Snow had piled under their feet, their field of vision becoming white and hazy. None could deny that this was a blizzard.
Still wearing her arm and leg guards, Altina clutched the Grand Tonnerre Quatre—the emperor’s sword—in her hand. The massive blade was unbefitting of such a petite girl.
Jerome, on the other hand, had equipped no armor, instead opting for a black shirt with military pants: His casual wear. He held the sort of short spear a foot soldier might carry in a dense forest. Regis estimated it at around 27 palms (200 cm), roughly the same length as his opponent’s greatsword.
Regis watched from the midst of the surrounding crowd. Beside him was Everard, fully clad in armor.
“They’re calm, both of them.”
“I can tell... How are preparations?”
“Good as done. I had Miss Clarisse wait in the carriage.”
“Thank you.”
That was all that needed to be said on the matter. Everard stroked his beard.
“The margrave is real gutsy. He could’ve taken a light sword for a speed advantage, or a long spear for superior reach, yet he purposefully chose a weapon that puts him at a disadvantage.”
“I’m clueless about the matchup between a sword and a spear... That short spear puts him at a disadvantage?”
“It’s neither long nor light, and’ll break in a single blow.”
“Don’t tell me he’s going to use that as... an excuse if he loses?”
“He picked the weapon himself, so it can’t be used as an excuse. It’s the opposite.”
“He picked it to ensure the princess can’t make any excuses?”
“Correct! Just as she laid down terms and gave three days’ preparation to avoid any excuses for his defeat, the margrave has given himself a handicap to make her own excuses useless. ...It begins.”
“...!!”
The noon bell had chimed, signaling the start of the match.
The shrill clanging of metal echoed through the square.
Most present predicted the young and rash princess would go for an immediate strike, which would then be surely sidestepped by the margrave.
“Uooooooooh!!”
Yet the one who raised a mighty roar as he made his preemptive strike was Jerome.
His feet kicked up snow as he charged forward.
Altina didn’t move—perhaps she couldn’t.
Having closed the distance in the span of a single breath, the margrave thrust out his spear.
“Sei!”
Would the first strike decide it—!? The soldiers followed intently.
“Try again!!” Altina energetically announced.
She twisted the flat of her sword to face the approaching spear.
Jerome let out a groan, almost immediately drowned out by the screams of metal.
The girl had expertly deflected the attack aimed at her shoulder.
“Well, I’ll be... A normal spear can’t even scratch it.”
“Trystie: Faerie silver...” Regis muttered under his breath.
In the days of the wars that founded the nation, there were legends that faeries had bestowed the remarkable metal unto L’Empereur Flamme.
In reality, it was little more than a naturally occurring alloy—at least, that was how modern-day researchers saw it. Of course, no one had actually come across it, but in this era it was common knowledge that mixing together several types of metal could produce materials far stronger than regular iron.
But none had yet managed to produce an alloy that could rival Trystie, so there were inevitably some who still believed it was a blessing from the faeries.
The large sword could thus also serve as a shield for Altina’s small body.
With his preemptive thrust blocked, Jerome pulled back his spear to regain his posture.
But the girl stepped in before he could.
A dull thud reverberated through the square.
“Guh...!?”
A rending kick had struck the back of Jerome’s knees.
The titan’s posture had crumbled.
“Take this seriously, Jerome!” she cried out.
“Grrr!?”
The massive sword swept in from the side. It hadn’t even touched the ground, and yet the snow beneath had completely scattered, the blast wave powerful enough to reach even the furthest surrounding soldiers.
Jerome rolled to evade the strike. Had he taken the blow, not only would his spear have likely been crushed, but his torso as well.
The soldiers watching were astir from this unforeseen development. Who could have guessed the princess’s sword would force the margrave to roll across the floor, staining him with snow and mud?
“...Does that mean she can actually win?”
Everard placed a hold on the hope now surging up in Regis’s chest.
“Things are just getting started!”
Once Jerome had taken some distance and regained his stance, his face grew into a smile.
“Too soft, little lady. You didn’t take me out there... and you’re going to regret it.”
“My goal is to prove I’m stronger than you, not cleave my subordinate in two.”
“Do you have room to hold back?”
“I could ask the same: Why aim for my shoulder? Because you can’t marry the dead?”
“Kukukuh... I can’t deny that.”
“Come at me seriously!”
“Hmph, interesting!”
This time, both sides closed the distance in tandem.
Jerome unleashed a stream of consecutive thrusts, Altina angling her sword to deflect them one by one. Seeing her slender arms effortlessly maneuver the hulking lump of metal as though it were a twig lacked any sense of realism—it was like he was watching a badly-produced play.
Gradually, Altina weaved her own attacks into the fray. Jerome now seemed to be parrying much more frequently.
She’s pushing him back!? Commotion gushed forth from the soldiers.
The atmosphere hadn’t escaped Everard, whose hands now trembled.
“Oooh... To think the princess was this strong... Truly a goddess!”
“Can she win?”
“Nggh!? Hmm... The margrave’s certainly showing restraint in his thrusts. Maybe he’s showing some concern for the princess, but... When she blocks his attacks with her sword, he needs to be able to pull back his strength before the impact to prevent his spear from shattering. In contrast, for him to defend against her attacks, he has no choice but to parry.”
“Because a direct block would break his spear?”
“Correct. He needs to be wary of his weapon on both the offense and defense, so it inevitably looks like the princess controls the pace.”
“But that’s not enough?”
“It is a pity the princess wasn’t born a man.”
“Eh? What does that have to...?”
As he watched, Jerome’s attacks became more and more frequent as Altina resorted to a more defensive stance.
Jerome seemed to have energy to spare. At times he would draw grand arcs with his spear, seemingly for no reason but to flaunt his good health.
In contrast, Altina’s breath was growing shallow. Her shoulders rose and fell.
She lacked stamina.
She may have had the impressive strength needed to swing her colossal sword, but her endurance couldn’t compare to that of the hero, whose build and experience made him a veteran in extended combat. As her movements slackened, she could no longer keep up with the thrusts of the spear.
Its sharp tip grazed the edge of her dress.