Chapter 21
Really… why did it turn out like this?
Arnulf stretched one foot forward, slightly bent his knee, and lowered Collismard as he pondered.
He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he had somehow gotten dragged into something. Sometimes, when facing Sigmund, he felt exactly this way.
Even though he was sure he had made decisions in the direction he wanted, he couldn’t help feeling as if things had gone exactly as Sigmund intended.
Of course, it was probably natural—Sigmund was far smarter than him, and Arnulf, a knight who preferred action over thought, was no match. Yet, even now, it felt the same.
He had promised himself not to clash with Sigmund, yet here he was, about to spar with him.
The reason was clear.
It was because of the look and expression in Sigmund’s eyes when they met his gaze.
Arnulf had always been weak to Sigmund.
That was all…
“Your stance is good.”
The voice interrupted his thoughts. Sigmund was looking at Arnulf with the tip of his sword pointing toward the ground, his posture completely relaxed.
But Arnulf didn’t take his eyes off the blade. He knew that, at any moment, Sigmund could launch a threatening attack.
The sword Sigmund held wasn’t his usual flamberge, but a combat-specialized Katsbalger. Considering Sigmund’s monstrous strength, which allowed him to wield a two-handed flamberge like a hummingbird slicing through air, this lighter Katsbalger made him even swifter and more threatening.
“Thank you.”
Arnulf gave a short nod of acknowledgment.
“Shall we begin?”
With a stomp, Sigmund closed the distance, the edge of the Katsbalger pressing down upon him.
Arnulf firmly planted his left foot and smoothly deflected Sigmund’s sword, trying at the same time to strike Sigmund’s shoulder with his opposite elbow. Sigmund leaned his upper body backward, evading the attack, and targeted Arnulf’s underarm.
Arnulf pressed his sword strongly into Sigmund’s underarm and thrust his blade toward him.
“Impressive… technique indeed.”
Sigmund, narrowly evading the sword, gave a faint smile. A vein was visible on his neck, making Arnulf frown.
“Apologies.”
Arnulf couldn’t help thinking he still hadn’t fully adapted to Joseph’s body. Normally, he would have adjusted the spacing to avoid injury, but he had unintentionally inflicted a wound.
“It’s fine. For someone like you, this much is…”
“Huh?”
Was that natural? Arnulf had the sense he had heard something along those lines before, and he looked bewildered, about to ask what was said.
“No, let’s continue.”
But before he could speak, Sigmund closed in so swiftly that the question vanished.
They clashed with no margin for error.
Just when Arnulf thought he could strike left, Sigmund targeted the open right side. Blocking an attack aimed at the thigh, the blade would suddenly press against his waist.
But as time went on, Arnulf started to lose ground. Joseph’s body couldn’t keep up with the physical strain.
He barely managed to parry Sigmund’s sword, biting his lower lip. He had been working on building his strength, but it seemed it still wasn’t enough.
“That’s not a custom-made sword from the weapon shop, is it?”
Sigmund’s gaze briefly shifted from his own sword to Collismard, which had no markings on the ricasso near the hilt.
“Yes… well, I’m saving it for later.”
Arnulf replied casually, readjusting his stance. He could see his arm trembling slightly while holding the sword. If he continued, he might even drop it.
‘Maybe I should just end this.’
Sigmund seemed to understand, nodding.
“Indeed, it’s a fine sword for mere practice.”
The nuance of the remark felt slightly odd. Arnulf flinched, glancing at Sigmund. Yet, there was no change in his expression.
‘Am I imagining it?’
It seemed Sigmund had noticed that Arnulf wasn’t using that sword out of concern for him.
Arnulf was about to suggest ending the spar.
“You know Arni?”
Sigmund asked as he brought his sword down. Despite the ferocity of the attack, his tone was almost dry.
Arnulf, unable to deflect and forced to meet the strike head-on, couldn’t take the question lightly.
“Ugh.”
He felt a sharp pain rise in his inner wrist, but there was no time to dwell on it.
“Tell me. How do you know him?”
Arnulf clenched his lips, meeting those purple eyes. He immediately realized where Sigmund must have heard it—from the old man at the weapon shop. Arnulf had only mentioned the name Arni then, expecting it would be forgotten.
But now, Sigmund was asking about that very name.
“By chance… he once helped me.”
“You, to him?”
Sigmund tilted his head slightly, a subtle pressure to tell the truth. Arnulf remained silent but nodded.
“Hm… I see.”
Fortunately, Sigmund seemed to accept it without further suspicion. Arnulf quickly changed the subject.
“I’ve been curious too.”
“Hm?”
“Why has your way of speaking changed?”
He didn’t know why this question came to mind now. He wanted to steer the conversation elsewhere, and the most obvious change he noticed in Sigmund was his speech.
The question seemed to surprise Sigmund, whose violet eyes widened further. Yet soon, the corners of his eyes softened, holding Arnulf’s gaze.
“I cannot treat you carelessly.”
The answer was completely unexpected.
“What…?”
Arnulf couldn’t ask what it meant, because Sigmund suddenly grabbed his arm.
“Ah…!”
A low groan escaped Arnulf from the sudden pressure on his sore wrist. Sigmund’s brows furrowed slightly.
“You’re weak.”
Not like him… Arnulf thought he had heard those words faintly, but perhaps he had misheard. His focus was too drawn to the arm Sigmund held.
Sigmund inspected his wrist with a serious look, which, oddly, made Arnulf feel uncomfortable.
“Stay still.”
He instructed, examining the wrist. Arnulf couldn’t meet his gaze for long, feeling as though Sigmund could see straight through him.
Soon, Finn returned with a steaming towel. Sigmund took it without hesitation and applied it to Arnulf’s sore wrist.
“It’s better to apply it before it swells. Be careful today, and don’t overexert yourself for a while.”
The calm voice carried genuine concern. Arnulf wasn’t used to this.
‘Why is he acting like this?’
The Sigmund Arnulf knew wouldn’t treat Joseph’s body with such care. It wasn’t just about Joseph’s death; their past interactions had always been like that.
Yet here Sigmund was, holding his arm and applying a compress—it felt strange.
“That’s enough. Now, let go.”
Arnulf, holding the towel, said this, and Sigmund complied for once.
Arnulf looked briefly at his reddened wrist, then raised his head—and flinched again.
Those eyes. Calm, yet searching, as if trying to see through him.
He recalled the question about Arni.
‘No way… he can’t know I’m inside Joseph.’
Still, he had the strange feeling that Sigmund might see right through him. He looked away.
“How was today’s sparring?”
Sigmund asked, as if to prevent him from escaping the topic.
“Eh?”
“If it was fine, perhaps we could continue sparring like this in the future.”
The way Sigmund looked at him, the tone of his voice…
For some reason, it reminded Arnulf of the first time they met. It was the day winter ended and spring had just arrived.
The wind was warm, yet it was too early for flowers to bloom. Arnulf, following the orders of his mother, Queen Louise, entered the Royal Academy. He was fifteen then, a rather late transfer, as the Academy usually accepted children around ten.
The nominal reason was to broaden his horizons and cultivate connections with other noble youths, but in reality, his elder brother Albrecht resented him, and Queen Louise worried about Arnulf outshining Albrecht.
Arnulf, as usual, passed the large iron gates with a neutral expression. At that moment, a small, thin boy stood before him.
“Prince Arnulf?”
Fragile frame, pale skin, violet eyes, and a gentle smile—none other than Sigmund.
