Chapter 76
Aaron Gold II, King of Isother.
During his father’s reign, the kingdom had been shaken to its core by the Great War.
But through a wisdom—and something beyond it—that only he possessed, Aaron Gold II had raised Isother to the very top of the united kingdoms.
‘What is His Majesty thinking…?’
Chancellor Duatris, kneeling before the audience chamber, quietly observed the king.
The monarch’s expression, usually so cold it seemed emotionless, held an unusual glimmer in his eyes.
The king who had never once shown warmth even toward his own children… now looked interested.
And the subject of that interest?
A mere disgraced nobleman from some rural borderland—an earl’s wastrel son.
Duatris had seen such cases countless times before—worthless scions who swore they would turn over a new leaf, only to return to their debauchery within days or weeks.
But this one…
‘This one is different.’
A year ago, the man had been nothing but a drunkard and a brute—one of those who beat people bloody for sport.
And yet, in only a year, he had achieved a dazzling transformation—enough to earn himself a place in the upcoming Grand Tournament of the Seven Kingdoms.
[Grand Tournament of Isother — List of Participants]
- …
- Ian Impera (Sword Rank 5)
When Duatris first saw that name, he could hardly believe it.
Sword Rank 5 wasn’t some meaningless title—it was a level high enough for one to qualify for the Crimson Guard, the royal elite knights.
To reach that rank in a single year… and then compete in the Grand Tournament?
“Hmph…”
Unbelievable, yet it had to be believed.
Submitting a falsified name on the tournament list was an offense punishable by execution.
No one would risk their life for a lie.
King Aaron Gold scanned the names once more before speaking.
The Grand Tournament, after all, was no simple contest—it was a festival held in rotation by the Seven Kingdoms, and entry required the explicit approval of each monarch.
“Grant the authorization.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How fascinating,” came a soft, melodic voice from beside the throne. “Wouldn’t you agree, Father?”
It was Princess Iglen, smiling brightly as she, too, studied the list in her hands.
“…”
Next to her stood Prince Gallen, his lips pressed tightly together.
Not by choice, but by decree—his father had placed upon him the Vow of Silence.
The rule was simple: for one month, within the audience chamber, he was forbidden to speak.
It had been the chancellor’s pleading that had spared him from harsher punishment; otherwise, his recent house arrest might have continued indefinitely.
“What do you think, brother?”
“…”
“Oh my! I forgot you’re not allowed to speak. How careless of me~.”
“…”
Gallen’s face flushed red with anger, but he couldn’t reply.
All he could do was glare at his teasing sister.
Aaron Gold paid no attention to their petty squabble.
If anything, he favored Iglen more than Gallen.
Though only seventeen, she possessed both wit and charisma—qualities that, were she born a prince, would have made her a perfect successor.
Everyone knew it: Aaron Gold, Duatris, Iglen herself… even Gallen.
‘That damned wench…!’
“Fufu.”
Gallen vowed that once he became king, he’d find a way to strip her of everything she had.
But for now, all he could do was swallow his rage.
“This year’s Grand Tournament,” Aaron Gold declared, “Iglen, you will attend.”
“Yes, Father.”
The tournament would be hosted by the Kingdom of Weselan this year.
To attend was to represent the royal house of Isother itself—a great honor.
And for Gallen, being passed over in favor of his younger sister was a blatant insult.
“…”
He could only exhale sharply through his nose, glaring daggers at Iglen, who merely smiled triumphantly.
When Aaron Gold’s gaze drifted toward him, Gallen immediately lowered his eyes.
Even a prince could not afford to show temper before the king.
“Then that will be all.”
Iglen curtsied gracefully and left the chamber, savoring the sweet taste of victory.
“Haa…”
It had been a while since she’d managed to fluster her brother so completely.
Still, Iglen knew how things would play out.
Eventually, her father would step down, and the throne would pass to Gallen.
As a princess, her path would be marriage—to a noble of influence or a foreign prince.
It was the way of things.
Fortunately, she had inherited her mother’s beauty, and already, marriage proposals flooded in from all sides.
But she had turned them all down. It wasn’t the right time… and more truthfully, none of them had caught her interest.
“Hmm…”
Among the noble houses of Isother, perhaps the heir of the Marquis of Adronay would be a suitable match.
He was ten years her senior, but such age gaps were common among royalty.
Yet, for some reason, her mind drifted back to one particular name from the tournament list.
Ian Impera.
The Grand Tournament was a monumental event—one that had taken place every year since the Great War.
This year, it was Weselan’s turn to host.
“Quite the noise outside,” Ian remarked.
“Well, of course!” replied Priana, puffing her chest with pride. “It’s one of the few times all seven kingdoms gather together.”
“Wasn’t it held in Isother last year?”
