Stance of the Twin-headed Eagle.
There was no way to not recognize that Sword Style, unleashed by the Headless Knight atop the Colosseum. And when he realized that this knight had once been a proud member of the very Order of Imperial Knights he himself commanded—
Grand Duke Grandel, Swordmaster of Oswald, felt as if his blood was flowing in reverse.
But more than his fury, what truly shocked Grand Duke Grandel was the existence of that boy—Sien.
To see the ‘Stance of the Twin-headed Eagle’, the pride of the Empire’s First Order of Imperial Knights, broken down as if read from the palm of one’s hand—on a battlefield, even the most seasoned hero, one who had felled countless Imperial knights, could not have done better. It was a skill honed to perfection.
He could hardly believe what he saw.
This was no simple trick or deception. When the final strike landed and the aura that had filled the knight’s body scattered, there was no easy cheer or triumphant shout.
Not even the thought of raising a vulgar cry dared approach.
There was only awe.
For the one who now inspired fear, trembling, and bowed heads among these rulers of the land—the very heir to follow in Laila’s footsteps—stood right there.
‘Just what is that child?’
Grandel Oswald had slain not a few assassins from the Nightwalker Family with his sword. He prided himself on knowing better than anyone the threat posed by those who walk in darkness.
But this child was different.
“Why are you like this, Grand Duke Grandel?”
Just then.
“Your expression doesn’t seem so bright.”
Laila tilted her head and feigned innocence, as if it were someone else’s concern.
“Don’t you think it was a foolish act?”
“What was, exactly?”
“To not bother hiding such an absurdly talented child, but to flaunt him before everyone so openly. Are you prepared to handle the aftermath?”
“Aftermath, you say? Is there any particular storm I need to weather?”
Laila smiled as if she truly couldn’t understand.
“I simply wished to show off my proud son, that’s all.”
There was no way this sly woman didn’t know his feelings. Yet knowing this, she revealed the talent of her heir before all, fanning the flames to spread across the entire continent.
At least one thing was certain.
His third son, Oscar, was no longer the continent’s greatest sword prodigy.
That glory would now belong to the young assassin of the Duchy of Nightwalker.
***
Those powerful enough to receive an invitation from the Nightwalker Family wouldn’t travel all this way just to eat some delicious food and watch a performance. Some had no choice but to come, others arrived for political goals and interests.
A grand ball filled with nothing but vanity and pretense. Of course, none wore masks here. The thick skin on their faces was mask enough.
“Sien, young master.”
Sien, exhausted by the endless flattery and obsequiousness of these thick-skinned courtiers, heard a voice.
Familiar. Yet still tinged with boyishness.
“…Ah, Prince Oscar.”
Oscar Grandel. The sword genius destined to become the next head after the Swordmaster Oswald, to bear the title of Sword Saint.
“I saw you defeat the ‘Headless Knight’ in the Colosseum. Truly astonishing swordsmanship.”
“Your praise is an honor.”
Sien replied with a smile full of polite insincerity.
“But in front of you, the continent’s most famous sword prodigy, I dare not boast of my humble skills.”
“…Do you really think so?”
Oscar’s question came blunt and unfiltered.
“Everyone always called me the continent’s greatest sword prodigy. I believed it myself. That there was no one in this world more talented with the sword than me.”
“Well, you are the son of Grand Duke Grandel, from the continent’s most renowned sword family…”
“Don’t bother playing coy, Sien Nightwalker.”
Oscar’s voice was completely free of the customary social insincerity.
“You’re more talented than I am. Even though you’re two years younger.”
Tap.
“I’ve never met anyone more gifted than myself—until now.”
He peeled off his leather gloves and flung them away, then Oscar drew his sword. Sssring. At the icy sound, all the nobles in the hall turned their gazes to the two of them.
“Let’s duel.”
Oscar declared.
“Show me the world beyond my well.”
“Does the Grand Duke know about this?”
