Home/I confined you, but I have no ill will/ch 112

112.

"Barbarians."

The Nordin tribe—once called barbarians—had fought to survive on barren land. Though not knights or a nation, they were not to be underestimated. Compared to the Nordin Kite had faced, these two knights before him were hardly exceptional.

How arrogant people could be.

A laugh escaped Kite. He slowly adjusted his grip on the sword he'd been pointing at the ground. His stance was unguarded—no need to exert himself against those who didn't even know their own level.

"Long-tongued rats."

"Insolent!"

Stung by the mockery, the two knights charged fiercely. The Teyrin Imperial Knights were renowned—they moved as one, efficient in combat. As the rumors said, they worked in perfect harmony. One aimed for Kite's throat while the other swung at his legs—an attack honed through thousands of repetitions. Blue sword light pressed from all sides, cleaving the air.

"For rats who loosed assassins in the heart of the Imperial capital, you have remarkably long tongues."

Behind him, Taysh caught his breath—there seemed no escape. But Kite didn't move a step. He only watched the incoming blades with emotionless eyes.

Clang—!

The knights' eyes widened in shock. Kite deflected the upper strike with his blade's flat side while twisting its trajectory to knock aside the lower one—a fluid, natural defense. Their combined effort was effortlessly blocked.

"Your movements are too broad."

The knights gritted their teeth at his voice.

"Like dancing. In a real fight, that kind of swordplay loses your head."

"Shut up!"

"Nonsense!"

Flushed with shame, they unleashed a barrage of attacks. The clash of swords echoed relentlessly through the narrow corridor. Their blades were blindingly fast and sharp.

But they lack force.

Taysh watched in awe. Kite hadn't been hit once. With casual steps, as if taking a stroll, he evaded, deflected, and redirected their coordinated assault—minimal movement, maximal efficiency. A hint of anxiety and fear crept onto the knights' faces.

"Th-this monster...!"

One knight, breath ragged, cursed and raised his sword high. A visible aura began to gather along the blade—a final attack fueled by all his remaining strength.

"Oh?"

Taysh had rarely seen such a sword aura—few could wield it. How would Kite respond?

"Do you know why I've been on the defensive?"

For the first time, Kite drew one foot back and raised his sword. Taysh felt a chill down his spine. A dense blue aura began to coalesce around Kite's blade—not blinding, but overwhelming, swallowing the light around it.

An immense pressure filled the corridor, making it hard to breathe.

"I was hoping to learn something."

But there was nothing to learn.

"Now go."

Kite's low voice sounded like a death sentence. His blade cut through both knights in the blink of an eye—slicing through everything in its arc like soft pudding.

The knights collapsed without even a scream, coughing blood from grievous wounds.

"Oh no!"

Taysh rushed to them—their bodies were badly damaged, but treatable. The fear in their eyes would make them useful for interrogation later.

"...Swordmaster."

The knight managed to utter the word, but Kite showed no interest.

The two knights lay crumpled against the wall, their wrist bones shattered, convulsing in pain as they looked up at Kite with terror-filled eyes. The overwhelming gap in power—they finally understood the true weight of the title "Swordmaster" they had so casually dismissed.

Kite's sword was spotless.

"You asked if it was right to call him strong."

He stepped closer and mercilessly crushed the fallen knight's wrist.

"At least say that after you've parried a blade."

Stepping past the unconscious knights as if they were insects, Kite's gaze returned to the glowing jewel in his palm.

"Taysh."

"Yes, Your Grace!"

"Hand these over to the knights outside."

"And you?"

"I can't keep her waiting—I'm going."

Kite vanished into the dark corridor. Taysh stared after him, then gathered the knights—with Kite alone, nothing would go wrong.

---

At the same time, on the opposite corridor.

"Damn it—where did she hide!"

Pavltin paced anxiously, biting his lip. Outside, Pabeln had broken in and was wreaking havoc, and Ibelin had vanished. He couldn't help but panic.

Richt didn't keep subordinates who made big mistakes. Having come this far, he couldn't afford to be cast aside now—he had to make amends.

"Unknown!"

His frustration boiled over at Unknown's absence. Still, there was hope—he had a reliable tracking tool. In his hand was a small compass-like artifact, resonating with the tracker implanted in Unknown.

The needle pointed to an old storehouse at the end of the corridor. Pavltin kicked the door open.

"Unknown!"

It swung open, revealing someone sitting on an old crate—Unknown, whom he'd been searching for. He scanned the room, but Ibelin was nowhere.

"You! Why are you here? What about that woman Ibelin!"

Pavltin shouted, his face twisted with rage. But Unknown remained calm.

"Why do you seek her from me?"

"Because!"

Because she had vanished. He caught himself—perhaps Unknown truly didn't know. There had been commotion, but it was quiet here, and his senses were dulled from repeated prophecies. Pavltin tore at his hair.

"Ibelin has disappeared."

Unknown slowly looked up.

"Where to?"

"If I knew, would I be looking for you?"

"You want me to find her."

"For you, it's easy."

"...Easy. Yes, for me, it is."

He tapped the gem on his ring—a small, sharp blade sprang out. A tool he carried for easy prophecy.

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