Chapter 15
Aemon pulled out the battle robe he’d worn in his youth.
The once-crimson cloth was now dusty and faded to a pale pink by years of sun and wind.
He inspected the old artifacts that went with it and decided, on a whim, to try them on.
The result was… disastrous.
“…Hup!”
The belt that had once hung loosely around his waist now threatened to burst.
The magic orb that used to fit perfectly in his hand looked absurdly small.
Back then, this outfit had made him look dashing.
Now he looked nothing short of ridiculous.
“…I’ll have to get this altered.”
And he’d have to find time for combat practice as well—within a single month.
That barely seemed possible.
“…….”
Folding the battle robe carefully, the count sank into thought.
The cause of his worry was none other than his scoundrel of a son.
“If it’s a trial by combat, it’s no problem. I’ll fight myself—or find a proxy. Either way, leave it to me.”
“Haa…”
Remembering his son’s explosive declaration, Aemon let out a deep sigh.
He had always known the boy was reckless.
A drunkard who picked fights everywhere he went—yet still Aemon’s precious child.
But a trial by combat?
That was why a man who had spent decades at a desk was now making the hard decision to fight.
Even if it meant dying, he would protect his son.
And yet the boy insisted he’d handle it himself, even saying he’d already secured a proxy.
A proxy.
That would be ideal—after all, if the duel were lost, it was the proxy who might die, not the son.
The problem was money.
The Impera estate had been stripped bare by Count Venner; all they had left was a trickle of taxes from their few remaining tenants.
Hiring a skilled proxy with that? Impossible.
“Nonsense.”
Still, a tiny hope whispered maybe…
Had his son perhaps raised his rank?
Aemon shook his head.
For seventeen years the boy had done nothing but carouse.
Could he really have reformed overnight—or simply gone mad?
Aemon knew which was more likely.
“Perhaps I should summon a talented priest….”
A man entered a lavishly furnished room—oddly decorated for a noble’s residence.
Where most nobles would hang family portraits, the walls here held only enchanted artifacts, each unrelated to the next.
To a first-time visitor the décor would seem bizarre.
But to Count Venner, these artifacts were trophies—spoils taken back from the Impera family over the years.
In the center sat Count Venner himself, mouse-like whiskers twitching as he sipped hot tea and mused.
“The trial by combat is proceeding without a hitch,” reported a man bowing before him.
“Excellent.” Venner smiled in satisfaction.
Just hearing good news from his rival’s domain was enough to fill his belly better than any meal.
Across from him stood a plain-looking gardener—or so he seemed.
In truth, the man managed Venner’s network of spies scattered across neighboring territories.
A dangerous game among nobles, but so long as no one discovered it, it was as if it never happened.
Venner had long relied on this man to carry out every scheme flawlessly.
“You understand how many resources we’ve sunk into this plan?”
“Of course, my lord.”
A faint headache pricked Venner as he recalled the bribes paid to the kingdom’s judges.
Filthy pigs, the lot of them—never enough coin to satisfy.
Still, once the duel was done, it would all pay off.
Count Impera was sure to lose, leaving his lands ripe for the taking.
“What of that knight I mentioned?”
“He’s ready. A graduate of Zenith Knight Academy, just as you requested.
I’ve also conveyed your order—to slice off Impera’s left hand.
By now, a formal summons to prepare for the duel should have reached them.”
“Splendid!”
Everything was falling into place, all thanks to that wastrel son of the Impera family, who had squandered nearly all of their wealth gambling and drinking.
Venner had even heard the boy had recently collapsed drunk in the street.
Once Aemon Impera was ruined, all that remained was for his foolish heir to destroy himself.
“At last,” Venner murmured.
Decades of bitter rivalry between their houses were about to reach their end.
A month passed.
Name: Ian Impera
Rank: Magic 2 / Sword 3
“Ha… this is taking forever.”
Despite relentless effort, Ian had raised only his sword rank to 3.
This was the first great wall: the enormous barrier between Rank 3 and Rank 4.
