*   *   *

—I’ll be the last one laughing!

Two tacticians headed toward the banquet assured of victory.

Soon, it would become clear which of the two was sorely mistaken—

“—Marvelous, Lord Geralt. What insight.”

“It’s to our great loss that you haven’t taken center stage at the Empire, Sir Geralt.”

“Come on now, bwa-ha-ha.”

The moon rose high in the night. Among the guests at the banquet, Geralt was living the high life sandwiched between Wein, the crown prince of Natra, and Lowellmina, the Imperial Princess of the Empire.

“To hear that from a prince and a princess. Stop it. I’m blushing.”

Right now, they were carrying out Phase One of their respective strategies: Wein and Lowellmina would work together to butter up Geralt and get him all loose.

“That’s all you’ve got to say?” Wein chuckled in an easygoing way. “I’m just voicing the truth. I don’t shower others with false flattery and florid speech when they have nothing to show for it. I’m a man of my word and proud of it.”

Oh, how insincere. Lowellmina’s glare pierced through Wein, but he ignored it, of course.

“He’s right.” This time, Lowellmina flashed a fleeting smile. “Though you’ve become one of the great pillars that uphold the Empire, you carry the blood of the royal family of Antgadull. With your lineage, we’ll always come up short with our words.”

Who do you think you are? Wein’s eyes darted around, but Lowellmina paid him no mind.

“Ha-ha-ha. Okay, you got me there.”

Everything was going according to plan.

Geralt was all smiles upon being praised by those of Wein and Lowellmina’s caliber.

And of course, he didn’t feel an ounce of distrust. Compare his ego to a container: Right now, their golden words were filling it to the brim, flowing as freely as alcohol.

On the other hand, those in attendance assumed complicated expressions. There were Geralt’s servants and a few from the Imperial delegation, along with the vassals of the Kingdom of Natra who were hosting them. While his servants were pleased to see Geralt in a fine mood, they were confused by the way the two extolled him.

The Imperial delegation was more than a little concerned and oozed discomfort.

Though Fyshe had spoken with them beforehand, she couldn’t reveal all of Lowellmina’s schemes since the envoys were loyal to the Imperial Princes. She could only say that with Geralt’s arrival, it had been decided that princess and prince would receive him together.

That made it seem as though he’d had interrupted official business. And even though the Imperial Princess had graciously received him in the face of his insolence, they couldn’t believe that he’d be this disrespectful to her. They were about to explode in fury.

Of course, they couldn’t say anything since he was the son of a marquis, but they all thought him to be a terrible blight on the reputation of Imperial nobility.

The vassals of Natra hadn’t been told the truth, either. Wein figured it would be a big nuisance if they found out Lowellmina was trying to throw them into war. But they weren’t as lost as the Imperial delegation. They all trusted Wein, and their goal was to follow his orders and act as hospitable as possible.

Which is why as the banquet progressed, their surroundings began to fill with whispers: “What’s going on?” or “I have no idea…”

But this was white noise to Geralt, because a pair of masterminds were keeping him busy. This was the obvious outcome; though, this dream team was only cooperating to dupe Geralt, and once they reached Phase Two of their plans, all bets were off. Wein and Lowellmina started to snap at each other’s heels in their fight to take the lead.

“Our Kingdom of Natra is delighted to aid in your meeting. I’m certain your father, Marquis Antgadull, will be pleased to hear the news,” Wein would say.

“Well,” Lowellmina would respond. “Then he’d ask us to hurry home. But this is a fated encounter, Sir Geralt. Wouldn’t you want to keep this between us, to enjoy our company alone?” She whispered in his ear.

To translate this to layman’s terms:

“Tell Grinahae and get him to call off his army, pronto.”

“I can’t let you do that. I’ll keep stalling until Grinahae loses it.”

Of course, Geralt didn’t catch that at all. With a brain soaked in alcohol and hardly ever exercised, he took their words literally.

And since they both understood this, a war of wits commenced.

“Princess Lowellmina, if you’re to be married, this would be a serious affair in Antgadull—much less the Empire. I would imagine this news would assure your subjects during their time of need. Isn’t it the duty of the royal family to release an official statement as soon as possible?”

(Translation: Just team up with Antgadull and crush the revolt already.)

“But it would pain me to leave Natra without repaying you for your kindness. Would you care to join us in the Empire, Prince Wein? We would welcome you with open arms as the one who brought us together.”

(Translation: I’ll think about it if you announce that Natra is backing us?)

“Thank you. But I must remain to protect this nation in my father’s stead. I understand your position as a member of the Imperial family, but I cannot abandon my own.”

(Translation: I ain’t going nowhere. Figure out how to be Empress yourself.)

