Oh no!
The moment the crackling lightning coiled around Semia's parasol came into view, the nobleman's heart skipped a beat. He sucked in a sharp breath, the color draining from his face as he realized, with a sinking feeling, that he had made a terrible mistake. Arrogant he might be, but he was no fool. The sight of that magical lightning was enough to tell him that he was in way over his head. But the duel had already begun, and there was no turning back now. Gritting his teeth, the nobleman steeled himself and charged forward, already mentally preparing to concede defeat. He even had his excuse ready: a little girl? So what if she was a little girl? Had anyone ever seen a little girl who was a master of both magic and swordsmanship before? By the Saints! He had slaved away for years just to break through to the Intermediate Rank—how could he possibly stand against a monster like this?
With that thought, the nobleman made up his mind. No matter what happened next, he would drop his sword and surrender immediately. That way, he could claim that he had recognized the gap in their power and chosen discretion over valor. To keep fighting now would be nothing short of suicidal idiocy.
It was at that exact moment that his longsword collided with the oncoming parasol for the very first time.
*Ting.*
"Huh?"
The nobleman let out a startled grunt. To his utter surprise, the force that met his blade was not the earth-shattering, thunderous onslaught he had feared. Instead, it was no more than the gentle flick of a little girl's wrist—so light, so faint, that if his nerves had not been stretched taut as a bowstring, he might not have even felt it at all. It was barely there.
Had he been scaring himself for nothing? Was this girl nothing more than a flashy fraud, putting on a show with no real power to back it up?
His doubts lasted no longer than a split second. For in that instant, a searing, numbing sensation exploded up his arm, spreading through his body like a raging flood in the blink of an eye!
*Crack!*
A deafening clap of thunder rang out. The nobleman's mouth fell open, but no sound escaped his lips. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, but his tensed muscles refused to obey his commands. The fierce, crackling lightning coiled around him like a nest of venomous snakes, binding him tightly in its grasp.
It was an eerie optical illusion. Everyone watching saw the two combatants clash, saw the black-haired girl's parasol strike the nobleman's sword. Then, both figures froze for a heartbeat—and in the next, a roaring, writhing torrent of lightning erupted from the girl's parasol, tearing through the nobleman's body. His tall, burly frame was hurled backward as if struck by a cannonball.
But in reality, the nobleman's feet had barely left the ground when the lightning coiling around him transformed into a tangled web of glowing vines, yanking him to a sudden halt and pulling him back toward the girl. Meanwhile, Semia, having landed her blow, darted backward. Taking advantage of his paralyzed state, the black parasol in her hand flickered with a faint light before striking forward in a strange, twisting arc.
"Oh!!"
A collective gasp went up from the crowd as dozens of onlookers jumped to their feet. Many of them were swordsmen themselves, intimately familiar with the intricacies of swordsmanship. From what they knew, sword techniques that relied on complex, convoluted movements were usually unorthodox, underhanded strikes—tricks designed to confuse the enemy with unpredictable trajectories. But the swordsmanship Semia displayed now was far beyond anything they had ever imagined. Her parasol traced intricate patterns through the air—but these were not meant to bewilder her foe. She was using the parasol to draw **magical runes**!
The greatest weakness of a mage-swordsman was their inability to wield high-level magic to kill their enemies. Instant-cast low-level spells could turn the tide of a battle, but their power was ultimately limited. Even if a mage-swordsman *could* cast high-level magic, they would be faced with an unavoidable problem: **time**.
High-level magic could not be cast instantaneously. To unleash its power, one had to chant incantations and draw magical sigils—there was no way around it. Mages could do this safely under the protection of their warriors, but mage-swordsmen could not. That was why mage-swordsmen were such an awkward, middle-of-the-road class among swordsmen—they could not rely solely on their physical strength like a pure swordsman, nor could they afford the time and space needed to channel their power like a pure mage.
Thus, mage-swordsmen were nothing more than a flashy novelty, beautiful to look at but ultimately unfulfilling. Mages would never waste their energy on mastering the sword, and swordsmen rarely possessed the innate talent for magic. This fighting style might dazzle onlookers, but when it came to practicality and potential on the battlefield, it left much to be desired.
So when Semia first revealed her powers, it had shocked the crowd—but it had not changed their fundamental opinion of her. After all, real combat was not a duel. Enemies would never stand idly by and wait for you to finish chanting your incantations before attacking. But this second strike instantly shattered their preconceptions. This was not the clumsy, half-baked fighting style of a typical mage-swordsman. This was a complete, self-contained combat technique—one that posed a deadly threat!
"Northern gales that howl through the winter, heed my call—rend all asunder!"
