COTBC 27

Chapter 27

“Since it’s a duel, I should probably warm up a bit, don’t you think?”

Bessimer dismounted and rotated his shoulders to loosen up.

The men riding with him wore different attire from the regular soldiers.

Instead of gambesons, they donned leather breastplates and fur cloaks.

It was obvious they were from the same tribe.

Each of their horses had ropes tied to their bridles, and the ropes were attached to the hind legs of a massive boar.

It was far larger than a typical boar—bigger than a couple of horses put together.

Its tusks were unusually long, sharp, and jutted out in multiple directions.

This wasn’t a normal wild animal—it was a beast.

A monster.

There was only one visible fatal wound on the boar.

A deeply embedded axe lodged into its forehead.

Perhaps to brag about his hunting skills, the axe had been left there, unremoved.

“Wasn’t it cold last night?”

Bessimer asked with a sly grin.

His expression made it clear he already knew what had happened.

“I slept well, thanks to your concern.”

Isaac answered calmly.

But behind him, Schiller and Hans were glaring daggers at Bessimer.

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

“Hope you slept well too. I’d rather not hear any whining after you lose.”

“Haha!”

Bessimer laughed heartily, and the other tribesmen laughed with him.

All of them had white powder smeared on their faces, with blood-painted metaphysical symbols.

It appeared to be a ritual before an important battle.

In other words, it was a warning—not to expect mercy just because Isaac was a boy.

“You’re quite considerate, young master. The village women kept me warm last night. They liked how hot I was.”

“So, you even got a prophecy from that hack fortune teller, I assume.”

At Isaac’s words, the smile vanished from Bessimer’s face.

“Did he say the Wolf King had returned?”

“That’s none of your concern, little lord. You won’t be stepping foot in Binfelt again anyway.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Hmph, maybe you are still a Goethe, even if you’re a brat. Your eyes are just like brother’s. Good. I’ve been wanting to see fear in those eyes at least once.”

Squelch—

Bessimer yanked the axe from the boar’s forehead.

Dark blood and brain matter flowed down, staining the earth.

“Hear me! I, Bessimer, warrior of the brave Baitur tribe, do hereby enter this duel with the honor of a warrior on the line! I demand all present bear witness to this combat!”

Bessimer raised the dripping axe above his head and bellowed.

His presence was so overwhelming, it was intimidating just to listen.

Meanwhile, the one who had issued the duel, Isaac, was yawning with half-lidded eyes.

“L-Lord Carlson.”

“Hmm?”

Hans, watching the situation unfold among the soldiers, called out to Carlson.

“You’re going to save him, right?”

“Save who?”

Carlson replied indifferently.

“Who else? The young master!”

Hans’s face was etched with terror.

He could already see the carnage that was about to unfold.

Bessimer was nearly twice Isaac’s size.

They weren’t even comparable in terms of physique.

He had taken down that monstrous boar with a single axe blow.

With that kind of brute strength, Isaac wouldn’t be able to block even one strike—he’d be split in half with a broken sword.

“Don’t you trust your master?”

“This isn’t about trust! It’s a fight between a giant and a child!”

“You’ve failed as a retainer.”

“Excuse me?”

“Stop fussing and just watch.”

With that, Carlson glanced at Schiller.

The old steward was already gathering mana into both hands.

He was prepared to cast a spell at any moment.

Carlson chuckled faintly.

While everyone else was anxious, Isaac’s expression remained utterly bored.

“Young master, you got nothing to say?”

Though the duel hadn’t even begun, Bessimer already bore the face of a victor.

“Not really.”

“I’m curious how long that composure will last. Let’s decide on the terms. What’ll it be? Sword? Axe? Flail? Mace? Club? Hook? Name it. I’ve got them all. Heh.”

The men in leather armor around Bessimer pulled various weapons from under their cloaks and tossed them to the ground.

All of them were rusted and caked in dried blood.

They didn’t look very reliable as weapons, but they definitely helped set a menacing tone.