“Yes, my lord! That was the year I won!”
She grinned, her bright smile full of confidence.
Though it was easy to forget since she was always by his side, Priana was one of only fifteen champions in tournament history.
And not even thirty yet—her potential was unquestionable.
‘Which is why she’ll become a Knight Commander one day.’
Not yet—but Ian knew it would happen.
Rank 7 was considered the peak for most knights, short of the legendary Rank 8 that only a few monsters like Oberon had reached.
“Priana.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“What do you think my chances are this year?”
“Hmm…”
She hesitated, clearly weighing her words carefully.
Ian recalled their previous duels.
Their first serious match had ended with his defeat—his newly forged core hadn’t yet stabilized, but even so, Priana’s strength was undeniable.
She’d remained stuck at Rank 5 for years, but always on the verge of breaking through to Rank 6.
A single spark, and she could ascend at any moment.
To beat her now, after only a short while training his new core, would be arrogance.
‘Still, yesterday… it felt like I could hold my own.’
Just yesterday, they had crossed blades again for a final spar before the tournament.
The result?
A draw.
They fought until both of their auras were completely drained, their training swords shattering from the strain.
The poor blacksmith, Harun’s apprentice, had nearly cried seeing the wreckage.
Not that his craftsmanship was poor—it was just that no ordinary training sword could withstand such intensity.
“May I speak frankly, my lord?”
“Of course. I didn’t ask for flattery.”
“Ha! I thought as much.”
Her smile faded, replaced by calm confidence.
“If the tournament fields only Rank 5 participants, I can say with certainty—you will not lose.”
“Not lose, hm?”
“Yes. After yesterday, I’m sure of it. Your… mysterious swordsmanship, combined with Rank 5 aura control—it’s unbeatable among equals.”
She didn’t mean mysterious as an insult.
Ian’s sword style wasn’t one inherited from some ancient knightly family—it was his own, forged through countless real battles against monsters and men alike.
It was unpredictable, raw, and lethal.
“Good. That’s all I wanted to hear.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
If luck favored him, he might reach the upper brackets of the tournament.
Whether any Rank 6 contestants would appear remained unknown.
Even Islin had failed to gather accurate information—after all, nobles from across nations would be competing.
“Wow…”
Isbart leaned halfway out the carriage window, his long black hair blowing in the sea breeze.
Unlike when traveling by horse-drawn carriage, he showed no signs of motion sickness.
“First time seeing the sea?” Ian asked.
“Yes, my lord!”
“Then take a good look while you can.”
“Heheh! Thank you!”
The wind kept brushing Isbart’s hair against Ian’s cheek, but he didn’t have the heart to scold the boy for enjoying himself.
“Priana, sit over here.”
“Is something wrong, my lord?”
“No. Just felt like riding backwards for once.”
She blinked, then nodded and switched seats.
Before long, she was glaring playfully at Isbart, who remained too mesmerized by the waves to notice.
After a long journey, they finally arrived in Weselan—the maritime kingdom south of Isother.
Weselan’s capital lay on the mainland, surrounded by countless islands connected by long bridges, allowing easy passage even by carriage.
The tournament site was on the largest of these islands, once known by another name but now called—
“The Holy Land of Knights.”
During the Great War, more knights had perished there than anywhere else.
Afterward, Weselan renamed it to honor their sacrifice.
‘So many died here…’
There was even an old saying: “If you were a ranked knight of Weselan, you died in that war.”
Their entire knight order had been nearly wiped out.
Looking at a map, the tragedy seemed odd—Weselan was far from the old Kazan Empire’s territory.
But Weselan, being a sea-faring nation, had suffered a surprise naval invasion.
Kazan’s forces landed troops on their rear islands, forcing Weselan’s knights into a desperate counterattack.
In the end, their capital fell regardless—their deaths, though heroic, were in vain.
‘And now they call it a holy land to hide the shame.’
Ian sighed. No title could bring the dead back.
“Lord, we’ve arrived.”
Stepping out of the carriage, Ian inhaled deeply—the sharp scent of saltwater filled his lungs.
Overhead, blue-winged gulls cried and wheeled in the sky.
The waves crashed against white sands, the scene almost peaceful—like a seaside resort rather than a battlefield of the past.
The tournament grounds lay inland, near the great lighthouse that marked the island’s center.
A city had grown around it over the years—once a military outpost, now open to civilians.
Peace had softened people’s memories.
“Waaah!”
Cheers echoed from afar—street performers entertaining the gathering crowds before the tournament’s opening day.
While only ranked knights could compete, anyone could watch.
For commoners who spent their days tilling fields, watching nobles duel was a rare spectacle.
And since the island lay just off the capital, access was easy.
Ian took a deep breath, feeling the weight of anticipation settle in.
The Grand Tournament had begun.
