SV 10

Chapter: 10

Lionel prepared himself for death.

After receiving information that Duke Bizenstein was deploying additional troops even during winter to gain more military merit, Lionel’s faction also withdrew forces to respond.

While the main soldiers and knight order were sent to the front lines, the weakened defenses were breached, and the attackers succeeded in a night raid.

It had not yet been confirmed that Duke Bizenstein was behind it, but this was clearly a mistake made by Lionel and his strategists.

And the price for a mistake had to be paid with one’s life. Lionel felt regret, but not resentment.

However, just before the final battle began, something like a miracle occurred.

“Gah! Ah—wait…!”

The attacker begged for mercy, but the blade that flew in without hesitation cut through his neck. That made three already.

The first could be explained as carelessness. The second could be blamed on reckless rage driven by revenge.

But the third had been cautious—and yet his head was taken in an instant.

“That nun… was she originally a swordsman?”

Müller, a royal guard knight who had been watching, muttered to himself. He had been present when Isabel was brought from the Chardonnay Convent.

He had thought her calm demeanor, even after being ordered to die, was unusual—but he had never imagined she possessed this level of skill.

As Isabel’s presence dominated the audience chamber, two attackers now moved forward with their swords.

‘They’re trying to finish it…!’

They had paused their assault on the prince out of curiosity after seeing a nun wield a sword, but with three men dead, it was time to end it.

Müller wanted to rush in and help immediately, but most of the attackers were still watching this side closely. His duty was to protect the prince above all else.

The royal guards watched Isabel with burning frustration and tense eyes.

‘There’s no way she can win…’

Yet Isabel showed no sign of shrinking back, even against two opponents.

Just like before, she crossed her arms, holding the sword hilt close to her chest in a Schlüssel stance, the blade tip aimed at her enemies.

Müller could tell—she was conserving her strength instinctively, ready to attack at any moment.

The silent standoff lasted only briefly. After exchanging glances, the two attackers charged at Isabel at the same time.

There was no meaning to swordsmanship exchange. It was a violent rush filled with killing intent.

Clang! Clang!

Isabel retreated quickly while swinging her sword. The sound of steel echoed through the audience chamber.

After their first attack failed, the two attackers spread out to either side and pressed in more persistently.

It was a tactic meant to make defense difficult, but as if piercing through that moment, Isabel lunged toward the attacker on the right.

“Ghk!”

An unfamiliar attack flashed out of nowhere, slicing through the man’s wrist. He dropped his sword and staggered—then his neck was pierced before he could escape.

Seeing one fall instantly, the attacker on the left swung his blade at Isabel’s side. It was an easy attack to predict, and Isabel twisted her sword to knock it away—but then a kick flew at her.

Thud!

Isabel was knocked down and rolled across the floor. The attacker pursued without hesitation, trying to crush her down and kill her.

But as Isabel rolled, her body moved in a strange way. She spun, redirected the force, twisted her waist, and swung her sword low.

The attacker’s ankle was severed as he stepped forward.

As he screamed and collapsed sideways, the blade flew straight into his head, silencing him forever.

‘That’s even possible?’

Female swordsmen were rare. Female swordsmen who used a langschwert as their main weapon were even rarer. And a female swordsman missing her little finger practically did not exist.

Yet Isabel shattered Müller’s common sense by taking down five men with a single langschwert.

It was an unbelievable, miraculous achievement.

‘But…’

There were still many enemies, and Isabel had begun to breathe heavily. Though she tried not to show it, exhaustion was clearly setting in.

The moment her body could no longer follow her will, this miracle would end.

‘While the miracle is still alive, we move.’

Biting his lip, Müller made his decision and spoke quietly to Captain of the Royal Guard, Kraus.

“Captain, we strike now.”

“Now?”

“The nun has taken down five. Can’t you see it? The knights are burning to charge out. This is the moment.”

“Then how do we protect His Highness?”

At that moment, Lionel, who had been standing beside them, spoke.

“Let’s do it.”

“Your Highness?”

“I agree with Sir Müller.”

Lionel raised his sword calmly.

“How can I stand by while making a bird with broken wings fight fate alone?”

