Virgin Knight Who Is the Frontier Lord in the Gender Switched World - Chapter 142

This Charlotte Le Temeraire is by no means a weakling. Rather, she is a distinct powerhouse. She’s always been aware of that. She managed to cling to Reckenber, to mar armor, to clash swords scores of times.

Even after Reckenber’s death, she continued her efforts, doubting even his demise.

This fact alone sustains me.

“After everything ends, shall we duel once more? Not on a battlefield, nor a duel with stakes. Just a match to prove who is stronger.”

We had made that promise. A promise with Reckenber, though she is now but a fleeting memory.

“After defeating that nomadic equestrian nation you speak of, Temeraire. Though we may no longer be young, our skill as knights will be at its peak. It will be a good match.”

I intended to do so upon defeating that nation, now calling itself “Mongol.” Thus, I have continued to strive.

That’s why I can stand against the monster before me.

Just that, and nothing more.

Wielding a rapier of similar length, I continuously engage in swordplay. My weapon, a monstrous blade crafted with immense gold and labor through precise magical engraving, withstands the mass and speed of the greatsword wielded by Lord Polydoro.

Yes, my weapon is not poor. Nor is my skill inferior.

Thus, the swordplay is barely sustainable.

“Why did Reckenber lose?”

Everyone ponders this difficult question.

I am close to uncovering the answer.

I had my suspicions.

Today, with Lord Polydoro appearing before me, accepting Reckenber’s death, I am forced to listen to the epic tales of the knights of Virendorf, which will likely be remembered in history.

The conclusion everyone understands is simple: it was a lack of endurance, the persistence in a duel.

Lord Reckenber was old, hence she could not beat the youthful Lord Polydoro, the knights of Virendorf claim. If it were “Reckenber in her prime,” even Polydoro would not have stood a chance—an unpleasant justification.

Fools! What right do you have to assert such selfishness?

Could Reckenber possibly lack persistence, the refinement of training?

You have never fought alongside Reckenber on the battlefield five times; you cannot understand!

Only I, only I understand.

There is nothing “lacking” in Reckenber.

If there truly must be a reason for her defeat…

It’s not that Reckenber lacked anything; rather, something made Polydoro the greatest hero.

“I do not intend to insult Lord Reckenber even slightly by saying she lost because she underestimated me, or because my opponent made a mistake, allowing me to win.”

That was the answer Lord Polydoro gave me before the fortress.

What was Polydoro fulfilled with?

Perhaps it is an unpleasant truth that the knights of Virendorf have concluded.

Whether the interpretations differ, the content remains the same.

“Ah!”

The number of sword clashes has surpassed a hundred.

Our blades meet, and we push with strength, recognizing and understanding each other as equals.

If this continues, Temeraire will lose, Polydoro will win.

Lord Alexandra, the referee, and Lord Yue, the guest general, must understand this as they are both formidable superhumans.

Panting, gasping, swallowing saliva, I shouted.

“Why don’t you tire?!”

He does not fatigue.

Instead, occasionally, there’s an odd breathing sound. Breath of life, perhaps?

A special breathing technique used by a samurai, a member of my mad boar knights. After striking, he takes a deep breath, regulating his breathing.

With a chilling sound, his large lungs breathe in and out. Just that, a monotonous play of human anatomy. My ears, Temeraire’s ears, recognize this.

Lord Polydoro quietly responded.

“I do not know.”

Though he replies, it is a cold answer.

“Ever since childhood, while my mother was training me as a knight. One day, after several hours of training, she noticed something about me. I thought I was merely unable to keep up with the inexhaustible stamina of a child.”

Lord Polydoro’s mother, despised as the Mad Marianne in Anhalt but celebrated in Virendorf for sacrificing all her honor for her son.

The beanstalks of Anhalt could never understand, not even that Marianne is hailed as a true knight.

“But apparently, it’s different. My beloved son Faust was born with a special breathing technique and a body to accommodate it. No matter how hard he tries, he possesses more stamina than necessary.”

That’s what my mother told me.

Ah, so it is.

I accepted this strange realization alongside my anger.

Then, even Reckenber cannot win.

No matter how much we fight, slashing armor and spilling drops of blood.

During combat, the flesh that swelled from wounds seals them, and a single breath restores his stamina.

Even the fractures added by an excommunicated member of my mad boar knights heal in a short time.

Who can defeat such a monster?

“Reckenber, I am about to taste the same hell as you.”

She recognized the hardship she had embraced.

Rejuvenation.

Time and again, Faust rejuvenates.

He revives.

Merely by the act of breathing, by drawing air into his lungs and expelling it all with a simple gesture.

Faust comes back to life.

An ordinary person would be driven mad by the pain, unable to endure it.

Yet, with just that, he can swing his sword with full force.

Just like me.

Yes, just like me, Temeraire, learning from my duel with Reckenber.

Desperately collecting all the information presented before me, honing my skills to the zenith of martial prowess.