“Pick whatever weapon you want. I’m ready. But more importantly, I’d like to set the victory condition.”

Isaac didn’t even glance at the weapons on the ground and just tapped the scabbard at his waist.

“Condition?”

“Like, do I win if the opponent dies? Or if they admit defeat? That sort of thing.”

“Worried about dying now?”

“Of course I am. If you die, I lose a perfectly good horse.”

Bessimer’s smug expression cracked at Isaac’s words.

“Are you saying I’m just a game piece…?”

“Let’s go with the Baitur tribe’s way of choosing a chief.”

“…?”

“In a contest to determine the owner of this camp, there’s no better method. You don’t want to kill me, and I don’t want to kill you either.”

Bessimer fell silent for a moment, dumbfounded, then let out a laugh.

“Young master’s thinking like that? Not bad. You came prepared.”

“Told you—I came to reclaim my land. That means I’ve gotta be serious.”

“Well, I’d love to chew out that oversized liver of yours, but I agree. It’s the best way.”

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a duel.”

Isaac nodded.

“But don’t relax just because your life’s not at stake. I might lose control and split you in two along with your weapon.”

“You be careful too. I’m not great with my swordplay—I don’t know how to hold back.”

“Haha! What a crazy bastard.”

Bessimer laughed loudly, but the look he gave Isaac was icy cold.

Clear killing intent.

“If you know the Baitur traditions, that makes this easier. You know how this works?”

“Of course.”

Isaac drew his sword from the scabbard and lightly cut his palm.

Bessimer did the same with his axe blade.

With bloodied hands, the giant and the boy clasped hands.

To shake hands with Isaac, Bessimer had to crouch almost to a squat.

Isaac’s wrist was barely as thick as Bessimer’s thumb.

With this ritual, the duel had officially begun.

As soon as their hands met, Bessimer bared his teeth in a grin.

He planned to instill fear in this arrogant brat who didn’t know the ways of the world.

He had grip strength strong enough to crush stones.

Crushing a kid’s hand should’ve been nothing.

But no matter how much force Bessimer used, Isaac didn’t so much as flinch.

He wasn’t faking composure through pain.

It felt like gripping steel.

Veins bulged across Bessimer’s bald head, but he couldn’t overpower Isaac’s hand.

“Are you gonna keep holding on all day? I’d like to wrap this up and get to lunch.”

As soldiers gathered to witness the duel, chuckles leaked from those standing closer.

When Bessimer glared their way, the laughter stopped, but his face was already flushed red.

“You’re not getting out of this unscathed, brat.”

Bessimer turned on his heel and walked away a few steps.

Isaac also turned and took a few steps back.

Once enough distance had opened between them, they pointed their weapons at each other.

There were no intimidating shouts or battle cries.

Whoosh—

Only an ominous wind swept through the space where Bessimer charged.

The giant, now within striking distance of Isaac, pulled his axe arm back with full force.

In that instant, the watching soldiers sensed it.

Something was wrong.

Bessimer was truly aiming to split Isaac in half.

No one had ever blocked Bessimer’s serious axe strike.

Even with a sturdy steel shield, at best you might deflect the first blow, but the sheer power would always crush the shield—and break the bearer’s shoulder or worse.

Even a trained soldier with a steel shield might withstand the first blow, but the second always meant a critical injury.

So what chance did a little boy holding just a sword have?

In every soldier’s mind flashed the worst possible outcome.

The young lord being torn to pieces—and the enraged Count retaliating by slaughtering every soldier in the camp with his knights…

This had to be stopped.

But they couldn’t even speak up, let alone act.

It was already too late—the massive man, all muscle bent like a drawn bow, had thrown his entire weight into the axe swing.

The soldiers screamed in silence.

Clang—!

The sound was deafening.

Hans clenched his eyes shut.

A ringing filled his ears, and his knees buckled with fear.

He couldn’t bear to open his eyes to the horrifying sight.

“Open your eyes, Hans.”

