Chapter 08
Here is the complete chapter translated into an immersive, novelistic fantasy style.
The journalist rolled his eyes, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “Are you sure about this? Will it really be alright?” “I suppose it has to be, right?”
Though they both knew they were playing with fire, the sheer allure of a sensational scoop proved far too intoxicating to resist. In the end, their greed won. The journalists made up their minds to run the controversial piece in their regular advice column.
On the day the inquiry was finally printed, a wave of frenzied excitement rippled through everyone who had ever held a blade.
“This is an absolute, blatant sniper-shot at him!” one man exclaimed, slapping the paper. “Oh, come now. There are three Swordmasters in the world. It might not necessarily be him.” “But it was published in the Imperial Gazette! Besides, look at this. The premise specifically states a ‘common, ordinary woman.’” “Then it’s a hopeless match. You could throw an entire battalion of thoroughly trained knights at a Swordmaster, and they still wouldn’t stand a chance.” “Well, obviously she wouldn’t win if they fought conventionally!”
But what if it wasn’t a contest of raw martial might? One man leaned in, carefully proposing an alternative.
“Couldn’t she use poison?”
At that, another patron who had been silently scanning the newspaper from the sidelines chimed in, practically exploding with impassioned opinions.
“I’ve heard that once you attain the rank of Swordmaster, your body becomes naturally resistant to toxins. And besides, getting him to ingest it is a logistical nightmare in itself. Look closely here—it says she is ordinary. That implies her appearance and everything else about her is utterly unremarkable. How on earth is someone so thoroughly average supposed to get close enough to a Swordmaster to poison him?” “What if she’s a beauty who merely thinks she’s ordinary?” “A honey trap, you mean? No, that feels too far-fetched. Maybe the Swordmaster just has a soft spot for the mundane.” “I suppose that’s possible.”
Everywhere, people gathered in small clusters, locked in dead-serious debates. A barrage of schemes—ranging from hidden throwing weapons and lethal venoms to overwhelming numbers—flooded the conversation. Before long, several readers penned their own theories and mailed them back to the publishing house.
And once again, utterly powerless against the temptation of a soaring circulation, the journalist printed every single one of those scandalous suggestions directly into the next issue.
Kite never bothered with newspapers or magazines, nor did he ever lend an ear to the idle gossip of high society. To him, reading the predictable drivel the masses chose to chatter about was nothing but a colossal waste of time. Because of this, it fell upon Seren, his vice-commander, to gather, filter, and brief him on any pertinent information.
“Which is precisely why I keep telling you to hire a personal aide,” Seren grumbled. “The problem with those scholars is that they’ve only ever faced books. They are far too faint-hearted.”
It wasn’t that the scholars were fragile; it was simply that Kite was an anomaly of harshness. Seren, however, chose not to point this out. Having remained by Kite’s side since childhood, he understood the roots of the man’s nature better than anyone.
The chronic, agonizing insomnia that clung to him like a shadow, the deep-seated inability to trust another living soul—all of it had been carved into him by ghosts. Specifically, by Cali, the late emperor’s father and Kite’s older brother, and Saraen, Kite’s own mother.
Seren drifted into the memory for a brief moment, only to look up when he felt a heavy gaze anchoring him back to the present. Kite was watching him with profound, unreadable eyes, as if he knew exactly where the vice-commander’s thoughts had wandered. Realizing his lapse, Seren quickly cleared his throat and spoke again.
“An peculiar question was featured in the newspaper’s advice column recently.” “A peculiar question?” “‘How can an ordinary woman defeat a Swordmaster?’”
As Seren recited the exact phrasing he had committed to memory, Kite crossed his legs, letting out a sharp, scoffing laugh.
“Ha?” “In my estimation, it was a deliberate provocation aimed at you, my Lord. After all, the other two Swordmasters do not hail from the Empire.” “Fine, let us assume that is the case. But why phrasing like this? An ordinary woman?”
Why on earth would a normal woman pick a fight with a Swordmaster? Furthermore, what even constituted the metric for ‘ordinary’?
Kite had certainly amassed his fair share of resentful women over the years, making it impossible to narrow down a specific culprit. The word ‘ordinary’ could be applied to far too vast a swath of the population.
Could it be the same person who has been stealthily tailing me lately? Kite pondered. A persistent, unpleasant sensation of being watched had been gnawing at him for days. Seren seemed oblivious to that particular detail, but the vice-commander had clearly found the newspaper anomaly suspicious enough to conduct his own discreet investigation.
“Because of the implications, I attempted to trace the correspondence sent to the newspaper office,” Seren reported. “However, discovering the actual sender proved impossible. While the post definitely originated within the Empire, it was dispatched from the outermost fringes without a return name. I will require more time to unearth their identity.”
If it was Seren, given enough time, he would undoubtedly track the sender down. Kite wasn’t worried about that aspect. What piqued his curiosity more was the public’s response to the prompt.
“So, what was the selected answer?” “…They are highly unsavory methods. It would be best if you did not subject yourself to them.” “Bring me the paper.”
