The Female Knight of Doom - TFKOD 55: Martial Arts Tournament (5)

Alice sat in the front of the audience to watch two men compete.

She had played many times on the court herself, but now she was just watching, and it made her feel a little nervous.

The two men’s sword fighting was special in different ways. Arnold was steady and careful, while Bennett was quick and fast. Bennett liked to attack, and Arnold was really good at defending perfectly. Arnold only tried to attack when he was sure he could do it without getting hurt. But every time Arnold tried to strike, Bennett would find just the right way to move and avoid it.

She watched for a while and finally understood why Knight Philo said Arnold wasn’t someone to be very afraid of.

While calmness is undoubtedly a virtue, it can become a disadvantage when confronting an opponent of greater overall strength. Yet, the distinction between the two qualities is subtle, and they often appear to be evenly matched.

Nevertheless, when placed side by side, Bennett’s skills stand out as superior. His swordsmanship bears similarities to her usual style—favoring streamlined, concise movements.

However, whereas Alice’s technique was largely learned from Rom, Bennett’s approach was more of an individual evolution, building upon classical swordsmanship with his own enhancements. His personal style is notably distinct, occasionally incorporating movements that might seem superfluous.

Yet, these additions are clearly tailored to his unique habits, ultimately lending his technique a more cohesive and polished character.

The battle raged back and forth through dozens of moves, each combatant landing a few decisive strikes. Yet, both players committed to positions of minor significance, preventing the sequence from reaching the critical threshold that would prompt the referee to intervene.

Despite this, Alice perceived that Arnold was gradually losing ground, though he remained unaware of it—perhaps too entangled in the immediacy of the moment to notice.

As the exchange continued, impatience subtly crept into his demeanor; his facial expression shifted, betraying a hint of frustration. Nonetheless, his hand movements remained remarkably steady, a testament to his composure and skill.

Meanwhile, across from Arnold, Bennett maintained an air of control, though Alice sensed that Bennett’s current performance was likely not his peak—perhaps a cautious display rather than a fully unleashed effort.

As the match progressed, Arnold’s decline on the field became increasingly evident, and she sensed that victory was slipping beyond his grasp.

Indeed, after just three moves, Bennett’s sword tip gently pressed against Arnold’s throat, signaling the conclusion of the game.

Arnold’s demeanor was unmistakably displeased; he strode off the battlefield without so much as a nod to his opponent.

His face bore a somber expression, and Alice overheard him murmuring to his knight, “I could have won, but I lost my grip somewhere in the middle.”

A subtle smile played on her lips as she listened.

Arnold was truly unaware of the true nature of his downfall. It wasn’t a mistake of technique, but rather that Bennett’s sword had pushed him to his limits—he might have held on a little longer, but victory was never truly within his reach. The fact that he failed to see this was almost comical.

Yet, she chose to remain silent, her focus shifting to the upcoming game—hers against Bennett.

During the hour-long intermission between the two matches, she seized the opportunity to stretch her arms and legs, alleviating the risk of cramping before her upcoming bout.

Kent approached her with a warm greeting, “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself—just do your best. Overall, we stand a good chance of victory.”

While he was not a master swordsman, he had been trained from childhood, and his keen eyesight always served him well. Observing Bennett’s skill with the blade, he recognized that Alice’s prospects against him were uncertain.

Though his words might have been somewhat discouraging before the match, Alice remained unfazed; her mind was focused on something else. She longed to see Knight Philo once more before stepping onto the arena.

She scanned the crowd intently, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Are you in search of the Old Man Philo? He hasn’t arrived, I’m afraid,” Kent announced. “Earlier today, his servant came to deliver a message—he’s been running a fever since last night. Though his condition slightly improved this morning, he remains feverish. He also sent a note, which roughly read, ‘Even if the overall strength is slightly different, no one can predict the outcome of a single battle.’ I believe he thinks you have a chance to win.”

That message sounded much more encouraging than what Kent initially conveyed, or perhaps he sensed his previous words were lacking and sought to rectify them.

Alice nodded confidently, “I will win.”

She said it with conviction, yet inwardly, she was uncertain of how victory might be achieved. All she truly felt was a mixture of nervousness and excitement—sometimes so intertwined that it was hard to distinguish one from the other.

Against a strong opponent, whether they win or lose, they will increase their strength. Could she win? She felt the odds were slim, but not impossible.

The battle began, and both sides were initially very cautious.

But after a few sword fights, Bennett seemed to relax somewhat and even found the leisure to address her, “The one who fought me yesterday, is he your master? But your swordsmanship isn’t quite the same as his; you should have learned from others… I remember they said you used to be a mercenary.”

Alice didn’t answer, but focused on the other’s sword.

But he seemed to want to disturb Alice in this way and continued, “Your master is very powerful. If he were twelve years younger, I definitely wouldn’t be able to defeat him. You’re not bad either. It’s very rare to get this far at your age. But if you want to defeat me, you probably have another twelve years to grow up.”

Bennett had pronounced a decisive judgment, yet she, who had been contending with him until that moment, found herself increasingly convinced that victory was within her reach.

She was uncertain whether her burgeoning confidence was akin to Arnold’s, only to be met with scorn by onlookers, or whether it was truly justified. Although she recognized that, in this moment, she appeared no match for Bennett, an inner certainty was steadily taking root within her.

An intuitive soul by nature, Alice had learned over the years to temper her instincts with rational thought—though that analytical mindset was a product of her efforts and growth after birth, rather than her innate disposition.

Now, immersed in the heat of battle, she had relinquished reason altogether, trusting solely in her bodily sensations to guide her. Her years of combat had forged instinct into muscle memory, enabling her to anticipate and evade each of Bennett’s attacks with practiced ease.

