“Well done,” Gelias said. “Though I should note — my strength is with bow and arrow, not with the bde.”

  He genuinely meant it. It wasn’t a loser’s whiny excuse, but a matter-of-fact expnation from someone who knew his pce in the world.

  Archmund repressed his urge to roll his eyes because he knew it would give Gelias the wrong idea. It had been a good fight, and he liked Gelias well enough, at least more than Beatrice, but…

  A noble boy with pointed ears named Greenroot, who could channel his magic into wood and who preferred bows and arrows.

  Archmund really hoped this was a case of cosmic coincidence and not a dying dream, because if he was dying then his subconscious was getting very zy by creating an elf that used a bow and arrow with wood magic named Greenroot and that probably meant he didn’t have much time left.

  “So… if I’m out of the running for one of your Gemstone Rapiers… how about a chance to go into your Dungeon and gain my own?”

  Archmund frowned. “I wasn’t aware I could stop you?”

  “Your taxes are—”

  “More than reasonable enough for a noble to pay,” Archmund said. Well, people always hated taxes. “Which means you don’t actually care about the riches and the wealth. What are you actually looking for?”

  “You got me,” Gelias said with a smile, throwing his hands up. “I’m good with a bow and arrow. The Greenroot Gems aren’t anything fshy when it comes to magic. I’d be at a disadvantage in an enclosed space against highly-mobile monsters unless people were there to intercept them. I’m after the experience, the glory, the chance to stand on my own.”

  “I’ll certainly consider it,” Archmund said.

  He had been able to best the prior Dungeon on his own, but there had been a few additional factors.

  First, he’d been willing to sacrifice his life to do so. That seemed less desirable now that he’d seen that the dead could retain their memories, and they really didn’t seem to like being dead.

  Second, he’d been supported by a full party of hardened warriors, most of whom had been under orders to die for him.

  Third, one of those warriors was Mercy Stirpstredecim di Omnio, also known as Princess Angelina Grace Prima Marca Omnio, Crown Princess of the Omnio Empire, with all the privilege and nobility that entailed.

  There was obviously a difference in strength between nobles, though opinions differed on whether that arose from blood or practice. He’d beaten Beatrice Bckstone, Rory Redmont, and Gelias Greenroot. Beatrice and Rory had lost to Mary, though it was quite possible Rory had thrown his fight. They’d all beaten peasants handily. Yet he highly suspected that if he faced Princess Angelina Grace Marca Prima Omnio in a fight, he would lose badly.

  Perhaps it would be good to get some more measured battle experience before he went off to the Imperial Academy.

  And it never hurt to have allies.

  After a short break, Archmund was up against his next opponent. He’d initially pnned to fight some of the stronger peasants, but Mary, after her own victories and talking with Barst and the other referees, insisted that he change his pns.

  “Oh, heir Granavale,” said Sister Catherine. “What a wondrous surprise!”

  Archmund blinked as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. “Likewise.”

  Catherine wasn’t dressed in her usual nun’s habit. She was dressed in a simple gray smock and gray pants. She still kept her hair up and wrapped within a cap, though, which made her look rather boyish. She was as battle-ready as any of the other townsfolk, though her clothing was well-made and cked the signs of wear and repair.

  “I didn’t realize you were interested in this sort of thing,” he said.

  Catherine smiled serenely. “There are many paths for an ambitious soul to climb within the Church. We must be ever vigint against the darkness, and wield our bdes against the Servants of Hell no matter where they might arise.”

  Archmund nodded politely. Sometimes she could be frustratingly poetic, but it sounded like she’d studied the bde. Obviously, he’d have preferred to keep his Gemstone weapons out of the hands of the Church, so it was imperative that he win. And Catherine was, despite not having taken any vows, a devout servant of the Goddess.

  “So… I guess you could say I’ve trained a bit. What about you? Channeling your past life as Alexander the Conqueror?”

  “Along with everyone else here,” Archmund said.

  “Indeed,” Sister Catherine said. “Though I must admit, none of them put up any of a fight.”

  Archmund thought, somewhat sarcastically, that they’d been struck dumb by how pretty she was. Then he chided himself for the thought, because if she wasn’t lying she was one of the few people in the town to have formally studied the bde. She’d have no issue defeating the untrained.

  And there was the matter of the Church’s Miracles, which he didn’t understand and doubted he’d be allowed to study in any capacity. Perhaps she benefited from those as well.

  “Well?” she said, holding her elegantly to the side. “I do hope you won’t go too easy on me, though we all saw how you handled Redmont.”

  Archmund grimaced.

  “The girl I fought right after your match tried the same thing, but I was good enough to fend her off.”

  Ah. An unexpected consequence. By showing everyone how he could break the traditional, formal rule, they all tried to do the same thing. But for worse results, since, well.

  They cked his strength.

  Now that he thought about it, some of the fshes of fighting he’d caught out of the corners of his eye had looked like more of a pyground brawl than an elegant duel.

  He had, unfortunately, stumbled into an all-too-common mistake made by industry disruptors: sometimes, rules and norms actually had reasons to exist.

