turn into a brutal struggle? A true duel wasn’t always a spectacle of elegance, no matter how skilled the fighters were.

The opponent’s sword, now nothing more than a flash of light, slashed diagonally toward Ricardt’s neck. Ricardt reflexively moved to meet it, but the distance was off. It was neither an attack nor a defense, just an odd movement.

The moment their swords clashed, Ricardt’s Meteoric Iron Sword, which had been with him for so long, was effortlessly severed.

Yet, in that infinitesimally brief moment, he felt it, almost as if he could sense the sword’s final cry.

That instant told him everything he needed to know about the distance.

Ricardt twisted his body to avoid the strike and reached out, seizing his opponent’s wrist.

Even as dizziness clouded his mind, Ilya’s monstrous strength surged through him, his grip crushing the opponent’s wrist.

However, his opponent demonstrated incredible focus, ignoring the pain and immediately letting go of the sword. In one fluid motion, he drew his secondary weapon, a dagger. Ricardt did the same.

With the two of them now pressed so close that distance no longer held meaning, the opponent aimed for Ricardt’s abdomen, while Ricardt targeted his heart.

At the final moment, the opponent relied on ingrained techniques, but Ricardt did not.

A normal dagger would have been stopped by the ribs.

Instead, his blade cut straight through bone and pierced the heart.

The opponent’s body spasmed the instant his own dagger stabbed into Ricardt’s abdomen.

Had he managed to slash instead of just stab, Ricardt’s intestines would have spilled out. But he never got that far.

Ricardt clenched his teeth and put every ounce of his remaining strength into his attack.

By now, the duel was already decided.

And yet, he pushed his opponent down, toppling both of them to the ground while driving his dagger in even deeper.

His hand was nearly inside the opponent’s body, the blade slicing through the heart and snapping the spine.

"Huff!"

The opponent, pinned beneath Ricardt, gasped, his body trembling violently.

And with his last breath, he spoke

“A fine duel…”

Only then did Ricardt pull the dagger from deep within his enemy’s body and rise to his feet.

Blood poured freely from the wound in his abdomen, but he forced himself to stand tall on both legs, showing thousands of spectators exactly who the victor was.

The arena fell into silence, as if holding its breath.

Among the crowd, Hellauman felt a strange sense of déjà vu.

He measured the distance the moment his sword was cut… Was that premeditated? Or just an instantaneous reaction?

It was the same question he had once pondered long ago, when he first laid eyes on Ricky, the original Sword Master, over a century ago.

But whether or not Hellauman found his answer, the crier bellowed.

"The champion, Ricardt!"

And then, like an erupting volcano, the crowd’s cheers exploded into the sky.

Or at least, they should have.

Because just before the roar of victory could truly break out, a chilling voice cut through the silent arena.

"O God of Judgement! Open Your Eyes!"

What the hell was that?

People looked around in confusion.

But whether they understood or not, it was already too late.

All across the stands, maids and servants suddenly turned on their masters, stabbing them ruthlessly with daggers.

"O God of Judgement! Open Your Eyes!"

"Punish all oppressors!"

It happened so quickly, so precisely, that not even a scream could be heard at first.

While Hellauman and the other Emperor's Champion were momentarily distracted, Daisy's mother, who was beside the Emperor, pulled out a dagger from somewhere and stabbed the Emperor's stomach deeply. Then she slashed upward.

"Hurk!"

The Emperor gasped, feeling his belly burn.

But before he could even react, another one of his concubines drove a dagger straight into his throat.

That was when the first real scream finally tore through the air.

"KYAAAAAAAH!"

The assassins who had targeted the nobles made no attempt to flee.

On the contrary, they rampaged, determined to take down as many as they could before dying.

They had already accepted their own deaths.

The arena instantly descended into hellish chaos.

Nobles hurled themselves from the high spectator stands into the arena below, trampling and shoving each other in a desperate frenzy.

And then, thwack!

In a single instant, Daisy’s mother and the Emperor’s concubines had their heads neatly lopped off.

It seemed like some terrifying magic had been performed.

The Emperor’s Champions had slain the assassins with techniques so godlike they seemed unreal. But it was too late.

The Emperor was already a corpse.

His mouth hung open, and blood gushed from both his throat and stomach.

“Wha…?”

Even seeing it with his own eyes, he couldn’t believe it. His mind went blank for a moment.

And in that brief hesitation, the assassins swarmed the imperial family.

"You fool! Protect the Crown Prince!"

Hellauman shouted urgently as he drew his sword.

With a single swing, he cut down both assassins and noble bystanders alike.

Blood sprayed in torrents, and dismembered bodies collapsed instantly.

"Stay back!"

He roared like a beast.

But his warning only deepened the chaos, and in the growing turmoil, the Emperor’s Champions lost sight of the Crown Prince.

Where was he?

Meanwhile, Marie tore the skirt of her dress and leaped down from the stands, sword in hand.

She scooped up Ricardt, who could barely stand, and bolted out of the arena.

But even amid this chaos, there were assassins who had eyes only for Ricardt.

They weren’t part of the Order of Judgement, these were different. They were the ones who had poisoned him before the match.

Even they had no idea what the hell was happening right now, but one thing was certain, this was their chance.

"Stop right there, Red Cloak!"

"Remember Lorenz! The Rubens never forget their grudges!"

But Marie was already beyond seeing anything before her eyes. She placed the unconscious Ricardt against a wall and stood guard in front of him.

"Do you think I kept still all this time because I couldn’t fight?!"

Everything she had suppressed for so long burst forth.

A bastard child? The imperial family?

She didn’t care anymore.

No one would stop her now.

She had endured enough.

Anyone who stood in her way, she would kill them all.

Marie was prepared to pay any price to protect Ricardt.

And in that moment, her sword, Ricky, burst into a deep violet light.

It was a light forged by fate, while also being a light created by breaking the chains of fate. It was truly paradoxical and ironic.

But such was the work of God. Sacrificing countless lives while also loving infinitely.

Marie had finally seized the freedom she had longed for. Not as someone who merely slaughtered out of rage, but as a true Sword Master.

Anyway, the assassins from the Rubens Guild were dumbfounded by what was happening. A deep unease crept into them, something had gone terribly wrong.

But now Marie's sword showed no mercy whatsoever. Everything that touched the blade, whether weapons or human bodies, was completely cut through.

The assassins fell, blood spraying in arcs.

Marie, now drenched in red, stood among their corpses, her wild hair flowing behind her, her blade still glowing.

And as she stood before the corpses with her sword of light, her hair disheveled, she looked no different from a witch or evil spirit.

But the chaos in the arena was so overwhelming that no one could tell if she had killed all the assassins or if more still lurked.

So Marie killed everyone who came close. Without even swinging her sword many times, corpses quickly piled up to waist height.

People backed away in terror, and only then did she pick up Ricardt again and hurriedly leave the place.

The shredded remains of her dress revealed her long, pale legs, but modesty had no place in a moment like this.

One way or another, Ricardt and Marie had accomplished their goal.

But the world itself had been ripped open in the process.

A power vacuum had been created.

When Mad Dog Steiner died, there was such chaos, and now with the Emperor dead......

Just as Marie had been suppressed all this time, perhaps the powerless weaklings who had been suppressed even more had also finally burst.

Thus began the era of fire, steel, blood, and death in the Empire.

Chapter 16 – What Was Meant to Happen. End.