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Chapter 9
At that shout, everyone froze.
No one could understand why, in such a desperate situation, the prince had told a distant nun to take up a sword and die.
Isabel was no exception.
In the chaos of confusion and intrigue swirling around, she stared hard at Lionel.
Rationally, she couldn’t understand him.
“You saw that I’m crippled, didn’t you?”
In fact, it was Lionel himself who had ordered that fact to be confirmed.
“Why?”
She asked blankly, but no answer came.
Even as she dodged the sword attacks, unable to understand the reason, Isabel’s instincts found an answer in Lionel’s voice—and rejoiced.
Even if she picked up a sword now, it didn’t seem like it would change much.
But if she was destined to die anyway, dying while holding a sword… somehow didn’t seem so bad.
With that resolve, Isabel took a small step back and looked around. Among the scattered corpses, she saw weapons strewn about.
One long, two-handed sword caught her eye.
“This is…”
In her homeland of Kalia, the word “sword” usually meant a one-handed épée.
If you needed both hands for a weapon, the natural choice was an axe or polearm.
Having grown up in such a culture and trained in épée fencing, Isabel had never once imagined holding the Empire’s heavy two-handed sword.
And yet…
She couldn’t take her eyes off it.
Her reason warned that it was madness to pick up an unfamiliar Imperial sword in such a dire situation.
But the instincts of a swordswoman, long buried under ash, crushed her reason and drew her toward the weapon.
Slowly, Isabel bent down and picked up the longsword with both hands.
“Would it be enough for at least one strike?”
She didn’t even know how to properly hold a two-handed sword, so she kept adjusting her grip on the long handle, testing it awkwardly.
“Hey. You’re holding it backward.”
“Oh—thank you…”
“And what’s wrong with your hand? Damn it, what the hell?”
It was only then that her opponent seemed to notice her missing fingers and looked stunned.
But Isabel ignored him and focused on the new weapon.
The Imperial longsword was long and heavy, but surprisingly well-balanced.
With both hands, she could control the tip more easily and channel her whole body’s strength into the blade.
A growing sense told her—she could do this.
Without anyone teaching her, her talent as a swordswoman guided her hand, showing her how to move the blade.
“The sword’s center of gravity is close—use the whole body, build rotation, change footwork quickly…”
She imagined various possibilities, closed her eyes, and examined herself inwardly.
A true swordsman must distinguish between what is possible and what is not.
One mistaken judgment could mean defeat—and death.
Her nerves and muscles, long unused, were a mess.
She hadn’t even eaten properly in days.
“Phew…”
But her instincts as a swordswoman—her awareness that she could die as one—burned more fiercely than ever.
Slowly, Isabel opened her eyes and raised the sword with both hands.
Whoosh—
The horizontal swing she tried cut through the air in a straight, sharp line. Not perfect, but satisfying enough.
She could fight one last time as a swordswoman.
“Thank you for waiting.”
“Waiting? For what?”
“You were going to kill me, weren’t you?”
“…Crazy nun. You think you can fight me with that thing?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Her calm reply stunned her opponent.
The assailant—Andrich—was dumbfounded.
“A former knight from the Order, missing fingers… she’s lost her mind.”
A mercenary by trade, Andrich pieced together what he thought was her story—and scoffed.
A female knight missing fingers was no threat.
If you lost your pinky finger, your life as a swordsman was over.
You could no longer control the blade’s edge or maintain tension.
You could still swing wildly—but any peasant could do that.
That’s why the two most infamous ways to cripple a swordsman were to smash their kneecaps or cut off their pinky fingers.
“And she’s never even used that kind of sword before.”
He guessed she was skilled with a one-handed rapier, and her awkward grip on a langschwert looked laughable.
Sure, a two-handed sword might deliver a stronger strike—but without strength and technique, even the finest weapon was useless.
And with missing fingers, using a longsword properly was just as hopeless.
“Tch…”
Andrich sighed and approached her.
She’d managed to dodge so far, probably relying on old muscle memory, but once they really clashed, he was sure he could crush her in one blow.
Unaware of the fate approaching her, Isabel simply leveled the langschwert toward him.
As Andrich spun his katzbalger and walked forward with confidence, a sudden chill crept over him.
“What’s this?”
Just moments ago, she hadn’t even known how to hold a sword.
But now—he could feel a razor edge in her stance.
There was no opening to be seen.
Even though he’d decided to end it with brute force, Andrich felt a cold dread.
“Even crippled… she still has skill.”
He had fought the knights of the Order before during his mercenary days.