  “Well, fuck,” he said. He made sure to say it in English. There went any hope of a grand and noble dueling tournament to show off the refinement of Granavale County, when half the people fighting were treating it like a pyground brawl.

  “That sounded like a swear,” Catherine said casually. “It’s just not as effective to knee a girl in the nads, you know? And the whole point of having a sword is so you can hit someone from far enough that they can’t hit you back.”

  “You and I trained in it,” Archmund said. “They…”

  “Too right,” Catherine said.

  The referees blew their horns.

  Catherine raised her sword in a defensive position. So did Archmund. Neither of them moved to take the first strike.

  “Please,” said Catherine politely. “Go right ahead, Heir Granavale.”

  “Sister, you know that sounds like an obvious trick.”

  Sister Catherine smiled serenely.

  Archmund attacked.

  His bde met a slight resistance as he cut through the air before Catherine, before being caught on her sword. He pulled back.

  Not that these wooden sparring swords were all that well-banced anyways.

  He stepped back warily. Sister Catherine smiled at him.

  Archmund frowned. “How did you win all your previous matches?”

  “Oh, I didn’t. I lost one to Al Baker. Such a sweetheart.”

  Al Baker. He seemed to have a tendency to smile at all the pretty girls, didn’t he. And she certainly didn’t seem like someone who’d gotten the tar beaten out of her by a tall, nky boy who’d already gone through his growth spurt.

  “And the others?”

  She smiled and raised a shushing finger to her lips.

  Wonderful. She was being cryptic. As expected.

  He swung his sword again, this time at her left fnk. She caught it on hers, and he pulled back.

  There was a denseness to the air around her, almost as if he was cutting through foam. Easy enough, and not a true challenge, but present enough to throw off his sense of timing and the bance of the bde in his hand.

  He feinted, gesturing towards the right but striking at the left again.

  He hit her square in the side. Not very hard. Which was concerning. He’d meant to hit her hard enough to knock her to the ground and request her surrender. But instead he’d just lightly tapped her.

  She gasped. “Owwie!”

  It was a very cutesy noise, and extremely disproportionate to the amount of force he’d used.

  “Catherine,” Archmund said, “did any of your opponents just… give up?”

  Catherine pouted. “I’m shocked you would imply such a thing.”

  He swung his sword in strong, simple strokes, avoiding any flourishes or fancy performances. He stuck to the established sword forms. “It’s possible that they went easy on you.”

  “If the Goddess blesses me with such boons, it’s bsphemy to refuse.”

  He could see where she was coming from.

  Either way, he’d have to use more measured tactics. Even if all were equal on the battlefield, beating up a woman associated with the Church remained bad optics. He’d already besmirched his reputation through his earlier aggression. Though material concerns demanded he win, there was quite possibly a more ideal option.

  That damned thickness of the air was like a protective embrace around her. Disarming someone took more agility and finesse than simply hitting them until they gave up. The aura of protection around her made it so much harder to pull off.

  Sister Catherine was no Beatrice Bckstone. Beatrice swung like a maniac. Catherine was the utter paragon of temperance.

  “I don’t suppose,” Archmund said, “I could convince you to stand down and drop out of the tournament?”

  “Oh my,” said Catherine. “What’s this about? Are you concerned about hurting me?”

  “It’s economics.”

  He held up his bde defensively before him. She hadn’t swung at him once.

  “I would prefer not to donate a Gemstone Weapon to the Church,” Archmund said. He struck.

  She blocked masterfully. “So it’s like that, then.”

  “If I’d known you intended to join, I would’ve mentioned it when we spoke,” he said apologetically.

  He swung his bde through the air right next to her, with no intention of striking her, and his bde went fast but not true.

  He was wide open after that strike, yet she made no motion to strike him.

  Then he swung again, this time aiming for her thigh, since that would hurt less than the torso.

  Again, his bde mysteriously lost their momentum as it reached her.

  “You tired them out,” he said, just as she opened her mouth to cry in pain.

  “I… If the Goddess granted me a blessing, it would be bsphemy not to take it,” she said.

  He sighed.

  He walked up to her, practically invading her personal space. Her face turned bright pink.

  Although the magic aura around him dampened his movements, they didn’t stop him. It wasn’t anywhere as harsh as swinging through water. It felt like he was swinging through water, at worst.

  “Sir Granavale…?”

  He studied her face. Now that he thought about it again, now that he’d seen Princess Angelina just an hour before and not vaguely in his memories, they really did look like they could be sisters. They had the same eye color and shape, and the same curve of the nose.

  Maybe Alexander Omnio I just had that many royal bastards, and his blood flowed through the veins of the whole damn continent.

  Which, honestly, given a two thousand year gap, was fairly likely. Charlemagne was an ancestor to most of Europe. Genghis Khan was the ancestor to much of Asia. And they’d only lived hundreds of years back, no thousands.

  He’d gotten very close to Catherine, though he was careful not to touch. He knew he was wide open, and though he gripped his sword firmly he was in no position to hit her with it. Both from her “blessing” and from the ck of space to wind up.

  He kept his eyes on her face, watching for any hint of emotion, any twitch, any reaction, any microexpression that signaled violence — yet only saw concern.

  “What are you pying at…?”