Chapter 71

The impact was absolute. Without even a moment to process what had happened, Francis was hurled through the air.

The world spun in a high-speed blur, his vision reduced to a series of indistinguishable flashes. His body, stripped of all agency, skipped across the dirt like a stone before finally coming to a halt as another massive shock slammed into his back.

Through the haze of his fading consciousness, he realized that a section of the fence surrounding the riding ground had been reduced to splinters. Most likely, his own body had been the projectile that shattered it.

If that were the case, he had been sent rolling for dozens of meters.

No one could take a hit of that magnitude head-on and remain unscathed. A dull throb began in his left flank, quickly escalating into a searing, white-hot agony. It became a struggle just to breathe; let alone move, even letting out a groan felt like a monumental effort.

It would have been perfectly reasonable to declare Francis combat-incapable then and there. Yet, through the dust, a single silhouette approached.

Pressing his right cheek into the dirt, Francis managed to shift his neck just enough to see who it was.

It was Harold.

His deep crimson eyes—holding a coldness that stood in stark contrast to the fire their color suggested—looked down at Francis with utter contempt. To Harold, this outcome was clearly nothing more than a tedious, disappointing waste of time.

Perhaps fueled by mounting irritation, he began to shower the broken Francis with merciless vitriol.

"Over so soon? How pathetic. To think I harbored even a shred of expectation for a bottom-feeder like you is a stain upon my life. How do you intend to take responsibility for this?"

The sheer unreasonableness of the demand was staggering.

However, Francis was in no condition to retort. The damage was too severe. It took everything he had just to endure the pain and maintain a ragged, shallow rhythm of breath.

Harold reached down, seized him by the shoulder, and hauled him upright.

"Fine. You're trash, but the least you can do is struggle for my amusement."

With those words, Harold forced something against Francis’s lips.

He felt the cold, unyielding press of a container, followed by a rush of liquid. Francis couldn’t even offer a token resistance; he simply choked and swallowed as the fluid was poured down his throat. The moment the last drop vanished, the excruciating pain vanished with it, and strength flooded back into his limbs.

Seeing that the medicine had taken effect, Harold released him.

"Was that... an Ether just now?"

Ether—one of the most potent recovery items.

Francis knew the taste and the sensation well. His wounds were gone, but he remained dazed, unable to fathom why Harold would bother. Harold, meanwhile, turned on his heel, retrieved a discarded object from the ground, and hurled it toward him.

It was his rapier. It thudded into the dirt at his feet.

"Pick it up. This duel isn't over."

"...I see. So that’s how it is."

Harold wasn't satisfied with a victory whose outcome was already written. He wanted to continue.

The memory of the previous impact flashed through Francis's mind, making him hesitate. The prospect of falling victim to that power again filled him with genuine terror.

But his pride wouldn't allow him to cower after being toyed with like this. Steeling his resolve, Francis gripped his rapier and leveled it at the man before him.

Harold Stokes.

The rumors of his character were universally foul. He was a man who killed, stole, and trampled upon the dignity of others—a monster in human skin who viewed people as nothing more than tools or obstacles.

It was because of those rumors that Francis had warned his friend, Itsuki. He had told him to distance himself from Harold, offering his own strength should Itsuki be under some form of duress.

But Itsuki’s reaction had been the polar opposite of what Francis expected. He claimed Harold wasn't as black-hearted as the rumors suggested—that, in fact, his true essence was the reverse. Itsuki believed the notoriety was a mantle Harold had donned by choice.

Francis hadn't been able to accept that.

Then see the truth of Harold Stokes with your own eyes, Itsuki had challenged.

So, Francis had staged an ambush. The result had been a disaster.

Harold hadn't shown surprise, fear, or even anger. He had analyzed the situation with terrifying calm and broken Francis's will with a mere handful of words. It was more than enough to prove that Harold was more than just a brute with a sword.

At the time, Francis had assumed he would be held accountable for his insolence.

Instead, Harold had proposed a duel. He had offered to let the outcome of a fight decide whose claim was valid—a deal that offered zero benefit to Harold, who already held all the cards. That single act had done more to validate Itsuki’s opinion than any argument could. It wasn't the behavior of a purely selfish man.

And yet, once the blades—or rather, the fists—started moving, the gap in their ability was undeniable. To be so thoroughly overwhelmed by nothing but Taijutsu, without Harold even touching his sword or casting a spell, was a humiliation Francis hadn't anticipated.

He had sensed the man's strength before, but experiencing it was different. Harold was stronger than anyone Francis had ever faced.

He was forced to learn that lesson over and over. Every one of Francis’s attacks struck only air. He was toyed with, struck, kicked, and slammed into the earth. And every time he collapsed, Harold would force another Ether down his throat and command him to keep fighting.

"Stand up."

His body was being mended, but his spirit was beginning to fray under the relentless pressure. He had been floored more than ten times now. Finally, as Francis remained on one knee, unable to find the strength to rise even after another dose of Ether, Harold spoke without a trace of mercy.

He was angry. But it wasn't the anger of someone who had been ambushed. Back at the mansion, Harold hadn't felt like this; this cold fury had only manifested once the duel began.

A disappointment. That word echoed in Francis’s mind, leading him to a realization.

Was Harold angry because Francis was attempting to approach Erika while being this weak?

Based on his words and actions, Harold seemed to accept the possibility of Erika being with someone else. But that wasn't born of indifference.

On the contrary, he was likely searching for someone he could actually entrust her to. The reason he had goaded Francis into pursuing a relationship with her was to test whether Francis was worthy of being her Knight.

He didn't know the why of it yet, but the pieces were starting to fit.

