Extra Episode 1.

The admiral’s eldest son, heir to the Eastern Seas, son of Montrosa, junior marquis of the glorious Esperanda Empire, the future focal point of the royalist faction, the empire’s most promising bachelor, the society’s diamond cake…….

The last title was somewhat embarrassing for someone merely sixteen years old, yet even that sounded restrained in the face of countless noblewomen eagerly awaiting his coming of age. Cardier himself, however, welcomed none of these appellations.

Names bestowed upon him at birth carried such immense weight that they pressed down on his chest like a suffocating tide. Individuality easily erased, only the family name remained standing. He felt like a dried fish spread open under the sun—on display, treated no differently than an asset set aside for the future. As he withered away like this, even the family’s outcasts and deserters who had abandoned their duties began to seem enviable.

It was springtime, when he turned sixteen. Around then, Cardier grew utterly weary of Montrosa, of Esperanda’s aristocratic society.

“Hss.”

Cardier exhaled sharply, lifting his sword. He darted forward briefly toward an imaginary opponent, twisted the blade’s direction, and delivered three swift strikes. Each motion flowed seamlessly into the next. At every flash of steel, the air hummed sharply.

His sword training had long since become a solitary pursuit. He had no master. The sword instructors assigned by the admiral were all too fearful of leaving so much as a scratch on the Montrosa heir, and lessons limited to pacing the training ground and building basic stamina had grown unbearably dull. After replacing five sword masters in a single year, the admiral finally realized it was pointless to assign his son another.

“Young master.”

At the sound of someone approaching from behind, Cardier instinctively pointed his sword. Beads of sweat trickled from his chin, rolling down his still-soft but firm collarbone and chest.

Recognizing the figure, Cardier lowered his taut blade slightly.

“Vigo?”

“Yes, it’s me. Goodness, put that sharp thing away more gently.”

The man approached, brushing his short hair back with his hand. True to his northern barbarian roots, he had white hair and yellow eyes. A visible scar, torn by something, ran along one eyebrow. He appeared less fierce and more like a subdued predator. Fifteen years ago, he’d settled in Siclide as a foreigner, and for the past six years, he’d unofficially served as Cardier’s sword instructor—though closer to a sparring partner than a true master.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“Well, where else would you go? Let’s head back. The lady is looking for you.”

“…Since when did you become my nanny?”

“I’ve watched you since you were this tiny little brat. Only difference is I didn’t nurse you—I might as well have been your nanny.”

Chuckling, Vigo handed over a towel and water flask. Cardier drained the flask and wiped the sweat from his body with the towel. Vigo glanced at his young master with quiet admiration.

Even at the cusp of youth, the boy held a presence that drew attention. Lately, even his innate weariness seemed to radiate like a halo. No matter how striking a face might be, one would normally grow accustomed to it after dozens of encounters—yet this boy……

“How about a sparring match?”

Startled, Vigo blinked at the sudden suggestion.

“You’re not going back now?”

“It’s been a while.”

Only then did Vigo realize his young master was feeling somewhat restless. He deftly caught the wooden sword Cardier tossed into the air.

“Is something troubling you?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong? You look like you’re about to die of boredom.”

Cardier smiled quietly. Vigo well knew that expression—it was the boy’s way of slipping past difficult questions.

“Don’t smile like that……”

“Forget about me. When did you say you’d return to your homeland?”

“Oh, I’m leaving the estate tomorrow. The ship heading north departs at the end of this month. Until then, I’ll work as a mercenary and make a good profit.”

“……”

“You look disappointed?”

“Not at all.”

Cardier firmly gripped the wooden sword in his right hand. Vigo, who had been chuckling, instantly shifted into stance as if nothing had happened. Unlike imperial knights, who typically maintained an upright, formal posture, Vigo the barbarian fought with remarkable freedom. He let his sword hand hang loosely, as if showing no intent to attack—but Cardier knew better than anyone that this *was* Vigo’s fighting stance, and how sharp his strikes could be. As Cardier cautiously widened the distance, Vigo grinned, revealing his teeth.

“The rules?”

“As always—until the blade touches the body.”

“Today, I truly won’t hold back.”

“Do as you please.”

“Then I’m coming?”

Before the words fully left his mouth, a swift strike descended from above. Taller than most Esperandans by a head, and built robustly, Vigo wielded heavy, forceful techniques. Each parry sent numbing vibrations up Cardier’s arm.

