Chapter 75: Inauguration (2) [MIKE POV]
"With the authority given to me by the King, I, Sauros Boreas Greyrat, hereby appoint Mike of Arbalest to the rank of lesser noble of Asura."
Damn it. Sauros is smirking at me like a cat who's caught a particularly fat mouse. What the hell is he planning?
Here I am, victim to Claude's calculated manipulation, because let's call it what it is, reluctantly accepting nobility in this godforsaken kingdom.
And before you ask why I'm so bitter about it, let me paint you a picture of Asura's political landscape.
Sauros is genuinely one of the better nobles in this cesspit of a kingdom. The others? Most of them are scheming parasites with their own agendas, circling like vultures around anything that might benefit them.
The current king embodies everything wrong with hereditary rule, being lazy, incompetent, and about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
He's not even a proper puppet with strings; he's more like a weathervane, spinning whichever direction the last person to whisper in his ear pointed him.
No single faction controls him, which sounds good in theory. In practice, it means he's easily deceived and pathologically indecisive.
The idea that this man leads a nation would be hilarious if it weren't so terrifying.
Trust is one thing. Blind trust? That's a luxury leaders can't afford if they want to keep breathing.
The ceremonial hall feels oppressive despite its grandeur. Golden tapestries depicting Asura's "glorious" history hang from marble columns, their weight seeming to press down on the assembled crowd.
The air carries the cloying scent of expensive perfumes mixed with barely concealed ambition.
At this moment, I'm the reluctant star of this theatrical production. Standing beside me are Claude and Ash, while Charizard waits outside, probably attracting a crowd of gawkers and making the guards nervous.
Ash has built quite the reputation as a Sky Rider, especially here in Ars. His bond with Charizard has become the stuff of tavern tales and children's nightmares, depending on who's telling the story.
Claude, however, remains an enigma to these people.
They see him as my escort, nothing more. Their attention focuses on Ash and his drake companion, dismissing the real threat standing quietly at my side.
If they only knew. Claude could probably level half this room before anyone realized what was happening.
Charizard certainly commands respect through fear alone. That magnificent, terrifying creature lounges outside like a house cat, if house cats could incinerate buildings and stood three stories tall.
And this is just his adolescent phase, since fully grown drakes can reach fifteen meters in height, with wingspans to match.
The ceremony continues its tedious march forward. Sauros unsheathes the ceremonial sword with flourish that would make a stage actor proud, beginning the traditional incantations while touching the blade to each of my shoulders.
The ancient words flow like honey, sweet, sticky, and ultimately meaningless in the face of real politics.
God, I want to disappear right now. Can I claim sudden illness and flee? Probably not without causing a diplomatic incident.
That smirk hasn't left Sauros's face. He's absolutely reveling in this moment, probably still nursing a grudge over that incident with the noble ladies.
Though honestly, by the end of that evening, you seemed to be enjoying their attention plenty, you hypocrite.
"I expect great things from you, Lesser Noble Mike," Sauros declares, extending the ceremonial sword toward me with theatrical grandeur.
"I shall not betray your expectations, my lord," I reply, accepting the sword with what I hope passes for dignified humility.
The weapon feels heavier than it should, weighted with symbolism and future obligations.
"Pfft..."
Seriously? Someone just snickered at my performance.
Ash is practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, his face red from the effort of maintaining composure. I know exactly what he's thinking, and I want to smack him.
Here I am, trying to navigate this political minefield with some semblance of dignity, and my supposed ally is treating it like dinner theater.
Claude, naturally, maintains his serene smile, that perfectly crafted expression that reveals nothing while suggesting everything.
Several noble ladies have already noticed him, their gazes lingering with obvious interest. Great. Just what we need, romantic complications in an already complex situation.
Now comes the interesting part. Time to exercise my newfound authority.
"With the power vested in me, I hereby appoint Claude of Buena as my head knight," I announce, my voice carrying clearly through the suddenly silent hall.
The reaction is immediate and gratifying. Gasps ripple through the assembled nobles like wind through wheat. Even Sauros's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, genuine surprise replacing his earlier smugness.
This is where things get delicious.
Most people don't understand Asura's twisted customs regarding head knights. After inauguration, a new noble gains the theoretical authority to appoint their head knight. But theory and practice dance to different music in this kingdom.
The first head knight doesn't just serve the family, as they effectively control it. In Arbalest's case, whoever claims that position gains significant influence over our operations.
The established powers know this, which is why they're all salivating at the opportunity.
Traditionally, the four great noble houses or even the royal family itself would plant their own candidate in this role, ensuring their hooks remain firmly embedded in any potentially profitable venture.
The rule preventing head knights from being replaced for a full year after appointment makes this a particularly valuable prize.
Usually, the royal faction wouldn't stoop to directly challenging a lesser noble for such a position. But Arbalest isn't usual.
