CHAPTER 55……………………………….
. The True Knight
“You son of a bitch!”
Chaaeng!
One of the men who had been knocked down pulled a dagger from his coat.
It was short, but the blade gleamed cold and blue.
“Die, you bastard!”
The man, having completely lost his reason, lunged at Ronan without hesitation.
Ronan sidestepped the stabbing motion, seized the man’s arm, and twisted.
Crack.
The sharp sound of bone breaking echoed crisply.
“Gyaaaah!”
The man screamed like a child and collapsed to the ground.
Ronan snatched the dagger from his hand and brought it smoothly to the man’s trembling neck.
The man instantly stopped screaming — even his breathing halted.
“Pulling this out means…”
Ronan looked down at him with indifferent eyes.
“…you don’t care if you die, right?”
“Mmm! Nngh! Mmmph!”
The man shook his head wildly, unable to speak.
Ronan ignored him and was about to slit his throat when—
“Enough!”
One of the gathered lords shouted.
Ronan’s dagger froze midair, and everyone turned toward the voice.
Clank.
The armored soldiers standing nearby all snapped to attention at once.
Judging by their discipline, that square-jawed man must be the Lord of the Stutban family.
“I am Hartmund Stutban!”
“The Sword of the North!”
“Oh great, now this is getting interesting…”
The onlookers murmured — a mix of awe toward Hartmund and disappointment that the fight might end.
“In a gathering meant for the unity of the North — what is the meaning of this disgraceful scene?!”
“Our apologies, Lord Hartmund. One of our men acted rashly. Please forgive us.”
Günther quickly stepped forward and bowed.
His words were apologetic, but his face was anything but.
Roger, realizing he had been beaten to the punch, also bowed hurriedly.
“These are spirited warriors gathered together, it seems they got a bit too excited. We beg your understanding, Lord Hartmund.”
Even then, he never actually admitted fault.
It was obvious he’d given the order himself… how shameless.
“How spirited are your men, Roger? Hm? So spirited they’re all lying on the ground?”
A burly man draped in animal pelts laughed mockingly, and Roger’s face turned red with fury.
The men wearing axes at their waists — Linbach’s soldiers — burst into loud laughter.
That brute must be Lord Linbach.
“Sir Drake! Mind your tongue—”
Roger started, but Hartmund silenced him with a raised hand.
“When men gather, brawls may happen. But that doesn’t mean I can overlook this matter.”
Without even glancing at Roger, Hartmund’s gaze turned to Ronan.
“You there. What is your name?”
“R–…Bronze.”
Ronan stumbled over his false name, and Hartmund caught it immediately.
“Those who use aliases fall into two groups — the weak, and the very strong. You seem to be…”
He looked over the fallen hunters of the Craster family and continued,
“…the latter.”
“I merely didn’t avoid a fight that came to me.”
“Is that so?”
Hartmund’s lips curved in amusement.
“Then I’ll start one myself.”
He raised his hand.
“Guron.”
“Yes, my lord.”
From among the soldiers, a massive man stepped forward.
His armor was noticeably different from the others’, and every movement made his plates clatter menacingly.
“That’s… Guron?”
“The best knight in the North…”
“He’s a Penta Chain!”
“What an overwhelming presence…”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The greatest knight of the North, huh…
I used Magic to scan Guron’s body.
Five distinct engravings glowed within him — like Cedric Ice-Maker, he was a bearer of the Penta Chain.
“He looks tough. What do you think — want help?”
“No need.”
Ronan cut me off immediately.
He looked… angry.
“This is merely a friendly match. You may use your sword, but no magic. No killing either.”
“Yes, my lord.”
At Hartmund’s order, Guron drew a greatsword as huge as his own frame.
“Of course, you may refuse.”
“…I already told you.”
At his provocation, Ronan didn’t back down.
“I don’t run from fights that come my way.”
With a shing, he drew his sword.
The Stutban family had raised countless knights over generations.
They often took in orphaned boys — fed them, clothed them, trained them.
When a boy showed potential, they engraved marks upon him and demanded loyalty to the house.
That was how Stutban came to command such a powerful corps of loyal knights.
Among them, Hartmund was said to have forged the strongest order in the family’s history.
In his youth, Hartmund himself had been a famed knight — “The Sword of the North.”
He had trained Guron, known now as “The North’s Strongest Blade.”
Guron — a vagrant boy born and raised in the Stutban lands — was one of those Hartmund had chosen to raise.
Through relentless training and slaying bandits and monsters, his skill and fame spread across the North.