Itsuki had said Harold was choosing to play the villain. If that were true, Harold might believe that a man as hated as himself had no right to stand by Erika’s side—that his presence would only bring her harm.

So, he was looking for someone who could truly protect her. And then a man like Francis had come along, making grand claims while lacking the strength to back them up.

That was why Harold was so incensed.

If that was the truth, Francis had one thing to say.

"Don't mock me," he thought, a spark of genuine anger finally flickering in his gut.

Harold was strong—likely one of the finest warriors in the Kingdom. He was brilliant, possessing the insight to read a battlefield in an instant and the tactical mind to manipulate everyone around him. At eighteen, he already possessed overwhelming power, intellect, and the iron will to remain unshaken even at sword-point.

The world called people like that heroes. They called them geniuses.

For such a man to willfully drown himself in infamy was the height of idiocy. And to step away from his fiancée because he feared for her safety?

Why did he have to be so incredibly roundabout?

With Harold's strength, he could protect Erika from almost anything. He clearly cared for her future—enough to be this furious at Francis’s inadequacy—so why was his only solution to push her away?

"Don't give me that..." Francis muttered, slowly pushing himself to his feet.

His grip tightened on his rapier.

"What?"

"I said, don't give me that! You're so strong I can't even touch your shadow. So why won't you protect Erika the right way?! You of all people could do it! Wouldn't that be what's best for her?!"

Francis screamed his heart out. It was anger at Harold, but it was also a vent for the pathetic weakness he felt in his own soul.

"..."

"Harold, you can do things I can't. But instead of fulfilling your duty, you're trying to dump it on someone else. If Erika ends up unhappy because of that, I will never forgive you!"

If she was precious to him, he should protect her with his own hands. Anything else was just cowardice—running away from the fear that he might eventually fail her. Francis’s emotions surged, desperate not to lose to a man who was acting like such a craven—

"You certainly talk big for someone who knows nothing."

Harold’s voice was like a freezing draft, instantly cutting through Francis’s fervor. The sheer pressure radiating from the man was enough to stifle his breathing.

Sweat broke out across Francis's skin. He couldn't stop his limbs from shaking. It was a primal weight, the kind one felt when staring into the eyes of an apex predator.

The moment that pressure peaked, Harold’s form blurred. By the time Francis realized he had moved, the distance had already been closed.

It was a frontal assault, yet it caught him completely off guard—a strike born of pure, unadulterated speed.

The black-bladed sword in Harold's left hand flashed. Trapped in a thick miasma of impending death, Francis’s body refused to move. He didn't even have the time to accept that he was about to die.

But death didn't come. Instead, Francis felt a sharp impact against his left arm.

He buckled, falling backward onto the grass.

"I'll give you one piece of advice, you worthless wretch," Harold said, looking down at him with eyes as cold as the grave.

"Erika is not some weak, fragile girl who exists only to be shielded. She is a woman of unwavering resolve, with the power to fight and the will to defy fate itself. As long as you view her as nothing more than a delicate flower, you are beneath her. At her core, Erika is like a great, towering tree."

Not a flower, but a great tree. That was how Harold saw her.

I see, Francis realized. Harold didn't just love her; he trusted her. He believed she was an equal who could stand beside him, not someone who needed to be coddled.

To Harold, listening to a man far weaker than himself babble about "protecting" her must have been the height of absurdity.

Francis was hit with the painful realization that he had only ever seen Erika's surface. He had fallen for her beauty and assumed her soul was as delicate as her features. It was no wonder Harold found him so offensive.

In terms of both understanding and devotion, he wasn't even in the same league as Harold.

"...It’s my loss."

"Are you blind? Look at this."

Harold held up his sword.

Technically, by drawing a weapon, Harold had forfeited the duel. But Francis wasn't so shameless as to claim victory on a technicality. Not after such a total, humiliating defeat.

"Please, don't make me say it. This goes beyond the rules. I never had the right to challenge you in the first place."

"Well, then. Shall we call this one a draw?"

Itsuki, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke up.

Francis had surrendered, and Harold had broken the rules. Both had "lost" in their own way. For Francis, a clean admission of defeat would have felt better, but as a compromise to save everyone's face, this was likely the best solution.

"Tch."

Harold clicked his tongue in clear dissatisfaction and turned his back on them. Francis called out to him.

"Wait, Harold. Even if the official result is a draw, the fight was my complete defeat. I’ll abide by your terms."

The duel's stakes had somehow morphed into the matter of the marriage, but that was the core of the issue now.

"I’ve lost interest," Harold snapped over his shoulder. "If you want to woo her, do as you please—provided you can actually become a man worthy of her."

With a final, biting remark—"I'm heading back. Rot out here for all I care"—Harold disappeared toward the villa. Francis didn't try to stop him a second time.

He simply lay back on the grass, staring at the sky.

"Hey, Itsuki."

"Yes?"

"I was the fool all along."

"I’m not sure I follow, but it's rare to hear you be so self-deprecating."

"I just had the difference in our caliber beaten into me—both as a warrior and as a man. I learned a lot."

Harold’s final words had been a challenge: Become a man worthy of her. He was telling Francis to reach his level.

Despite his rudeness and his pathetic showing, Harold hadn't completely written him off. He had acknowledged him, however slightly. The thought filled Francis with a strange sense of elation.

He finally understood why Itsuki admired the man. If you stood this close to that kind of overwhelming presence, you couldn't help but be drawn in.

"I still have a long way to go. But today, I think I finally saw the path I’m supposed to take."

The sky above was vast, clear, and impossibly high. To Francis, it looked exactly like the future he intended to seize.