The girl's clear, melodious voice echoed across the square. As she finished her chant, the parasol—having completed the last stroke of its runic pattern—lunged forward once more. The entire sequence had unfolded in a matter of seconds. If the nobleman's body had been able to move, he might have been able to counterattack or dodge. But the numbing effect of the lightning had completely robbed him of control over his own limbs. He could not move a muscle, could not even open his mouth to speak. He could not even beg for mercy or surrender. Helpless, the poor nobleman could only watch as the parasol pierced through his defenses and tapped him lightly on the chest for a second time.
*Boom!*
A deafening explosion rang out. A howling, bone-chilling gale erupted from the tip of the parasol, lifting the nobleman's body off the ground and hurling him into the air. The poor man's eyes bulged like saucers, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he struggled in vain to speak.
But Semia's assault was far from over. As the nobleman soared into the air, her tiny body coiled like a spring before leaping upward, chasing after him. Her hands never stopped moving. The onlookers stared, dumbfounded, as streams of magical light flowed from her body, weaving into a river of intricate runes. Then, they heard her chant another incantation.
This time, the girl did not even need to touch her opponent. She simply pointed the parasol at him and swung it downward with all her might.
As she did, the nobleman's body—hurtling backward through the air—seemed to be struck by an invisible sledgehammer. He froze mid-flight before plummeting like a stone toward the ground. A thunderous *crash* followed, sending clouds of dust billowing into the air. A deep crater now marred the once-solid stone surface of the square. Meanwhile, the girl in mid-air executed an elegant, graceful somersault, riding the shockwave downward. The crowd barely had time to blink before the tiny, black-cloaked figure landed lightly on the ground, her parasol piercing the nobleman's chest with pinpoint accuracy.
*Gasp!*
Only then did the nobleman finally manage to draw a breath, a fountain of blood erupting from his mouth and staining his elaborate, expensive clothes crimson.
A deathly silence fell over the square. Every single onlooker stared, transfixed, at the tiny, adorable figure standing triumphantly over her fallen foe. That sequence of fluid, gorgeous, and devastatingly powerful attacks had transcended the limits of their imagination. By the Saints! They could swear on the name of Mana—they had never seen such a breathtaking, terrifying display of combat prowess in their entire lives! Who was this little girl? How had she come to possess such power?
As the crowd stood in stunned silence, Celt's jaw had dropped open in shock.
She's *incredibly* strong!
From the very beginning of the duel, Celt had known that the outcome would be a foregone conclusion. But he had never imagined that the young girl would be this powerful. And he was certain—she was holding back. If she had unleashed her full strength, that poor fool would have been reduced to a pile of charred ash by the first lightning strike, with no chance of survival whatsoever. No, the girl was clearly putting on a show… she was not fighting a duel. She was performing a dazzling exhibition for everyone to see.
What if she were on my side?
The thought crossed Celt's mind unbidden, and he immediately compared himself to Semia. The conclusion sent a chill down his spine. Even if he had stepped onto that square himself, what could he have done? High-level magic was not something he could hope to counter. No—wait a minute. If she were just a high-circle mage, he might have stood a chance. But against someone who had mastered both swordsmanship and magic to such a degree… even he would have been hard-pressed to come out on top.
Celt frowned deeply. He had never paid much heed to the words of Archmage Laribaud before—but now, his doubts were beginning to fade. If Black was just a fluke, an anomaly, that could be explained. But if everyone around him possessed such terrifying power… then this was far more than a simple coincidence.
"Well, General? Did you enjoy the show?"
Black's voice suddenly rang out from behind Celt, jolting the old general out of his thoughts. Celt let out a long breath, then turned to face the young man with the elegant, confident smile on his lips.
"It was a most impressive display, Lord Black."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it."
Black smiled and nodded, his gaze drifting back to the square. Semia had already finished her fight, and was now waving happily to the cheering crowd. The soldiers roared their approval, showering the young girl with the loudest, most enthusiastic applause she could have asked for.
"Actually, if you don't mind, I might have a way to help you resolve your current predicament."
"Oh?"
Celt raised an eyebrow, looking at Black in surprise.
"What do you mean?"
"Those beasts," Black said, his eyes never leaving the black-haired girl in the square, his expression softening with undisguised affection and pride.
"Those beasts… they don't have to be your problem anymore, do they, General?"
"…"
Celt fell silent for a moment, then shook his head with a bitter laugh.
"I don't know if it's that I'm getting too old to keep up with the times… or if the times are changing far too quickly for me, Lord Black."
He shrugged his shoulders, letting out a heavy sigh.
"Nevertheless, I'll need some time to think about it."
"As you wish."
Black did not press the issue. He simply bowed in the formal manner of a noble, then turned on his heel—and vanished into the cheering crowd once more.