“I see… Well, we can announce it via letter as early as today. I can just picture the surprised look on the faces of my brothers and Marquis Grinahae.”

(Translation: You want me to expose your letter?)

“In that case, I’ll put in a good word as well. If it’s for the future marquis and his wife, I will gladly be of help.”

(Translation: Whaaat? I have no idea what you’re talking about!)

The conversation between the two continued for some time, but it changed course without notice.

“Your Highness, please forgive my interruption.” Ninym quietly handed Wein documents from behind. “These require your confirmation.”

Wein scanned the papers. On the surface, they appeared to be your average business reports. It’d be no problem if others laid eyes on these documents.

On the pages were a code that only Wein and Ninym could decipher.

“Excuse me for a moment. Please enjoy each other’s company in the meantime.”

Lowellmina took the opportunity to launch her attack on Geralt. Wein deciphered the pages as he listened to her, reading the reports on Geralt that he’d asked from Ninym.

Hmm, let’s see. “I’ve confirmed that Geralt’s return to Antgadull was no coincidence…” Holy shit. Seriously?

Wein instinctively looked at Ninym for confirmation as he processed this unexpected development. She nodded to indicate that it was no joke.

Okay, but what does it mean if it’s not an accident…?

He was befuddled but continued to read, and Geralt’s life story unfolded before his eyes.

Geralt Antgadull was born the eldest son of an Imperial marquis and grew up lacking nothing. While in his family’s territory, he experienced no agony or conflict or frustrations or regret. Like a carriage on a paved road, his life was one smooth journey from point A to point B.

But that all changed when he reached the capital. He’d been sheltered by privilege all his life until he became the target of merciless scorn—as Antgadull the Traitor.

For someone who’d been coddled since the day he was born, this stressed Geralt out beyond belief. And as a result, he’d turned to alcohol and love affairs, dripping gold and jewels, and surrounding himself with yes men. He’d gained a notorious reputation as a prodigal son, even in the Empire.

And then he had a chance encounter with Lowellmina at a certain soiree. He’d tried to get her attention many times thereafter.

If this was love at first sight, the situation could have been salvaged. But the truth was way different. Geralt had known she was popular and thought he’d be accepted if he could win her affections. He’d desired Lowellmina out of a subconscious inferiority complex.

But his unwholesome advances would never capture her heart, and she’d continued to coldly evade him. Soon, he became furious. How dare she dismiss the eldest son of a marquis—Imperial Princess or not? Did she think he’d let this nonsense slide?

Upon hearing the news of her visit to Natra, Geralt couldn’t keep his rage in check, exploding in a fit of anger. On the surface, she was enjoying a trip abroad, but Geralt had heard it was to discuss marriage with their prince. He whipped every one of his servants bloody and cursed Lowellmina to the extent that he would have been arrested for insulting the Imperial family had he not been the son of a marquis.

And then he had returned to Antgadull from the Imperial capital.

Why?

To attack Lowellmina’s entourage on their way home from Natra.

BWAH?! Wein spurted internally as soon as he read this. Is this for real…?

He immediately turned to Ninym, who calmly nodded. Her cheek twitched slightly, which must have been because she hadn’t expected Geralt would take things to the extreme.

Even Wein never expected the son of a marquis to plan an attack on the Imperial Princess over petty personal resentment. Based on what he read, it made complete sense for Geralt to act this way. He believed Lowellmina had betrayed him, and he wouldn’t be at ease until he made her understand by his own hand—until justice was served.

But that had changed with the letter in question.

After Geralt had read it, he’d bawled his eyes out without care of being seen by others.

“Ohhhhhhh, I knew I could trust her. She’s finally understood my feelings.”

The fact that he’d once cursed her was wiped from his mind. Taking its place was the image of his wife, Lowellmina, by his side as he was blessed by the citizens of the Empire.

Which is why he told his father he was going to Natra and rushed off to collect her.

……I see. Wein gave a small sigh as he finished reading the documents. He’s seriously bonkers…

He recoiled in disgust.

He’d thought Geralt was a bit odd, but this. This was something else. If there’d been anyone else Wein could have used otherwise, he would have done so without question.

What a cruel trick of fate. To think that he had to work out a way to tie the knot between this guy and his friend, Lowellmina—

Well, whatever.

Without a second of hesitation, Wein found his solution. My needs come first. Plus, Lowa put half of this on herself! She brought this on herself!

If the person in question could hear his thoughts, her face would twitch, no doubt.

Wein stared at Lowellmina as if to provoke her. Besides, if you can’t even control this guy, you can kiss your dreams of becoming Empress goodbye, Lowa.

She must have felt his gaze, because she cracked a small smile.