“Father has no idea. He’s probably still with the Imperial nobles. I slipped away while I had the chance.”
Oscar spoke. At that, Sien gave a wry smile.
“Even if it is your wish, young master, I cannot accept without the Duke’s permission…”
“Oh my, is there anything you cannot do?”
At that moment, without the slightest sign, Laila appeared by Sien’s side. Oscar, who had noticed nothing, was startled by her sudden appearance.
“It’s an honor, you know, to be taught swordsmanship by Prince Oscar, the continent’s greatest prodigy. Opportunities like this are rare, aren’t they?”
So saying, Laila smiled.
“Meet Prince Oscar’s expectations with all your strength.”
“Thank you for your favor, Your Grace.”
Before Sien could reply, Oscar spoke up.
“Then, as the Duchess commands, I will gladly teach young master Sien my swordsmanship.”
“Right here, right now.”
At twelve, he reached Sword Expert; at fifteen, Advanced level; at twenty, he would become a Master—the continent’s greatest genius knight.
Sssring.
That very genius now pointed his blade at Sien. At the same time, six golden wings unfurled from his back.
[Mikael Stance] —.
The symbolic Sword Style that would one day earn Oscar the title of Sword Saint.
Just as the Nightwalker Family has nine Sword Styles, the Grandel Ducal House—hailed as the Sacred Empire’s mightiest knightly family—also possessed special Sword Styles.
They could only be learned by the direct bloodline of the family head, and upon reaching a certain realm, these arts would even surpass the very limits of swordsmanship.
It was as if the avatar of the mightiest archangel, Mikael, had descended before their eyes.
“That’s the Grandel Family’s unique Sword Style, Mikael Stance!”
“Oh, truly marvelous…”
The nobles buzzed around Sien and Oscar, the two young geniuses. Oscar, wings of an archangel spread wide, questioned coldly, the tip of his golden aura-infused blade aimed at Sien.
“…Why don’t you draw your sword?”
“Why should I draw my sword?”
Even with a blade pointed right before him, Sien made no move to draw the hilt at his waist.
He only spread his arms wide, completely defenseless.
“No matter how gifted you are, to show such composure before the Mikael Stance…”
“I’m not trying to act composed, actually.”
The surge of power that spiraled up from beneath Sien’s feet came immediately after. And it wasn’t even aura.
“…!”
It was mana.
“At this range, do you truly mean to fight me with magic?”
“Why? Is there some reason I can’t?”
From the start, knights had an overwhelming advantage against mages in close-range duels. For a mage to win at this distance required an extraordinary gap in skill.
“Don’t think I’ll go easy on you.”
“Then what, were you planning to hold back after drawing the Mikael Stance?”
“And knowing that, you still want to fight me with magic instead of a sword?”
“You said you wanted to see the world beyond your well.”
—The one who possessed sword talent great enough to overwhelm the continent’s greatest sword prodigy now declared he would fight not with swordsmanship, but as a mage.
Oscar didn’t even know whether to laugh. He shook with humiliation.
“Then I’ll gladly meet your expectations.”
Sien sneered coldly.
Even the genius eldest son of the Imperial Empire’s greatest magic family, Bar Muore, couldn’t defeat Oscar with magic in a one-on-one duel. Even though the eldest son was several years older.
That was the difference between sword and magic.
“It’s impossible.”
No matter how heaven-blessed one’s talent, mastering both sword and magic was impossible.
“I absolutely cannot lose.”
He never even considered defeat. No—if he lost with the sword, he could at least accept it. It would be motivation, a realization that he’d only ever been a frog in a well, and a reason to push forward.
But to lose with magic was a different story entirely.
To be defeated by magic, not swordsmanship, by someone more talented with the sword—
That was to have his entire life denied.
“No, I can’t possibly lose.”
He had no intention of holding back, nor of giving the opponent a fair chance to respond. He had to win, no matter what it took.
CRASH!