No matter how he swung his blade, it felt as though an invisible wall blocked his way.
In Valhalla’s game-like system, leveling had been easier.
But this wasn’t about enlightenment.
There were three usual methods to break through:
-
Force an increase in mana with rare elixirs—impossible for a penniless count’s heir.
-
Cross swords with others to naturally absorb mana—also impossible without a master.
-
Hunt monsters—eventually talentless bodies gained rank through real combat.
But Venner’s spies were everywhere.
Ian had to keep up the guise of a feckless drunk until the trial day so Venner wouldn’t suspect a thing and would confidently rely on a Rank-5 proxy.
‘Good thing I secured Krod,’ Ian thought.
Krod, a Rank-5 warrior, would crush any opponent.
Venner would never see it coming.
“Wait… hmm…”
A clever plan flashed through Ian’s mind—one that might raise his rank safely while delivering Venner a stinging surprise.
“Heh…”
But that could wait.
For now, it was time to head to the designated site: the Valdig Dungeon.
The duel was set for the clearing before Valdig Dungeon—land that, just a year ago, had belonged to the Impera family.
Choosing that place was no accident.
Venner expected Aemon to fight, and this was a psychological blow: a duel on stolen ground.
But Aemon wouldn’t be the one fighting.
Instead, a completely unexpected proxy.
As the appointed hour approached, Aemon emerged.
If not for the circumstances, Ian might have laughed.
His father wore the hastily altered robe awkwardly, but his face was full of steely resolve.
Who could mock a father charging into danger for his son?
“My son.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You’ve worked hard. I know you tried, and it pains me that the results are meager.”
“Well…”
“It’s fine. I was once the proud head of the great Impera house. This trial by combat— I’ll handle it with ease.”
“……”
Ian’s chest tightened at his father’s calm façade.
Compassion welled in him, almost bringing tears to his eyes.
He considered revealing the truth about Krod but decided against it.
Krod had once served in the Eternal Knights; if Aemon learned this too soon, it might complicate matters.
There would be time to explain later.
“When will they arrive?”
“The carriage was sent ahead. Soon, my lord.”
“Heh! Lambs to the slaughter!”
Count Venner bared his teeth in a cruel grin.
At last the Impera family would be crushed, and their lands devoured.
Beside him stood a young knight with short hair and refined features, clad in light armor and wielding a slender blade.
This was his expensive proxy— a man named Priana.
One glance convinced Venner of victory.
At first he’d been doubtful.
A Rank-5 swordsman, yet armed with only a thin blade and light breastplate?
But when Priana demonstrated his skill, Venner understood.
A single stroke—whoosh!—and the straw dummy in the practice yard split cleanly in two.
Even Venner, himself a capable Rank-4 swordsman, hadn’t been able to follow the strike with his eyes.
Such was the unbridgeable gap between Rank 4 and Rank 5.
In a fair duel, Rank 4 could never defeat Rank 5.
Knowing this truth was one thing; witnessing it was another.
Goosebumps rose on Venner’s arms.
‘It’s over. The cursed Imperas are finished!’
While Venner smirked, Priana’s thoughts wandered.
…Sigh…
A graduate of the elite Zenith Knight Academy, he could have joined the royal knights at once.
If not for “that person’s” command, he’d never have come to such a backwater.
He wondered at his master’s intentions but quickly dismissed the thought.
A servant obeyed. Doubt was not permitted.
This trial in a remote place would draw only mediocre fighters—Rank 4 at best.
The idea of losing to such opponents was unthinkable.
He only wanted to finish the job and return home.
Just endure it for today.
When the sun reached its zenith, the Impera party arrived as promised:
Count Aemon, sturdily built; his son Ian; and a single attendant.
No proxy? Priana noted with mild surprise.
He studied them briefly.
Aemon was clearly no warrior.
Ian, contrary to rumor, at least carried himself like someone who knew a sword—but nowhere near Priana’s level.
The quick assessment done, Priana waited as the kingdom’s magistrate stepped forward to declare the trial by combat officially begun.
