SAV 15

Chapter 15

Just as humans choose tools according to their circumstances, nations too adapt to the world like living organisms, forming unique cultures of their own.

Hermann, who had always been fascinated by weapons and swordsmanship, traveled across the continent and interacted with warriors from many different lands.

While the Aleban Empire gradually lengthened and enlarged their swords, the southern Kingdom of Hisphelia specialized in one-handed thrusting swords; the eastern pagans favored curved blades; and across the sea, the Kingdom of Britellia made the longbow their main weapon.

Meanwhile, the western Kingdom of Calia was famous for its one-handed sword called the épée and its swift, agile fencing style.

The moment Hermann saw Isabelle’s movements, he was certain she was from Calia.

“A seasoned Spectre, I see. From the front, she really would look like a ghost.”

Among the Calian noble sword trainees, there was a footwork technique known as Spectre.

Nowhere else on the continent was there footwork as fast, deceptive, and disorienting as the Spectre. Facing a skilled Calian swordsman was notoriously difficult.

“And she’s wearing a long nun’s habit, which hides her legs even more.”

Unaware of any of this, Fritz was being completely overwhelmed. No matter how he tried to grab or trip her, it was useless.

Isabelle only struck at openings, then retreated just as swiftly.

“How are your feet that fast?”
“You almost got me that time.”

The curiosity and competitiveness between the two swordsmen clashed again. The sound of steel rang loudly through the sparring hall.

Hermann’s expression grew more serious by the minute.

“She’s clearly used to dueling, but she doesn’t seem to have learned Imperial swordsmanship.”

Isabelle faced the apprentice knight Fritz with dazzling movement, but her swordsmanship relied purely on instinct—an expression of her natural aggressiveness.

It was a strange imbalance, yet somehow it held together without collapsing.

“This is…”

Hermann recognized in Isabelle the fundamental skills and raw talent unique to Calian noble fencers. And by reading the story written in her stance—the nun’s robe hiding her lost fingers, the foreign langschwert in her hand—he could almost trace the course of her life.

Abandoning her Calian swordsmanship and wielding an unfamiliar langschwert, Isabelle’s form was both fierce and devout.

“How great a trial must she have endured…”

Hermann sighed deeply.

Her genius allowed her to still stand there with a sword in hand, but in his eyes, Isabelle looked as if she were still struggling to keep from drowning.

“Let’s see how long you can keep dodging!”

Fritz, unable to read any of that, only grew rougher with frustration—driven by the thought that he couldn’t lose to a nun.

But Isabelle’s reaction wasn’t flustered or surprised.

She calmly exuded a killing intent, thick and heavy—as if she’d been waiting for this moment.

“…She’s used to real combat… and to death.”

Releasing such bloodlust in a moment of danger isn’t something anyone can do. It can be trained, but at its core, it’s an innate talent.

And Isabelle, with that natural gift, had become even sharper, honed by deep-seated hatred.

Clang!

She deflected Fritz’s charging strike, redirected his blade, and slipped to the opposite side to slam her sword against his thigh.

Fritz froze. Isabelle seized the moment and moved behind him.

Just before she acted, Hermann shouted—

“Stop!”

Startled, Fritz turned toward Hermann. Isabelle, however, remained perfectly focused, her sword still drawn back, eyes fixed on Fritz’s back. Her concentration was frightening.

“Sister Isabelle, Knight Fritz. I have seen enough of your spar.”

Fritz exhaled heavily and looked up at the ceiling. Even as a first-year apprentice, losing to a nun had clearly rattled him.

When he trudged back, Christian laughed and patted his shoulder.

“Not bad, Fritz!”
“…Wasn’t it really bad? She has to be a former knight, right?”
“Probably. So just think of this as a lesson. You know what I always say.”
“The one who loses in a spar gains the most.”
“Exactly. Next time you face a Calian swordsman, you’ll handle it better.”
“Wait, she’s from Calia?”
“Seems she’s got quite a story.”

After encouraging the younger knight, Christian approached Hermann and said quietly,

“I knew something was up, but not this much. Tempting, isn’t she?”
“And why are you talking like an observer, Sir Christian?”
“…Sorry?”
“Go on, you fight her.”

Christian hadn’t really wanted to, thinking the testing was over—but he nodded.

Even from what she’d shown so far, Isabelle deserved recognition. Yet, as a knight of the Sacred Flame Order, there was also honor to uphold.

Christian rolled his shoulders and stepped forward.

“Well then, Sister, round two.”
“…If I’d known this was coming, I would’ve finished round one faster.”

There was a hint of edge in her words, but Christian smiled pleasantly.