Unlike Wein, Lowellmina had no pawns to investigate Geralt for her, but she must have grasped his temperament from their time at the Imperial capital. She knew she couldn’t deal with him using normal methods.

And even then, she knew she could get him to do as she wished. She’d show them all. Her smile was one of confidence and pride.

But that was when the subject of their war of wills spoke up, upon noticing Wein and Lowellmina communicating with each other in silence.

“…Oh yeah, the two of you sent me that letter. Are you two old acquaintances?” Geralt asked, a dark jealousy brewing in his voice.

The duo picked up on this. In fact, they expected him to harbor resentment, meaning they weren’t fazed in the least.

“Yeah, from when I was studying abroad in the Empire. But wow. What a shame. If I’d known you at the time, Lord Geralt, I would have struck up a friendship with you.” Wein weaved in the truth with lies.

Geralt gave a small nod. “…Huh. I spent a long time in the capital, but I hadn’t heard any rumors of you, Prince Wein. How did you spend your days there?”

If he’d been stupid honest and said that he’d faked his identity to attend the military academy and ranked top of his class, Geralt would have twisted his face past its limits.

Wein spoke in half-truths. “I wanted to immerse myself in the arts, but there was so much for me to learn in the Empire. I spent much of my time in a mansion there. The only form of entertainment I had came from swinging my sword.”

If that were true, it wouldn’t be unnatural for Geralt not to have heard of him. But in an unexpected turn of events, Geralt latched on to something.

“Huh… You’re good with a sword?”

“…Well, I have a modicum of familiarity.”

Wein felt that this might take a turn for the worse but had no time to stop Geralt from pressing on.

“What a coincidence. I’m quite confident in my swordsmanship.”

You’ve gotta be kidding. It only took a moment for Wein and Lowellmina to come to the same conclusion.

Well, everyone in the room would have the same realization. Based on his body, muscle mass, footwork, and everything else, he had to be far from a swordsman.

Then why would he fib?

He’s pissed about me and Lowa being buddy-buddy. He’s probably plotting to beat me in a sword fight and put me in my place, Wein guessed.

If that was the goal, anyone would say he should have picked a different challenge. But Geralt hadn’t chosen sword fighting at random.

They had no idea that Geralt glowed with satisfaction when he won against his own servants on a regular basis. Well, it was more like he was unaware that his servants struggled on the daily to think of the best ways to be defeated—all to avoid invoking his wrath.

In any case, Geralt wasn’t lying when he said he was skilled with the sword. At least, he didn’t think he was.

Geez. What do I do? Wein’s eyes latched onto Lowellmina.

She responded with her own look of shock. You’ve no choice but to give him a decent fight. Appease him.

Um, I’m sorry. A “decent” battle? That’s the hard paaaaaaart.

I’ll cheer you on. Woo-hoo. You can do it. Let’s go. Lowellmina was looking rather composed, since she was just going to spectate.

Damn you, Wein cursed.

“So? What do you say? Let’s demonstrate our swordsmanship before Princess Lowellmina,” Geralt proclaimed.

His declaration riled the room. Of course, it did. Both Geralt and Wein were important figures. If either of them got hurt, it’d be a humongous problem.

“Your Highness…” Ninym took a step forward from behind him.

Wein held her back with a hand. “Not to worry. This will be a good show. The wooden swords,” he commanded, shedding his coat and taking one.

He stood in the center of the hall. The vassals and servants nearby scurried away to make room.

Geralt faced him with a sword of his own. “And the rules of the game?”

“Whoever drops their sword first, loses.”

They faced each other as they both adopted a stance.

This was when everyone was certain of Wein’s victory.

It wasn’t because of nepotism. His opponent was unstable on his feet, trembling in place. Compared to that, Wein’s breaths, gaze, and sword were steady, making the difference between their abilities crystal clear.

But the two fighters were thinking about other things entirely.

I’ll have the prince act as my foil. Geralt was certain of his own victory.

All right, gonna wrap this up with minimal damage. Wein was busy plugging away, thinking about their reputations and what might follow afterward. I need to let Geralt have all the glory if I want my plan to work, but I have a name to live up to, too. I can’t let myself lose without a scuffle.

Which meant his best target was—the wooden sword in Geralt’s hands. His grip was weak, and it’d be easy to knock away. Wein would let go of his sword at the same time as Geralt. It’d be a tie.

That’s why he had established those rules as the condition for victory.

If I’m being honest, he’s so sloshed he can’t swing that sword around. I bet he’ll get pooped. I’ll get him out of breath in a few strikes and then make my move.

With his plan in stone, things were set into motion.

“HYAAAAH!” Geralt hollered as he kicked off the ground, as though he was no longer able to stand the silence, springing toward Wein.