What the opponent intended to do, the measure of distance, the force applied to the weapon, the full extent of the opponent’s capabilities, the next maneuver.

Bit by bit, strike by strike, I learn.

It’s ludicrous.

Can such a preposterous being truly exist?

How long can one really move with all their might, no matter how much they train?

Three minutes is impressive for a soldier.

Five minutes is commendable for a knight.

Ten minutes is superhuman.

Beyond fifteen minutes, one might be considered a uniquely gifted superhuman.

More than thirty minutes, it was thought only Reckenber could achieve such a feat.

But he exists.

Indeed, he exists.

Before me stands the monster known as Faust von Polydoro.

By merely repeating his breathing, he can move indefinitely, until he collapses from hunger or dies of starvation.

How many times did I give up?

How many times did Reckenber give up?

I, Temeraire, knew the conclusion of the duel between Faust and Reckenber.

I knew why Reckenber was defeated.

Hundreds of clashes.

Endless close-quarters sword fights where both exhausted their strength, under the watchful eyes of all.

Friend and foe alike.

Everyone, mouths agape, witnessing the marvel before them.

No one knew who would win, but it seemed likely that Reckenber might.

Reckenber had more strikes, Faust bled more, and in a war of attrition, Faust would lose.

That was the consensus.

I’ve heard this heroic tale from bards, over and over again.

I concealed my turmoil from my subordinates, listening again and again without anyone understanding.

And I went mad.

I died foolishly, succumbing to vanity.

Caught in the vile trap set by the first princess of Anhalt, I faced hundreds of heavily armored cavalry alone and died.

Perhaps secretly alive, trying to deceive me.

I chose to deceive myself.

Finally, confronting the desperate Faust von Polydoro, I regained my sanity.

The reason you died, the reason Reckenber died.

It has become clear.

“Did you come from Valhalla?”

The warriors of Valhalla.

They eat the meat of Saehrimnir, which revives each day, savor the milk of the goat Heidrun turned into mead, and kill each other again the next morning.

Wounds heal instantly, they never die, and they can enjoy endless battles.

Such beings.

If Claudia von Reckenber was a demon’s child.

Then Faust von Polydoro must have been born with the blessings of Valhalla.

I had no choice but to accept this.

“Did Reckenber give up along the way?”

I heard Reckenber was beheaded.

Laughing, I heard.

Her death face always squinting, with a smile.

Not a single disgraceful gesture, no gesture of hatred towards the enemy before her.

I heard she wore a face that fully realized death.

Her head was wrapped in flowers and delivered to Queen Katarina of Virendorf.

I know the outcome.

At the same time, I thought that outcome was a lie.

I didn’t want to believe it.

I didn’t want to think that you had died.

But.

I understand, it’s all true.

“How many times did you give up in front of a rejuvenating Faust?”

I think of Reckenber, with whom I crossed blades hundreds of times.

I always think about it.

To overcome the rut Reckenber stepped into, there’s only one move.

In our duel, before Lord Polydoro could fully grasp all my techniques.

I had one technique in mind that I intended to use against Reckenber.

“Take this!”

Assuming the stance of the earthworm.

Lowering my rapier, placing my hand on the blade, I power it to even slice the stone pavement beneath.

An upward gauntlet slash.

Taking the weapon held in one hand by Lord Polydoro, gaining the upper hand in a one-sided victory.

“Die, plague!”

It was perfect.

The gauntlet slash landed perfectly, and Lord Polydoro dropped his greatsword.

I could see the path to victory.

I, Temeraire, would defeat the opponent even Reckenber couldn’t.

For a moment.

For just a moment, I was filled with a sense of accomplishment.

“That pattern, I’ve learned it through training with my mother Marianne.”

The merciless words rained down on my head.

Lord Polydoro kicked the dropped greatsword over his head with an iron boot.

I barely reacted in time to dodge, but the next strike…

“Killing blow!”

Lord Polydoro caught the sword kicked overhead with both hands, not by the hilt but by the blade.

With an iron fist covered in armor, he forcefully gripped the blade of the greatsword.

It was a knight’s sword technique occasionally seen in melee, not using the blade but the sturdy handle of the sword, carrying centrifugal force to crush the opponent’s armor.

In modern times, when halberds and Lutzenhammers are popular, such a technique is rarely seen.

Lord Polydoro had mastered this technique.

He kicked the dropped sword up to his head, grasped the tip, and swung the handle down at his opponent.

Lord Polydoro had mastered this as a technique through insane training.

“Whirlwind”

Ah, it is a technique of the samurai from my mad boar knights.

She was finally granted this secret technique, born from insane training, by her main family due to her mad achievements.

Lord Polydoro was attempting to execute it.

Everything was becoming futile.

I thought I was strong.

At least, I thought I was second only to Reckenber.

But even that fleeting hope seemed unlikely to be fulfilled.

Perhaps, in this world, I am not even third.

Still.

Even so.

I will not give up.

“Do it.”

Understanding that I could not withstand that strike, I uttered my final words.