They're all desperate to uncover the truth behind our spatial storage technology. Nobody knows the full extent of Arbalest's capabilities, but they've all seen evidence of our advanced enchantment work.
Controlling the head knight position would theoretically grant access to our secrets, including the identity of our mysterious enchanter.
That's why this inauguration has drawn such a crowd. Half the nobles in Ars are here, along with their retainers, agents, and various hangers-on. The air practically crackles with barely restrained greed.
Well, they're about to get an education in why underestimating Claude is a fatal mistake.
I catch his eye, seeking confirmation. That subtle nod he gives me speaks volumes, showing there isn't a soul in this room who could challenge him successfully.
His confidence isn't arrogance, it's certainty backed by experiences these pampered aristocrats couldn't imagine.
The first challenger steps forward with the kind of swagger that screams 'expendable pawn.' He's here to test Claude's capabilities, probably knowing he's walking into a losing battle.
These opening sacrifices serve a purpose, to gauge the opponent's strength before sending in the real contenders.
His verbal assault begins immediately, a stream of insults designed to provoke Claude into making mistakes through anger.
Poor fool has no idea that Claude's emotional control was forged in crucibles these people have never dreamed of.
Arbalest attracts genuine talent, and anyone watching my confidence should realize I wouldn't stake my reputation on a weakling.
But hubris is a powerful drug, and these nobles have been drinking deeply.
The duel begins and ends in the space between heartbeats.
"First challenge concluded, Claude of Buena is victorious!"
Silence blankets the hall like fresh snow. Then comes the wave of shocked murmurs as reality sinks in.
A Sword Saint, granted, not a particularly strong one, but still a Sword Saint, has been defeated so quickly that most spectators missed the actual moment of victory.
The implications landed. Whatever they thought they knew about Arbalest, they've been drastically underestimating us.
I allow myself a small, satisfied smile. Let them recalculate. Let them realize that we're not some merchant guild playing at military organization.
We're the real thing. And Claude? He's just getting started.
[NARRATOR POV]
The Royal Knights of Asura had come expecting theater, perhaps some mild entertainment watching a presumptuous merchant's boy learn his place.
Instead, they found themselves witnessing a demonstration that demanded immediate attention.
Captain Eugene Bluewolf felt a familiar tingle of anticipation as he studied the young man standing calmly on the dueling platform.
The boy, Claude, appeared utterly unaffected by his victory, as if defeating a Sword Saint ranked somewhere between breathing and blinking in terms of difficulty.
Interesting.
Eugene had seen plenty of prodigies in his years serving the crown. Young nobles with genuine talent, seasoned veterans with hard-earned skills, even the occasional monster who defied conventional understanding of combat.
But this Claude registered differently on his instincts, since there was an unsettling quality to his perfect composure, the way he seemed to exist slightly apart from the moment itself.
"Claude of Arbalest," Eugene murmured to his lieutenant, "what kind of weapon has this merchant guild been hiding?"
The Royal Knights maintained high standards, with Sword Saint minimum for membership, and Eugene himself holding the rank of Sword Emperor.
His division answered directly to the crown, handling threats that required overwhelming force rather than finesse.
Standing, Eugene allowed his presence to fill the hall. Conversations died as nobles recognized the significance of his involvement.
When the crown's premier combat unit took direct interest, smart people paid attention.
"By order of His Majesty," Eugene announced, his voice carrying easily through the suddenly silent chamber, "Royal Knight Division Leader Eugene Bluewolf requests the honor of testing the new head knight's capabilities."
He drew his sword in one fluid motion, the blade singing as it cleared its sheath.
The weapon gleamed with more than mere polish, as enchantments wove through the steel like liquid starlight, marking it as a tool worthy of a Sword Emperor.
"I hope you'll provide adequate entertainment, young Claude," Eugene continued, settling into a ready stance that spoke of decades mastering his craft. "It's been some time since I've encountered genuine surprise."
On the platform, Claude's expression remained unchanged. If anything, he seemed almost... disappointed? As if he'd hoped for a challenge rather than another test.
That reaction alone made Eugene's blood sing with anticipation.
Either this boy was magnificently stupid, or they were all about to discover just how deep Arbalest's hidden waters ran.
[CLAUDE POV]
A Sword Emperor. Finally, a proper warm-up.
I studied Eugene Bluewolf as he settled into his stance, noting the precise muscle control, the decades of experience evident in every micro-adjustment of his position.
This was a real warrior. Not a political pawn or a noble's toy. Someone who'd earned his rank through blood and dedication.
The kind of opponent who might actually make me work for the victory.
Around us, the hall held its collective breath. Nobles who'd been calculating their next moves suddenly found themselves uncertain. Mike stood at the edge of the platform, his expression carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.
He knew what was coming. Not the details, but the scope.
"Whenever you're ready," I said, offering Eugene the courtesy of the first move.
His eyes narrowed slightly, recognizing the calculated insult for what it was. I'd just given him the advantage of initiative, suggesting I didn't consider him enough of a threat to require preemptive action.