There was nothing deliberate about his swings as he rushed in. It’d be easy to counter, but it wasn’t the victory that he needed.

“Heh—”

The wooden swords clashed, and a dry thud echoed through the hall.

Then twice. Three times in succession.

Wein analyzed Geralt’s movements and sword position as he pretended to be pushed back.

In time, his opponent’s breaths became labored and his charge weakened, just as Wein had expected. The moment had come. Wein took a breath, calculated his timing and—

Now!

He charged.

Geralt tripped up over his legs.

“Whaaaaat?”

Was it because he was drunk or was he pushed down by the force of his opponent?

The answer was unclear.

Geralt lost his balance as if in perfect synchrony with Wein’s charge.

He pitched forward, his head drooped, and oddly enough, it propelled toward the sword that Wein had swung with the intent of knocking out Geralt’s weapon from his hands.

HEY NOOOOOOOOOOW! Wein screamed internally. At this rate, Geralt’s head would become a ghastly work of art that no one would dare to look upon twice.

NOOOOOOOOOOO! TUUUUUUUUUUURN! Wein focused all his strength in his arms.

And responding to his muscles and prayers, the wooden sword miraculously shifted its trajectory, skimmed past Geralt’s face, and smashed into the sword in his loose fist.

A dull sound and a sharp shrill overlapped each other. One thud when Geralt fell over, and the other when his sword clattered to the ground. Wein stood frozen in place after he followed through with his swing. He slowly broke from his stance and dropped his sword.

Cheers erupted around him.

From an outside perspective, it seemed like a perfect victory for Wein.

Since Geralt’s rep was shot from the beginning, even the Imperial delegation was clapping—joining the vassals of Natra, who’d been rooting for him from the get-go.

Wein was being showered with applause, and Lowellmina was spectating. Both were thinking to themselves:

HOLY CRAAAAAAP! I FRIGGIN’ WOOOOOOOOON!

WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU DO THAAAAAT?!

Their silent screams were in unison.

Because he’d been using all his strength to change the trajectory of the sword, he hadn’t been able to let go as planned when they clashed against each other.

Which meant he didn’t have the chance to make it a tie.

M-maybe I can trick them by dropping the sword now…? Wein tried this petty trick, but the public wasn’t buying it.

All the gears in his head turned as he scrambled to find something else to do.

“Your Highness!” Ninym called out.

Wein whipped around, and there, face full of shame and rage, was Geralt. He’d picked up his fallen sword, attempting to rush Wein.

—Oh, crap.

In that moment, Wein panicked over the surprise attack—well, he might have, if he was someone else. Wein could defend himself with his own sword, easy. But it’d do more damage to Geralt, who was acting like a coward for hounding Wein despite his indisputable defeat. It’d be incredibly difficult for Geralt to save face.

I could defend. But that won’t change the fact that he attacked me. Parrying would do the same. In any case, I’ve got no choice but to avoid him. And naturally, to make it appear as though I’m not dodging—!

Could he do it?

He had no other option.

Wein waited until just before Geralt closed in, calculated the attack with all his heart and soul—

And he dodged it, spinning to face him as though they’d just passed by each other.

It’s perfect!

He could insist that Geralt had just tripped and eaten dirt as he went to pick up his sword. Wein made eye contact with Geralt directly across from him.

Apologies for disclosing this information this late in the game, but it’s integral to mention that the banquet was being held on the second floor.

And while they were fighting, the two had moved precariously close to the walls.

And of course, the walls had windows, as they often do.

And Geralt plunged right into one.

“Ah,” Wein said.

The windowpane shattered into pieces in an ear-splitting collision.

“Oh,” Lowellmina said in surprise.

Geralt didn’t just break the window with his momentum. His upper half went right through the frame.

““Wai—”” the duo raised their voices, watching his bottom half slowly rise—

And he slid out of the window.

They heard a weighty thump against the ground.

“”

Everyone in the room stood frozen in shock upon witnessing this scene.

Ninym was the first one to instantly respond and recover enough to move. She’d been hanging out in the back and pushed her way through the crowd, gripping onto the window frame and leaping down. Jumping from the second floor was nothing to her.

And then in order, Wein, Lowellmina, and the servants clambered to the window in a fluster and peered over its ledge.

“S-Sir Geralt?!”

“Ninym! Is he okay?!”

With everyone watching, Ninym fell to her knees beside Geralt, who was stretched out on the ground, and checked his condition. A few moments passed before she gave a grim look.

“Well. I don’t know what to say.” She looked up at the two and spoke nervously. “I’m terribly sorry—but he has passed on.”

Wein and Lowellmina turned to stare at each other in perfect sync.