“You should have. Especially if you’re swinging purely on talent rather than real swordsmanship.”
“…What did you say?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll show you what I mean.”

With that, Christian took his stance.

Though irritated, Isabelle knew he was right—her earlier fight had relied on instinct. That’s why she hadn’t wanted to draw it out.

She kept her distance, wary. Suddenly, Christian lunged, swinging wide.

It was such an obvious attack that blocking it was easy.

Clang!

A light metallic ring. Hardly any shock.

But when Isabelle tried to counter, Christian twisted his sword just in time to block.

Her next few attacks were stopped just as easily. She tried to disengage, but he closed the gap faster, thrusting in at a threatening angle. She had no choice but to defend again.

Their blades felt almost bound together by a rope.

“Try escaping this—Imperial swordsmanship’s Binden technique.”

When the weapon changes, the whole combat style changes too. Calia’s short, light épée couldn’t maintain blade contact for long; their technique relied on striking while keeping distance.

In contrast, the Aleban Empire’s langschwert masters excelled at Binden—the binding of blades—and Ringen, close-quarters grappling.

True Imperial swordsmanship, in the hands of a skilled knight, was astonishingly refined.

“He’s only binding blades… yet the control and pressure are incredible…”

Isabelle felt the vast difference in skill.

Days ago, against mercenaries, her instincts alone had been enough.

But against Christian, her improvisation was useless.

“He’s already read all my moves.”

She had revealed too much during her previous duel.

Though she’d observed some Imperial swordplay from Fritz, the gap in ability here was overwhelming.

“This is…”

Defeat filled her mind. In such cases, admitting loss could itself be honorable.

Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Because of a single loss, she had lost her fingers once. The pain of that memory still drove her even now.

“I’ll do whatever it takes…!”

A spark flared in her eyes. She focused all her senses on Christian’s movements.

He toyed with her, maintaining the bind but never finishing her. He intended to end the match elegantly, at the perfect moment.

Sensing his intent, Isabelle subtly loosened her grip.

She let her shoulders droop, her breathing grow uneven—as if exhausted and ready to yield.

“Already?”

Christian looked slightly puzzled, then chuckled and straightened his posture.

That instant—a gap appeared at his wrist.

Isabelle struck fast, her timing perfect—a combination of genius and relentless will.

Clang!

But Christian deflected it effortlessly with the pommel of his sword. It was a defense bordering on supernatural.

Isabelle’s eyes widened in shock. Christian’s blade, in turn, glided smoothly to her neck and stopped.

“That was very good.”
“…You saw it coming?”
“Not exactly. Call it… experience and luck?”

His casual tone made Isabelle frown, but Christian just smiled good-naturedly and stepped back.

“There’s much to gain from losing—but also things that can’t be undone. Your attempt to deceive me as if it were real combat—excellent.”
“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Of course it was.”

When Isabelle sighed at his persistent playfulness, Hermann stepped forward.

“Sister Isabelle.”

With a solemn voice, Hermann called to her—and then, to everyone’s surprise, bowed his head first.

“First, allow me to apologize. I doubted that you had slain ten mercenaries. I was wrong.”
“…You believe me now?”
“Of course.”

Though she had lost badly to Christian, Hermann’s immediate acceptance puzzled her.

Seeing her expression, Hermann explained,

“Sir Christian here is among the top ten swordsmen in the Sacred Flame Order. Many knights can’t even land a proper strike on him—yet you made an attack that chilled even me to watch.”
“Oh, come on, Sir Hermann. Who are those nine above me? Name them.”
“Then let’s say you’re in the top five. Better?”
“Hmm, not bad.”

Though Christian’s joking tone made him seem unreliable, anyone who had crossed blades with him knew his terrifying skill.

Hermann stepped closer and spoke earnestly to Isabelle.

“As a nun, I’m sure you’re already accustomed to the monastic life and doctrine—so that doesn’t need proving.”

His words shifted into an evaluation—one assuming her potential admission into the Order.

“To become a Knight of the Sacred Flame, one must be capable of leading in battle or embarking on pilgrimage. You’re not quite there yet, would you agree?”
“…I agree.”
“However, for someone who hasn’t even learned langschwert techniques, your ability is remarkable. I want to help you train within the Order. Follow us, and I promise that within two years, you’ll become a full knight.”

It was an extraordinary offer—an invitation not just to join, but to be personally trained.

Opportunities to learn advanced swordsmanship in a structured way were rare, and for Isabelle, who needed to master langschwert combat, this was invaluable.

But then, a cold voice cut through the air, freezing the moment.

“And who gave you permission to say that, Sir Hermann?”

Lionel spoke, unable to hide his displeasure.