"—Who are you?"
It was a strange question for a father to ask his son.
A thin smile played across Klaus’s lips.
Had it been the real Klaus, he would have frowned, perhaps shouting, "What are you talking about in the middle of a duel, Father? Is this some trick to unsettle me?"
But there was no longer any intent to hide.
"What do you mean, Father?"
"My eyes as a father cannot be deceived," Leonhardt said. "Do you truly need more of an explanation than that?"
A laugh spilled out.
"Heh... Hehehe..."
An arrogant, chilling, and utterly condescending sneer spread across Klaus’s face.
His eyes shifted, the blue fading as they took on the glow of scorching crimson.
"Hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah! Finally, someone has noticed!"
The very quality of his voice shifted.
The vocal cords belonged to Klaus, but the pressure he exerted was fundamentally different. It was the presence of an overwhelming superior—a tyrant looking down upon a subject from a high throne.
"The intuition of a Knights Order Captain, or perhaps the love of a father? I suppose you deserve praise."
"...I am asking who you are."
"What would you do with that knowledge? Is it information a dying man truly requires?"
"It is certainly unnecessary," Leonhardt replied, raising his blade. "The name of the thing that dies here, that is."
"And my son? What have you done with him?"
"The body is right here. As for the soul... well, who can say? Kukuku!"
To kill this thing, Leonhardt would have to strike down his own son's body.
He knew that it would almost certainly mean the boy’s death.
Yet, Leonhardt did not flinch. He had resolved himself the moment he stepped onto this field with his beloved sword, the blade that had carried him through a thousand battles.
If this was evil, he would cut it down, even if it cost his son’s life.
That was the duty of a knight, and he knew it was exactly what his son would have wanted.
But despite his cold logic, he could not ignore the sensation in his gut—a rage boiling like molten magma.
This monster had stolen his son’s body.
It had trampled over Klaus’s smile, his voice, and his very life.
"You! I will kill you if it’s the last thing I do!"
Power surged through his limbs. As the Kingdom Knights Order Captain, he poured every ounce of experience he had gathered over decades into this single strike.
"Nraaaaaaaa!"
With a roar that tore through the air, he lunged forward with godspeed, unleashing his Lethal Thrust.
—Snap.
A light sound echoed through the training grounds.
Leonhardt’s full-power strike had been parried. Klaus had used only one hand—no, a single fingertip.
The legendary Lethal Thrust of Leonhardt von Winterfeldt, flicked away as if it were a speck of dust.
(...What is this...!?)
Leonhardt’s mind struggled to process the impossibility of it.
His thrust was moving at a speed most knights couldn't even track with their eyes. To intercept it with a fingertip was beyond reason.
"Is that all? Are you finished?"
A mocking jeer.
Leonhardt did not falter. He immediately regained his footing and pivoted into a horizontal sweep. It was a heavy, crushing blow that carried the full weight of his hips.
Klaus simply warded it off with the sword in his hand, his expression entirely bored.
"...I cannot lose!" Leonhardt gritted his teeth.
He had to avenge the future that had been stolen from his son!
High guard, low guard, thrust, sweep, diagonal slash—he unleashed a storm of steel. Every move was the refined crystallization of the techniques that had made him the strongest man in the kingdom.
But Klaus parried them all with nonchalance.
It looked less like a duel and more like a veteran instructor guiding a clumsy novice.
"Are you satisfied now?"
Klaus looked at him with a mocking gaze—an expression the real Klaus was incapable of making.
"Until I kill you... it is not over!"
"Hah-hah-hah-hah! A commendable spirit. But I’ve grown bored."
Suddenly, Klaus tossed his sword high into the air.
(—Wha...?)
Distracted by the nonsensical move, Leonhardt’s eyes instinctively followed the blade upward.
In that heartbeat—
A strike like a flash of crimson light tore through Leonhardt’s torso.
"Guah!?"
As he collapsed backward, Leonhardt looked through the mist of his own blood. He saw Klaus standing there, gripping a new sword in his right hand—a blade as red as the life-force spilling onto the ground.
(A red sword...? Where did it come from...?)
The sword Klaus had tossed clattered to the floor at the same moment Leonhardt’s body hit the dirt.
Klaus discarded the red blade; the moment it touched the ground, it dissolved into a splash of gore.
"This is a fine vessel. The reflexes are top-tier. Your son was truly excellent."
Klaus approached him with a thin, mocking smile.
His face was a mask of arrogance, occupied by something utterly alien.
"K-Klaus..."
Leonhardt spat out a mouthful of blood and reached a trembling hand toward his son.
"Are you... still... in there...?"
His vision began to fail, slipping into a cold darkness.
In the fading light, he heard the voice of a younger Klaus.
'Father, watch me!'
The boy had been so small then, hoisting a wooden sword. He had swung it with all his might, only to lose his balance and tumble forward onto his face.
But he hadn't cried.
He had stood up immediately and tried again.
And again.
No matter how many times he fell, he stood back up.
'One more time! I can do it one more time!'
The boy had never known how to quit. No matter how many times he hit the ground, he would pick himself up. No matter how many times he lost, he would ready his sword for one more go.
The father had wanted to show his pride one last time.
He had wanted to keep standing, to drive his sword into the demon before him and avenge his son.
But—
"I’m sorry, Klaus..."
Leonhardt’s hand lost its strength and slumped to the floor. The light vanished from his eyes.
Verdict stood in silence for a moment, looking down at the unmoving man.
He felt no sentimentality.
Since the man hadn't even been strong enough to threaten him, he was ultimately worthless.
His interest had already shifted elsewhere.
"Lowlife, did you enjoy the show?"
When the silence persisted, he shifted his gaze to the corner of the room.
"I won't say it twice. Show yourself."
"...Hehehe... As expected of you..."
A shadow detached itself from the darkness in the corner.
A man emerged, wearing the robes of a magician. Red irises glowed within the pitch-black sclera of his eyes.
A member of the Demon Race.
"I am grateful for this audience, Lord Verdict."
His voice was low and formal, yet Verdict looked down at the kneeling demon with utter indifference.
"Who are you?"
"I am called Galvan. I am the confidant of Lady Aristia—the Current Demon King."
"That half-baked creature’s servant? Begone. I have no interest in seeing you."
"That 'half-baked' nature is precisely the issue," Galvan continued, unperturbed.
"I wish for you to lend us your strength—to help us awaken the incomplete Lady Aristia, so that she may ascend as the True Demon King."
Verdict dismissed him with a cold stare.
"I believe I told you to disappear. Do you have a death wish?"