Chapter 254: Death is Not Permitted

The clash of swords erupted with a deafening roar, as if an explosion had gone off.

No, it was not just the sound—it truly was an explosion.

The sword wielded by Baumann was a Zweihänder inscribed with magical engravings.

It was one of the treasured magic swords of Lord Reckenber, lent to her personally.

A blade named Karakurenai, symbolizing its deep crimson essence.

In the wider world, it was known as the Seven Marks.

The name came from the legend that it had severed a human torso into seven pieces with a single swing.

Every opponent Baumann faced with this sword fell, blooming like crimson flowers.

Baumann had always believed—no, she was certain—that one day, with this magic sword in hand, she would kneel at Lord Reckenber’s feet and earn the title of knight.

The Landsknechte around her believed it too.

The act of being entrusted with such a sword by Lord Reckenber seemed to carry that implicit meaning.

But now, that same magic sword—

“—Ah…”

Had been shattered.

A small, choked cry escaped from Baumann, her voice trembling with despair.

In response, Faust offered only a single phrase, conveying what he had learned from Baumann’s sword.

“—I’ve learned it.”

The sword wielded by Lord Faust was a greatsword also engraved with magical runes.

It was a grotesque weapon, almost ridiculous in design, resembling something meant for a parade rather than a battlefield.

Yet, it was undoubtedly a magic sword, as long as the Zweihänder, and just as imposing.

In the world, it had no name.

Neither Faust nor the people of the Polydoro territory called it anything other than the Greatsword.

This wasn’t because it was unloved or mistrusted as a weapon.

It was simply because no one knew its true name.

Centuries ago, it had been taken from a knight of Virendorf by the first lord of Polydoro and his people at the cost of their lives.

Thus, its name had been lost to time.

Yet, one defining feature remained, passed down through generations—a singular, unwavering trait.

It was Unbreakable.

No enchantments enhanced its sharpness.

No spells prevented it from being soiled by human blood or fat.

It bore no magic to ease the wielder’s burden or meld to their grip.

Its sole purpose, imbued with a desperate obsession, was to ensure it would never break.

It was as if the blade were cursed.

A curse akin to a mother’s desperate prayer—like the one Marianne, Faust’s mother, had placed upon her son.

It was a massive, unwieldy blade, a hunk of iron masquerading as a weapon, fit only for the hands of someone with Faust’s inhuman strength and resolve.

Indeed, no other lord of Polydoro had ever been able to wield it.

Strictly speaking, the only exception was the first lord, who had used it to slay the Virendorf knight.

“Lord Reckenber’s swordsmanship—I have learned it well,” Faust muttered, his words almost a whisper of consolation.

Baumann heard him, but his words held no meaning for her.

Her sword had been broken.

The magic sword she had borrowed from Lord Reckenber.

To Baumann, this was more painful than having her own body torn apart.

This defeat was not a result of her lacking skill.

Nor was it because Faust’s skill was superior.

The strength of their arms had been perfectly matched—so evenly balanced that the shattering of one sword was inevitable.

The outcome could be summed up in a single word:

The difference lay in their weapons.

Even so, Faust could not bring himself to voice such a consolation.

“—”

Baumann stared intently at the broken Zweihänder in her hands.

Although shattered, only half of the blade had been destroyed.

It could still serve as a one-handed sword.

She could charge forward and attack her opponent with what remained.

But to what end?

Defeat was certain.

No—defeat no longer mattered to her.

“—I’ve lost.”

She simply acknowledged her loss.

In the end, she had accomplished nothing.

Baumann reached a conclusion within herself.

She would never become a knight under Lord Reckenber.

She had failed to fulfill the Landsknechte’s desire to kill Faust.

Even her lingering attachments had been obliterated.

The sword named Karakurenai—

To Baumann, it had been the final memento of Lord Reckenber.

She had intended to return it one day.

In her vision, Reckenber would tap her shoulder with that very blade, bestowing her knighthood.

But now, even that dream had been taken from her.

“It’s over. Nothing matters anymore.”

Everything had been taken from her.

By this man, Lord Faust von Polydoro.

If that was the case, she thought, she might as well offer him her life.

He could rip out her heart, crush it under his iron boot.

“Kill me, Lord Polydoro. End it. I’m tired. Tired of everything.”

“—”

But Faust did not move.

He had never taken a life for pleasure.

Not that he disliked killing.

If that were the case, the scattered bodies of the Landsknechte around them would not exist.

But this situation was different from when he had refused to execute Martina, sparing her from the judgment of her mother Caroline.

This time, it was simply that Faust did not want to kill Baumann.

“Is this really the end for you?”

Could she not continue living?

The Landsknechte had been slain because there was no other option.

For them, there was no future—only a faint hope for Valhalla.