He was long past the point of being wounded by the words of commoners, yet Seren’s protective streak remained excessively fuss-prone.
After a brief, reluctant hesitation, the vice-commander retrieved the relevant edition and handed it over.
True to Seren’s warning, the printed responses were thoroughly uncouth. They listed visceral, bloodcurdling tactics that treated Kite less like a human being and more like a high-tier raid boss.
How utterly ridiculous, Kite thought.
Even if someone were to execute these strategies flawlessly, they wouldn’t stand a chance of bringing him down. Plenty of assassins had attempted similar schemes over the years, and not a single soul had ever lived to boast of success.
Kite leaned back into his chair, uncrossing and recrossing his legs with a relaxed, indifferent air. His interest in the newspaper had already evaporated. Sensing the shift, Seren smoothly pivoted the conversation to a different matter—the upcoming monster subjugation schedule for the order of knights.
Ibelin sat at her kitchen table, staring intently down at the latest copy of the Kass Gazette. There, glaring back at her in neat print, was the very question she had anonymously submitted, followed by a detailed breakdown of the public’s proposed solutions.
“Well, this is getting a bit out of hand,” she muttered, clicking her tongue as she read through the gruesome entries. Grand Duke Gracia was undeniably human, yet the methods these people came up with were terribly barbaric.
Still, looking over the chaotic ideas sparked a genuine stroke of inspiration.
Folding the newspaper neatly, Ibelin made her way down into the basement. The subterranean room was packed with an array of specialized gear, including crates of ammunition. It seemed her grandfather had heavily favored firearms in his youth—which finally explained why he had always been so remarkably clumsy whenever he tried to wield a sword.
The ammunition boxes were meticulously organized, each clearly labeled with its specific enchantment:
[ SLEEP ]
[ STUN ]
[ EXPLOSIVE ]
[ POISON ]
[ FROST ]
While there were standard rounds mixed in, the vast majority were highly specialized cartridges. Every single one had undergone meticulous magical conditioning, humming with latent, mystical energy. To her delight, they were all of the same caliber—a perfect match for the custom firearm in her possession.
“Things like this must be astronomically expensive…”
Even though she had grown up in the secluded countryside, Ibelin wasn’t entirely ignorant of the economy. Guns were scarce, temperamental luxury items, and their ammunition was doubly so. To take a pre-existing bullet and successfully bind an active spellmatrix to it?
Merchants could demand a king’s ransom for a single round.
“And yet, he has an entire stockpile of them.”
As it turned out, her grandfather had been quietly, unfathomably wealthy. If the greedy relatives who had seized their countryside estate ever discovered the true extent of this hidden arsenal, their eyes would probably roll back in envy.
At the same time, a familiar question bubbled to the surface of her mind: What on earth did Grandfather actually do for a living? It was a riddle she had pondered countless times since stepping foot inside this grand townhouse. As usual, no concrete answer presented itself.
Silently, Ibelin began loading the fresh, enchanted cartridges into her weapon. The Emperor’s birthday gala was fast approaching, meaning her window of opportunity was rapidly closing. It was time to initiate her plan in earnest. All her preparations were complete; now, she just had to secure her benefactor.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered into the quiet basement. A sharp pang of guilt pricked at her heart, knowing that the very act meant to save him required ambushing him first.
From that moment on, Ibelin moved like a ghost, executing her plan in strict accordance with her rigorous reconnaissance. Now, she waited. Perched silently atop the tiled roof of a building overlooking a narrow alleyway, she watched the minutes tick away until, at last, her target walked into view.
Kite was walking entirely alone, traversing the exact path she had anticipated. It seemed he, too, had caught wind of the newspaper column. Even if the Grand Duke himself remained indifferent, his hyper-vigilant vice-commander, Seren, would have undoubtedly tried to track the source of the letter. But tracing it would have been a near-impossible feat; Ibelin had taken painstaking measures to camouflage her tracks before sending it.
And whenever my benefactor finds himself hitting a brick wall regarding information, he always defaults to visiting his trusted information brokers.
It was a rather tragic habit for the poor broker in question, who practically had a panic attack at the mere mention of Kite’s name. Fortunately, since Kite rotated through different information networks, their paths didn’t cross too frequently. Whether that brought the poor broker any comfort was a different story entirely.
Holding her breath, Ibelin waited until Kite stepped directly into her line of sight, then squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
She fired the first shot under the explicit assumption that he would easily evade or deflect it. Sure enough, Kite’s reflexes were instantaneous. With a blur of terrifying speed, his sword cleared its scabbard, deflecting the bullet into the cobblestones with a sharp metallic ring.
But Ibelin didn’t stop. She unleashed a relentless volley—a second shot, a third, staggering her timing to disrupt his rhythm.
Will this actually work?
A Swordmaster’s defensive capabilities were legendary, largely because they could seamlessly coat their entire body in a dense, impenetrable shroud of excess aura. Yet, to her quiet
astonishment, the bullets cut through the air, tracking true toward their target.