Neither Kraus nor Müller understood what he meant. But both clearly remembered the moment the prince had shoved a sword into the nun’s hands and shouted at her to die.

To die with a sword in hand—that was something they themselves had wished for as well.

“Go.”

At those words, Lionel and the royal guards surged toward the attackers.

The attackers, never expecting the prince’s side to strike first, hurriedly raised their weapons to meet them.

Pilkruk, the leader of the attackers, felt the overwhelming advantage suddenly tilt.

‘Damn it. What is this?’

The nun at the doorway was still standing there, sword aimed forward. She was only one person, yet it felt as if their escape route had been blocked.

Her skill was clearly not something to ignore. Pilkruk decided to simplify the situation.

“Don’t let the knights group up! Kill the prince first! And Füscher, Sloterbek, Rüwelling—go secure the exit!”

That meant a single nun had effectively tied down eight men. But there was no choice. Killing her cleanly and executing the prince without variables was the best option.

The assault unit moved quickly. Three turned back toward the nun, while the rest grouped up in threes and fours to face the knights as trained.

A fierce battle erupted immediately.

“Müller! Fall back! Protect His Highness!”
“Surround them and kill them!”
“Over there! One’s flanking!”
“Push harder!”

Shouts bordering on screams and the clash of steel filled the audience chamber.

Amid it all, Isabel quietly focused only on her enemies.

The three men facing her raised their swords. They were from the same mercenary group and used identical blades.

The man in the center, Sloterbek, spoke.

“Nun. The men you just killed were our sworn brothers.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you pray for them as you killed them?”

“…I didn’t.”

“Asking for prayer is foolish anyway. Still… I won’t pray for you either.”

With that, the three men slowly spread out to both sides. They were tighter and more disciplined than the previous two.

The moment Isabel set her stance, the attack began.

Facing attacks that seemed to come from all directions, Isabel stepped back.

She retreated four steps, slightly off the rhythm of the attacks, swung her sword twice—and two men dropped their swords, clutching their wrists.

“What in the world—?!”

Rüwelling, whose wrist had been cut, stared in shock at the mysterious sword technique that had come from an unimaginable angle.

As he shouted, Isabel replied,

“You… your swordsmanship is the same.”

“What?”

“You trained in the same group. That’s unfortunate.”

Isabel had already broken down most of the techniques she’d seen from their comrades.

Before the men could process that such a thing was possible in such a short time, Isabel thrust her sword like an arrow and pierced Rüwelling’s neck.

The other man, Füscher, who had dropped his sword, pulled out a dagger to resist—but his arms and legs were cut, and he fell, rolling on the floor.

Seeing it all, Sloterbek hurriedly raised his sword. Fear—almost terror—had taken hold of him.

“Just who do you belong to…?”

“Who knows. I’m trying to find that out myself…”

After letting out a sigh, Isabel swung her sword.

After only two exchanges, Sloterbek was stabbed in the shoulder and forced back.

Isabel never allowed their swords to remain locked. She avoided unfavorable positions and struck a beat faster whenever she had the advantage.

Sloterbek tried desperately to close in once more—but his wrist and shoulder were cut, his sword fell, and then his neck was severed.

Watching the situation at the doorway, Pilkruk wondered if he was dreaming.

‘What in the world is happening?’

The night raid had been a success. Only minimal forces remained in Ot Kirchen Castle, and Pilkruk’s unit had pushed Lionel into a corner while burning the place down.

Lionel and the royal guards were known for their skill, but no one could survive being crushed by a force more than five times their size.

Victory had been right in front of them—until a single nun appeared from behind.

Eight men had already died to that nun alone. Worse, the sense of having their retreat cut off shattered morale completely.

Meanwhile, the prince’s side fought like madmen, their momentum soaring.

Seeing the battlefield, Pilkruk finally realized that the balance of this fight was being held by the nun at the rear.

To turn things around, he had to kill her—no matter what.

But now they lacked manpower. In that short time, the royal guards had taken down over ten men.

“Full retreat—!”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Before he could react to the low, cutting voice, Pilkruk’s leg was slashed deeply, and he collapsed.

“Aaaargh!”

“Stay right there. I’ll take my time cooking you properly.”