So he had killed them.

He had done it for them.

And to avenge the insult to his mother, Marianne.

But Baumann—she had not insulted him.

She had declared war on him, yes, but she had never meant to dishonor his mother, Marianne.

That, she already knew.

In fact, she even felt gratitude.

It was gratitude for receiving the final technique she had not yet learned from Lord Reckenber.

“Do you not still have something left to do?”

It seemed to Baumann that there was still something she needed to accomplish.

If asked what exactly, she would struggle to give an answer.

“What would that be? There’s nothing left. Nothing of Lord Reckenber’s legacy remains—not the sword, not my pride.”

The question was directed at her.

And Faust hesitated.

Although he had spoken, he did not have a clear idea in mind.

It was simply a vague feeling.

He cast his gaze upward.

To the imperial box in the coliseum, where the Emperor sat alongside Queen Katarina of Virendorf.

And next to them, his own liege and fiancée, Valiere.

But none of these figures were the right ones to persuade Baumann.

The most suitable person—

“Baumann!”

A voice rang out.

Through the carnage and among the scattered bodies, a lone figure approached the battlefield.

A sharp-eyed young girl, walking with purpose.

Nina.

“…Who is that?”

Baumann asked.

“Nina von Reckenber,” Faust replied curtly, speaking only her name.

Nina ascended the stairs to the arena, moving deliberately, and from Baumann’s perspective, she was drawing closer.

She made no attempt to hide behind Faust.

Her presence was bold and unflinching.

“I see. So this is an attempt to persuade me, is it? Even a serf like me can see through such a ploy.”

Baumann smirked faintly, as though she had seen right through Faust’s intentions.

“I don’t need it.”

Baumann pointed the broken blade of her Zweihänder—now only usable as a one-handed sword—toward herself.

“If you won’t kill me, then I’ll end it myself.”

“Stop!”

The shout did not come from Faust.

It was Nina.

The one who should inherit the name of Reckenber.

And so, Faust fell silent.

“…Don’t come closer.”

Nina was now just ten steps away.

Baumann, desperate to prevent her suicide from being interrupted, redirected the tip of her blade toward Nina.

“At a time like this…”

Nina muttered softly.

Her tone resembled that of Reckenber.

Her aura, too, carried traces of Reckenber.

But as a warrior, she had yet to reach that same level.

Time was still required for that.

As this thought flickered through Baumann’s mind—

“At a time like this, what would Claudia von Reckenber do? What would my mother have done? I know the answer.”

She continued to approach.

Nina, undeterred, closed the distance further.

She brought the pointed edge of the sword toward her own neck.

Startled, Baumann reflexively tried to pull the blade away.

“Stop it, Baumann!”

Nina grabbed the sword Baumann attempted to retract.

With her bare hand.

Even though it was broken, it was still a magic sword.

The sharp blade bit into Nina’s fingers, drawing blood.

If Baumann pulled back, Nina’s fingers would be severed entirely.

The sword could not be withdrawn.

Baumann could not bring herself to do it.

“…Nina—no, let me call you Lady Nina. Baumann is exhausted.”

Her tone softened.

It was as if Nina’s presence had embraced her.

“So please, let me die.”

Like a stray cat, abandoned at birth, finally feeling the warmth of a blanket for the first time.

Baumann uttered her plea with tears in her voice.

“Denied. The duel is over. The decision of life and death rests with Lord Polydoro, and you are not permitted to die. Furthermore—”

Nina released her hold on the blade.

Her bloodied fingers and palm, now marked by deep cuts, moved to gently stroke Baumann’s cheek.

“I, Nina, the only daughter of Reckenber and my mother’s sole legacy, do not wish it either. If you harbor even the slightest shred of loyalty as a knight to my mother, Claudia, then from this point onward—”

Baumann’s heart was already dead.

She believed everything had come to an end.

But before her stood Nina, her tone, presence, and still-maturing form so reminiscent of Reckenber.

The sole daughter of the woman to whom she had once sworn loyalty.

“Would you not consider serving me? Of course, as a knight of the Reckenber family. I know well that I am far from reaching the heights of my mother, Claudia. Everyone knows that. But still—”

A legacy.

Her sword had been lost.

The heirloom lent to her by Lord Reckenber was gone.

Yet standing before her was the living legacy of the Reckenber line—its sole heir.

And this girl, Nina, boldly declared—

“I may yet surpass my mother. I’ll even convince the Landsknechte. Hear my voice! Marvel at it, laugh at it! I know my voice is strikingly similar to my mother’s!”

That confident tone, so characteristic of their mercenary commander.

That voice, that aura of Claudia von Reckenber.

Baumann could no longer tell what to do.

All she could do was stand there in a daze.