Carlson’s voice pierced through the ringing in his ears.

As the sound faded, murmurs from the soldiers reached him.

And they weren’t the murmurs of tragedy—they were laced with excitement.

“H-He blocked it. He really blocked it!”

“Dear God, what kind of magic was that?”

“Isn’t the Goethe family a line of mages?”

Hans slowly opened his eyes, doubting what he was hearing.

“Must’ve gotten lucky.”

Bessimer growled like a beast.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Isaac stood up using his sword for support.

He’d apparently rolled from the impact—his clothes were covered in dirt and mud.

Without concern, he dusted himself off.

“W-We have to stop this! If that kid dies, the Count will kill us too!”

“Go ahead and try. Anyone who dares interrupt this sacred duel will get chopped to pieces by this axe!”

Bessimer roared, pointing his axe at the crowd menacingly.

“Haa…”

Schiller let out a shallow breath.

It wasn’t Bessimer swinging an axe at the new lord that had left him breathless.

It was Isaac—who stood there, boldly receiving it.

“What… what the hell is going on?”

“Just figuring it out now?”

“But how is the young master using magic…?”

No one else may have noticed, but Schiller could not be fooled.

Isaac wasn’t blocking Bessimer’s attacks with skillful swordsmanship or physical prowess.

It was magic.

“Who would’ve guessed? I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw it either.”

“Does he have a chance?”

“I don’t know. But I do know this—ever since the duel began by Baitur custom, everything has been going exactly according to the young master’s plan.”

To the warrior tribe Baitur, the chieftain is the pinnacle of strength.

But since killing fellow tribesmen is forbidden, they determine leadership by stripping a warrior of their honor.

A warrior’s honor lies in their weapon—what they hold as dear as life itself.

To lose that weapon is to lose honor, and thus they’re no longer a warrior, either exiled or relegated to labor.

In short, the duel ends when one disarms the other.

“Watch carefully and see what kind of person your master really is.”

Carlson spoke to Hans, whose body still trembled slightly.

Clang—

Clang—

It wasn’t just metal striking metal—it sounded like invisible forces colliding and breaking apart.

Something unreal was happening.

Though Bessimer’s overwhelming blows sent Isaac tumbling, rolling, and falling—

He still blocked them.

Barely, but he did.

He used techniques to absorb impact or twisted the sword to deflect the blows rather than taking them head-on.

The soldiers’ jaws began to drop.

Anyone could see Bessimer was swinging his axe with all his might.

And yet, a frail boy who looked like he’d snap if tapped was defending himself without question.

Clang—

Clang—

By now, Isaac’s clothes were soiled, and his once-neat hair was disheveled.

Despite the cold weather, sweat from tension and adrenaline streamed down his forehead.

But his eyes were the same as ever.

Even in a life-or-death situation, he wasn’t focused on Bessimer—but something far beyond.

Some distant place.

To Bessimer, who had always commanded fear and respect in Binfelt’s army, the boy’s indifferent gaze was unforgivable.

It made him furious—and so he failed to notice.

The dulling in his hands.

The chill creeping up his arms.

Clang—

Clang—

Every blow sent Isaac flying, only for him to rise again and resume his stance.

He was holding out bravely, but to anyone watching, victory still seemed out of reach for Isaac.

However, on the eighth strike—

Bessimer felt a sudden unease.

A warrior’s honed instinct gave him pause.

And he knew better than to ignore it.

Whenever he had, it ended in danger.

And unfortunately, he was right again.

Though Isaac’s stance looked defensive, he had been preparing to counterattack.

Claaang—!

The descending axe met the rising sword.

By all logic, a rising blade shouldn’t be able to overpower a descending one—unless it was backed by incredible strength.

In other words—

It should’ve been impossible.

“It should’ve been…”

A piercing shriek rang out, and Bessimer froze in place.

His head jerked up reflexively.

His axe was flying through the air.

His grasping hand caught nothing.

That falling axe—was his.

Thud.

Bessimer’s axe landed in the mud.