The archangel’s wings on Oscar’s back flashed brilliantly as they flapped.
At the same time, the aura-feathered wings fired a volley of feathers at Sien like arrows.
In response, Sien’s ‘Invisible Hand’ swept around him. Like Asura, the evil god of the Eastern Continent, wielding six swords in six hands.
No, even more than that. For Sien didn’t just have six hands deployed.
Seven hands—and in them, eight sacrificial knives—intercepted the shower of aura feathers.
“That stance is—!”
Clang!
Steel cannot block aura. But mana can both withstand and repel aura.
Aura and mana—two fundamentally incompatible forces that cannot coexist from the outset.
“Good thing the opponent isn’t wearing armor.”
Of course, mana could meet and deflect aura, but not clad one in steel. That’s why he didn’t use this stance against the Headless Knight earlier; sacrificial knives cannot pierce steel.
But Oscar, dressed in plain clothes, was different.
With the sacrificial knives held by Invisible Hand, he could inflict any number of wounds, draw blood as he wished. There was no reliable armor to protect his whole body.
“Kraken Stance.”
The Nightwalker Family’s ninth Sword Style—and strictly speaking, more a stance than swordsmanship—unfolded.
Seven Invisible Hands surged at Oscar. With them, eight sacrificial knives.
Like the giant cephalopod sea monster from the Northern Sea wrapping its tentacles around and slowly sinking a ship—an asphyxiating Sword Style.
True to its name, Sien’s Invisible Hands squeezed and methodically cornered the archangel-winged Oscar.
“He’s not just good at magic…!”
Oscar wrapped his wings around himself for defense, sending down a rain of aura feathers. But all those attacks were blocked, every single one.
By Sien’s Invisible Hand.
To control sacrificial magic so precisely at that age—it was unbelievable.
At that level, he could be called the continent’s greatest magic prodigy.
And he was harmonizing that mastery of magic with swordsmanship.
Aura and mana, sword and magic—forces fundamentally incompatible—yet Sien wielded them in perfect harmony.
What imbued the Invisible Hand and sacrificial knives wasn’t talent as a mage alone. It was the very swordsmanship genius Sien had already shown, now channeled through those blades.
Assassin’s sword and sacrificial magic intertwined, giving the sensation of battling not one but multiple invisible assassins at once.
Even wrapping himself in archangel’s wings left gaps for attack, and any attempt at a counterattack was instantly thwarted. Oscar couldn’t even close the distance.
—It was as if an insurmountable wall stood before him.
The sword talent that had made him the continent’s greatest prodigy—now overwhelmed by another’s. And beyond that, the magical ability Sien displayed was at a level even the famed Bar Muore family could not match.
His breath came shorter and shorter. The suffocating sense of being slowly strangled by tentacles enveloped him.
His lips were parched.
The Grandel Family’s pride, the Mikael Stance, the six golden wings wrapping his body, clinging to desperate defense—that was all he could do.
Overwhelmed by sword, overwhelmed by magic—and even toyed with by both simultaneously.
“What have all my efforts meant until now?”
It felt as if the ground beneath his feet was collapsing.
He was born a knight.
He never dared imagine anything but the sword. He gave up everything he wanted, liked, wished to learn—devoted his whole life to the sword.
But now, even with that swordsmanship, he couldn’t win. And this boy could use magic, too.
At two years younger, to reach the level of Sword Expert and possess the continent’s highest-level magic talent as well—
“This can’t be.”
He felt as if his whole life was being denied.
He couldn’t lose like this. He couldn’t let his entire life be denied so easily.
He had to win, no matter what.
So, wrapped in archangel’s wings, Oscar gritted his teeth.
He bit down, then finally muttered through clenched teeth.
“Stance of Sir Lucifer.”
A demonic name that should never pass the lips of the one destined to be called ‘Sword Saint’—the name of the archangel Mikael’s polar opposite, the Fallen Angel.