They were formidable opponents—disciplined and unyielding.
And the nun before him carried that same burning spirit.
Andrich decided he’d kill her with all due respect.
Isabel’s eyes widened.
“He’s coming.”
As Andrich’s diagonal slash came flying at her, Isabel looked straight into it.
Her instincts flared, flooding her body with raw focus.
She raised her right arm, angled the sword, and twisted her foot aside.
Andrich’s powerful blow came crashing down—only to be deflected with perfect timing, the blade bouncing harmlessly away.
Clang!
Even as she parried, Isabel anticipated the next strike, stepped back, and swept her sword across horizontally.
“Ugh!”
Andrich, charging in to punch her, flinched when the blade came for his head and ducked.
Seizing that brief opening, Isabel twisted her body and shifted her stance.
The sword, which seemed to retreat, suddenly snapped forward again—aiming for Andrich’s left shoulder.
The combination of sweeping and stabbing strikes resembled Kalia’s épée fencing.
“Damn it—what the hell is this?!”
Startled by the unfamiliar rhythm, Andrich retreated.
Meanwhile, Isabel caught her breath and adjusted her grip.
A one-handed sword and a two-handed sword were entirely different weapons.
The techniques, the footwork, the body control—everything was different.
Yet Isabel instinctively bridged that gap.
She’d never used a longsword before, but a weapon meant to kill had the same principle.
Cut the wrist to disarm.
Cut the leg to stop escape.
Cut the neck to kill.
Isabel possessed a natural gift for realizing those simple truths with deadly precision.
As she felt her long-slumbering talent awaken, she remembered how long it had been since she’d felt this way.
“Not since that day.”
After losing her finger, she’d never crossed blades with anyone.
Her attempts at rehabilitation were brief and solitary.
But facing a man intent on killing her now, every nerve in her body sharpened, her focus condensing into a clarity she had never reached alone.
If she didn’t trust herself now, she’d die in an instant.
That brutal truth erased all hesitation.
Once terrified to even hold a sword—drowned in despair and helplessness—Isabel now felt something close to ecstasy in the fight for her life.
“Kh!”
Andrich tried to overpower her with brute force.
But every time their blades met, Isabel’s counterattack came half a beat faster.
Whenever he blocked and prepared to retaliate, she slipped away—almost as if she’d anticipated it.
“Damn it!”
He roared in rage and disbelief, while Isabel continued refining her movements even mid-battle.
“More strength in the left hand… I can’t overpower him—have to draw him into an opening.”
Her improvisations were brilliant but shallow.
She could make lethal strikes, but couldn’t crush him head-on.
Her missing fingers drastically weakened her.
She felt the limits of her body—but didn’t let her focus waver.
Using the quick footwork unique to Kalian swordsmanship, she disrupted the flow and attacked with unpredictable timing.
Andrich felt a chill run down his spine.
“Is she using me for training?”
She parried or dodged every blow.
And whenever he thought he’d begun to read her moves, she’d instantly change her stance again.
He couldn’t keep up.
It felt almost as if she were reading his mind.
Realizing he couldn’t let her adapt any further, Andrich charged headlong, prepared to take a hit.
“Urgh!”
As his massive frame lunged like a raging bear, Isabel’s sword sank into his right arm.
But gritting through the pain, Andrich grabbed her throat with his other hand.
“Got you, you—urk…”
Just as he tightened his grip, a searing pain bloomed in his chest.
His breath hitched; his strength vanished.
He looked down. A dagger was buried deep in his heart.
“Damn… when did you…”
“Cough… thank you for the match.”
With Isabel’s quiet words, Andrich collapsed.
One swordsman died, and one swordsman lived.
Dozens had witnessed it, yet silence filled the hall.
Isabel stood over the fallen man, trying to calm the trembling thrill that surged through her body.
“I won…”
After losing her pinky finger, she’d given up all hope of ever doing anything with a sword again.
But now, with the man she’d just killed, she felt as though she’d stabbed through her own fate as well.
“I was supposed to die.”
Why, of all things, had God given her the talent to kill—and then taken her fingers away?
The question still circled her mind without an answer.
But instead of searching for that answer alone, Isabel decided to find people who could walk that path with her.
“…I’ll probably die along the way.”
She looked toward the other attackers still in the audience chamber.
Several of them were already pointing their swords at her.
She didn’t know how many more she could face—but even if she died here, Isabel had a fierce premonition.
That she could die without regret.
That feeling guided her forward, deeper into the audience chamber.