When she deflected her opponent’s sword for the seventh consecutive time, Bennett chuckled softly, remarking, “Your intuition is remarkably sharp.”

Though the words carried a tone of praise, there was an underlying implication—suggesting that her prowess was largely driven by instinct and luck, and perhaps not as refined as it appeared. Yet, his intent was not merely to mock; it was a subtle attempt to unsettle her confidence.

While he did not take Alice entirely seriously in his words, his actions grew increasingly deliberate and earnest.

Bennett’s swordsmanship was already exceptional, and when he engaged with genuine focus, his skill ascended to a formidable level.

Ignoring his teasing, Alice centered her attention solely on the adversary. Her movements grew swifter and more fluid, to the point where she felt her eyes nearly keeping pace with her blades. It was as if she had become one with her sword, sensing a faint but undeniable shift—a potential breakthrough—unfolding within her during this intense confrontation with Bennett.

Gradually, he ceased speaking.

Though not all in the arena understood the intricacies of fencing, a subtle shift in the atmosphere was unmistakable—an unspoken recognition that the tide of the duel was turning.

They held their breath, falling silent, as only the resonant clash of steel against steel echoed through the vast space. Most of the spectators, unfamiliar with swordsmanship, could only watch with eager curiosity.

Meanwhile, Arnold sat in the same position Alice had just occupied, a tumult of astonishment surging within him—an emotion almost impossible to put into words.

Had Bennett wielded this formidable strength from the very beginning of his confrontation, he might have emerged victorious in mere moments. Yet, Alice managed to match his rhythm, prompting a question: was Bennett’s earlier restraint due to a lack of worthy challenge, or was there another reason behind his measured approach?

Arnold gazed upon the girl on the court, a few years his junior, and a sense of reverent awe stirred within him.

Alice, utterly undistracted by the crowd or even by Arnold himself, fixed her gaze solely upon Bennett and the gleam of his sword.

She did not call upon Cecilion, yet she felt his presence—close, almost tangible—at this exact moment. It was reminiscent of a time when they had been in perfect harmony, yet subtly different.

She sensed herself beginning to enter a state unlike any she had known before—a clarity so profound that it seemed as though she was observing through the eyes of a divine observer.

In her vision, Bennett’s movements appeared to slow, his sword slicing through the air with astonishing speed. Blocking his attack was now effortless, and she even found the luxury of contemplating the extraordinary nature of her experience in that fleeting instant.

It was, of course, impossible to comprehend such a moment in so brief a span.

What followed felt almost surreal. She perceived a vulnerability—an opening that Bennett either failed to defend or perhaps deemed unworthy of attention. Seizing the opportunity, she swiftly drew her sword with a speed that transcended ordinary limits.

In that instant—seemingly frozen in time—all else faded away.

Alice scarcely had the chance to grasp what she had just accomplished before the referee signaled the conclusion of the match.

The crowd erupted in applause, yet she was momentarily unaware of whom they celebrated. It was only when the referee raised her arm that realization dawned: she had emerged victorious.

Bennett had already lowered his sword, a vivid crimson mark now visible on his chest from her blade’s contact with his clothing—an unmistakable testament to her victory.

Yet, Alice had not secured her position as the champion in the fencing contest; her next match against Arnold was scheduled for after lunch.

She glanced toward the spot where Arnold had been seated, only to find that he was no longer there—he had departed earlier. Still, it mattered little; they would meet again in the afternoon’s competition.

Though fatigue from her prolonged play should have weighed on her, she felt invigorated, her spirit unshaken and fearless. If only the timing of the next bout had been fixed, she would have eagerly begun the second match at once, eager to face Arnold and secure victory outright.

Amidst the distant hum of the crowd, she felt a moment of puzzlement, “What’s going on?”

Soon, news arrived that the commotion stemmed from Arnold, her scheduled opponent for the afternoon, who had withdrawn beforehand.

According to the rules, his absence automatically resulted in a loss, thus elevating Alice to the position of top contender in the fencing competition.

Though slightly taken aback by his decision, Alice reasoned that perhaps he believed he stood little chance of victory regardless. It was possible that witnessing her match with Bennett had shaken his confidence, leading him to avoid potential embarrassment.

Regardless of the cause, the outcome was clear—Alice had emerged victorious.

Kent’s face lit up with joy, surpassing even her own happiness as he exclaimed, ”Only the mounted contest remains!“

His voice rang with confidence, “If we secure first place in the mounted competition, we will truly be three-time champions!”

Yet, achieving victory in the upcoming martial arts contest is no simple feat.

While archers can all shoot with precision and infantry can wield swords with skill, the art of combat on horseback is a specialized discipline reserved for knights.

The forty-five knights present are seasoned horsemen, and they will not relinquish their title easily. Furthermore, jousting is a contest fraught with unpredictability. Success depends not only on the knight’s prowess and mental fortitude but also on the condition of their steed.

An ill-prepared or mismatched horse, or one unaccustomed to the jousting environment, can undermine even the most skilled knight’s chances of victory.

Alice was well aware of the importance of careful preparation, and during the restful interval between the two competitions, she dedicated herself to fostering a trusting bond with Grumpy.

She fed the horse apples and oats, and arranged for its hooves to be trimmed and its horseshoes re-nailed, striving to bring it into optimal condition.

Grumpy displayed an uncommon obedience that filled Alice with confidence.

However, on the morning of the race, as she approached the stables, her heart sank at a troubling sight: the four newly affixed horseshoes on Grumpy had been partially removed by an unknown hand.