Thus he earned his title: The North’s Strongest Sword.
For a commoner to reach even the Double Chain was rare — yet Hartmund engraved five marks into him, making him a Penta Chain.
In return, Guron swore absolute loyalty.
From the Sword of the North came the Strongest Sword of the North.
Now, Guron stared at the black-haired man before him — “Bronze.”
No matter how he looked, the man didn’t seem a worthy opponent.
Beating down a few dozen Craster men barehanded was impressive, but Guron could have done that easily himself.
“I bear you no malice.”
Guron leveled his greatsword.
“If you think you’ll be badly hurt, step back now.”
“The North’s Strongest Knight, huh?”
Bronze took his stance.
“What a joke.”
A petty provocation — but Guron didn’t lose his composure.
Fwoosh.
He kicked off the ground, closing the distance.
With both hands gripping the massive blade, he swung down from above.
Bronze didn’t dodge — he raised his sword.
Ka-ga-kang!
Sparks flew as steel scraped steel.
Bronze slid the blade aside and pivoted, spinning as he swung.
Before the strike could land, Klang! — Guron deflected it with his armored elbow, then brought his greatsword up from below.
Bronze leapt back, widening the distance.
Tap. Tap.
Their feet moved faster than their blades — a battle for position.
Clang! Clack! Ka-ga-kak!
Each time a gap appeared, one thrust at the other.
Clang!
They broke apart once more — at just the range Guron liked.
“Hff.”
Guron held his breath and twisted his torso, sweeping his greatsword sideways — a true killing blow this time.
The air whooshed as the heavy blade cut through it.
If it hit, Bronze would be cleaved in half; if he blocked, his arms would shatter.
So Guron thought — until—
Tiiing!
Bronze flicked the flat of the greatsword with a precise tap.
That alone sent the massive blade veering off course — opening Guron’s stance wide, exposing his flank.
“What—?!”
Before he could react, Bronze’s sword darted toward his chest.
I’m going to be stabbed—!
Instinct froze his body.
But the blade slipped perfectly beneath his armpit and came out the front — grazing his armor, not flesh.
“…!”
The flash of steel inches from his face stunned him —
Thud.
He hadn’t even realized Bronze had hooked his leg.
With a light push, Bronze sent the giant sprawling.
Boom!
Guron hit the ground hard.
Shing.
Bronze laid his sword at the knight’s neck.
“A knight, you said?”
Looking down at the blinking, disbelieving Guron, Bronze spoke in a low voice.
“You’re no true knight.”
The match was decided.
But no cheers followed.
Only silence.
Understandably so — everyone was watching Hartmund’s reaction.
Sure enough, his square face was twisted with rage.
He hadn’t expected this.
He must have planned to flaunt his knight’s strength and assert dominance here.
But he’d picked the wrong opponent.
“Good work.”
I winked playfully at Ronan as he sheathed his sword.
“Barely worth the effort,” he replied flatly.
I couldn’t help but smile.
Those fake knights — who thought “auras” were just mana leaking from their engravings.
And Ronan — the man personally taught by the legendary elven knight, Siruela.
It was never a fair fight to begin with.
Only they didn’t know that.
The hall had gone icy cold.
Everyone waited for Hartmund to break the silence.
The Stutban soldiers radiated killing intent, ready to pounce at any moment.
“That man—”
“Make way!”
The silence shattered — but not by Hartmund.
From the opposite end of the hall, a booming voice rang out.
All heads turned.
“The procession of the Ice-Makers approaches!”
A dozen soldiers in gleaming silver armor marched in, banners of the Ice-Maker family held high.
The stunned crowd scrambled aside to make way.
Their armored boots thudded heavily as they advanced.
“Stand at attention!”
“Stand at attention!”
Everyone straightened up, rigid.
Even the lords near the front stood tall — and Hartmund was the first to speak.
“Glory to the Ice-Makers!”
“Glory to the Ice-Makers!”
The others echoed the cry in unison.
Amid the thunderous greeting, one figure walked forward —
A woman, utterly out of place in this rough northern hall.
Her silver-white hair fluttered in the wind, glimmering like snow.
Even her skin, lit by the torches, gleamed pale and radiant.
Unmoved by the fervent welcome, she strode ahead calmly, seemingly indifferent to all eyes—
“…?!”
Then, suddenly, she turned.
The soldiers behind her hurried to follow, startled.
The onlookers stumbled over each other to clear her path.
But of all the people there, the one most shocked — was me.
…Why is she walking toward me?!