“What’s this? Your movements are sluggish!”

With each short breath, Vigo’s blade darted toward vital points. One. Two. His earlier promise not to hold back was no lie. Twenty-eight versus sixteen, the overwhelming difference in height and build couldn’t be overcome by mere skill. Four. Five. As the rhythm faltered, Vigo’s sword lunged toward Cardier’s neck.

“Huh.”

Cardier reflexively arched his head back. A drop of blood trickled from a shallow cut where the blade had grazed his skin, immediately stinging as if hot sparks had scattered. Cardier stepped back twice, pressing the thin stream of blood with the hand opposite his sword. Looking up, he met Vigo’s crooked grin—a look that seemed to say, *Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t hold back?*

“……”

Cardier reset his stance. Noble swordsmanship was an extension of established conventions and strict rules: one must not advance when the opponent retreats, and must allow time to recover if their stance falters. Even Vigo, usually free-spirited, had generally followed these rules. But today was different.

“Oh.”

Before Cardier could fully reposition, Vigo kicked up dirt with his foot—a petty trick used only in real combat by mercenaries. In an instant, a cloud of dust enveloped them. Cardier barely parried the incoming strike through the hazy air, but was forced back half a step by its force.

His arm, from palm to elbow, went numb. The standoff lasted a mere instant. Driving the clashing blades apart with strength, Cardier blocked half of Vigo’s relentless attacks and deflected the others. Each clash sent tiny sparks flying like scattered embers.

“Again!”

Heat rising from his fingertips quickened his heartbeat. Heightened senses, sharpened by tension, whispered instinctively: *Aim there.* He could feel the momentum slowly shifting. Vigo’s breath grew ragged, his strikes hesitant. Now it was Vigo who retreated as Cardier advanced. Once two steps were taken, retreating ten more became easy. That was when Vigo made his final move.

“Ha!”

With a sharp exhale, Vigo lowered his upper body. In the next moment, he launched forward, driving off the ground. The attack, powered by his entire body weight, was devastating—but its weakness was clear: his stance collapsed. Cardier braced his forearm, pressing the blade flat to the right to block Vigo’s upward strike, then simultaneously struck Vigo’s neck with his free hand.

“……!”

Vigo stared at Cardier, dazed. The boy, now laughing openly, finally looked his age. Vigo remained silent for a moment, wiped sweat from his brow, seemed indignant, then finally burst into loud laughter.

“Ah, I’ve been completely defeated.”

“Want to go again?”

“No. Now you really must return. If you’re any later, the lady’s maid will kill me.”

Hesitating, Vigo scratched his head and added a few pieces of advice.

“It might sound silly, but just a few words: when swinging your sword, never hesitate. Do you think an enemy will wait for you in war? The opponent is giving their all to take your life—facing that with a blade lacking even a trace of killing intent means the more desperate one will win.”

“Got it.”

“And you habitually leave your right side open—that’s a bad habit too. Also……”

Vigo added, scratching his head.

“Be cautious of your surroundings. The location is what it is.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They each drank half the water from the bottle, then poured the rest over their heads. A cool breeze blew gently across the cliff. Spring. The weather was perfect for a sudden departure. Far off, in Siclide’s harbor, sloops bustled about, preparing for departure.

Cardier stood silently for a while, gazing at the open horizon and sailors swinging from ropes to sails. Standing beside him, Vigo quickly understood what lay at the end of the boy’s gaze.

“Do you wish to leave?”

“……Not sure.”

“Better to lie to a ghost than to lie to me.”

Cardier asked himself. Did he want to leave this place? The answer wasn’t one he could give easily. The burdens he’d carried since birth were heavy, yes—but to permanently cast them aside was a future he’d never dared imagine. A brief escape, perhaps, was another matter. As if peering straight into Cardier’s heart, Vigo whispered:

“If you say you just want some fresh air, I’ll find a way somehow.”

“……What?”

“What problem would there be if you just said you’d gone to see the festival up ahead for a bit?”

“What are you talking……”

“Shh.”

Vigo raised a finger to his lips, making a sharp hissing sound, as if someone might be eavesdropping.

“When tonight’s banquet ends, slip out through the back gate. I’ll take care of the guards and escorts.”

“……”

“You understand?”

Cardier nodded blankly. Vigo grinned, his thick lips curling into a playful smile—the kind shared only between those who kept a secret.