Which, to be fair, was accurate. But it was still rude.
Eugene exploded into motion.
His speed was impressive, the kind of velocity that required years of Touki training to achieve. The blade came at me in a strike designed to test my defenses, probing for weaknesses while maintaining enough control to avoid lethal damage.
Professional and efficient. Exactly what I'd expect from someone of his caliber.
CLANG
I deflected the strike with minimal movement, redirecting his momentum rather than opposing it directly. The technique spoke volumes about my understanding of force dynamics, and I saw recognition flicker in Eugene's eyes.
He adjusted immediately, flowing into a combination that would have overwhelmed most opponents.
But I'd fought opponents who moved faster, hit harder, carried more killing intent than anyone in this kingdom could imagine.
Eugene was skilled. Experienced and powerful.
But he wasn't Orsted.
And after facing the Dragon God, everyone else felt like they were moving underwater.
CLANG CLANG CLANG
I countered his combination with a sequence that demonstrated superior speed, technique, and understanding of combat theory. Not enough to end the fight immediately, since that would raise uncomfortable questions, but enough to make my superiority unmistakable.
Eugene's expression shifted from confidence to calculation to grudging respect in the space of ten exchanges.
He knew. Could feel it in the way our blades met, in the precision of my counters, in the effortless nature of my defense.
I was playing with him. And he was skilled enough to recognize it.
"Impressive," he admitted, disengaging to reassess. "You've been well trained."
"I've had good teachers," I replied neutrally.
"More than that." Eugene's eyes studied me with new intensity. "You move like someone who's seen real combat. Not training yard duels or tournament matches. Life or death struggles where mistakes mean permanent consequences."
Perceptive. I could see why he led the Royal Knights.
"The Demon Continent has a way of teaching harsh lessons," I said, offering a partial truth. "Those who don't learn quickly don't survive long enough to become students."
Eugene nodded slowly, understanding dawning. "You're one of the Metastasis survivors. You've been surviving out there for years."
The assumption was close enough to let stand. It explained my capabilities without revealing the full truth of convergent memories and experiences from multiple lifetimes.
"Shall we continue?" I asked. "Or have you seen enough?"
Eugene considered for a long moment, then sheathed his sword.
"I've seen enough," he said simply. "You're qualified. More than qualified. The position of head knight suits you."
Around us, the hall erupted in shocked whispers. Eugene Bluewolf, Sword Emperor and Royal Knight Captain, had just conceded a challenge without being defeated.
Sauros looked like he'd swallowed something sour, his calculations visibly reforming. Mike's expression was carefully blank, but I could see the relief in his eyes.
This was what we'd needed. Not just victory, but acknowledgment from the crown's premier warrior that Arbalest, that I, was a force worthy of respect rather than conquest.
"However," Eugene continued, his voice carrying through the hall, "I would request the opportunity for a proper match at a later date. Once you've settled into your new position. I find myself... curious about the full extent of your capabilities."
He was offering a face-saving arrangement. I had demonstrated superiority; he was turning it into alliance rather than humiliation. The crown would accept that framing.
"I would be honored," I replied with a slight bow. "Perhaps we could arrange a training exchange between the Royal Knights and Arbalest? My organization could benefit from your expertise."
The offer was calculated. It suggested cooperation rather than competition, turned a potential rivalry into an alliance, and gave the crown a stake in maintaining good relations with us.
Eugene's lips curved into a genuine smile. "I think that could be arranged. Lord Sauros, with your permission?"
Sauros looked like he was having the worst day of his political career, but he nodded. "Of course. Such exchanges benefit the kingdom as a whole."
The ceremony concluded with far more respect and far less scheming than it had begun.
As nobles filed out, recalculating their approaches and adjusting their strategies, I caught Mike's eye across the room. He gave me a subtle thumbs up, a gesture borrowed from our shared vocabulary of signals.
I returned a small nod and kept watching the door.
Eugene had left without fanfare, unhurried, exchanging a brief word with two of his subordinates before disappearing into the corridor. Nothing in his posture suggested defeat. Nothing in his expression suggested humiliation.
What I'd seen there, in the moment before he turned away, was something closer to interest. The specific, focused interest of someone who'd just encountered a variable they hadn't accounted for and were already deciding how to account for it.
He hadn't seen enough. That was the accurate read of what he'd said.
I've seen enough meant I've confirmed the floor. It did not mean I've found the ceiling.
I'd shown him speed, technique, and enough control to end the exchange on my terms. I hadn't shown him what happened when someone of his caliber pressed past the opening read and made me work. Because he hadn't pressed. He'd assessed, recognized the gap, and chosen alliance over a loss that would have cost him more politically than the concession did.
Smart. Disciplined. Exactly the kind of opponent who came back with adjustments.
In three days or three weeks, whenever Eugene Bluewolf made good on his request, it would not be the same fight.
I wasn't certain I was ready for the one it would be.
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