The night had burrowed deep into the military tent, and the flickering lamplight above cast a grid-like pattern across the document. Issar slowly unfolded the second copy, tracing the edge of the paper with his fingertip.
“Deliberate. Very carefully forged.”
His voice was low and composed.
“The signatures are inconsistent.”
It was the intelligence officer, Tergen, who spoke. Dressed in a neatly trimmed coat over a monochrome uniform, his eyes gleamed even in the darkness.
“It didn’t come from the standard reporting channels. Even the dates were altered in places. This wasn’t their first time.”
Issar said nothing, lifting his gaze from the papers.
“…The House of Rodan.”
At the mention of the name, the lamp above flickered. Without hesitation, Tergen opened a leather-bound notebook.
“A few days ago, similar seals appeared in other jurisdictions. The same type of forgery was attempted, and in two cases, the same seal engraver’s markings were found.”
He slid a few photocopies of documents toward Issar.
“That engraver used to be responsible for noble official seals within the Rodan domain. Officially missing, but his trail has recently resurfaced—in Rodan territory.”
Issar stared at the document.
“All the means, all the hands—inside that house.”
Tergen nodded.
“And the clincher: a minor formatting error in one report. Their quarterly notation format—it’s similar to the imperial accounting system but just different enough. It’s a legacy format still used exclusively in Rodan.”
“More precisely, it’s a bad habit some old clerks haven’t dropped.”
Issar breathed out quietly.
“The Rodan family’s prestige is a shell. But they’ve monopolized regional administration for decades through alliances with local elites—and they still have quiet ties to capital factions. Especially…”
Tergen chose his words carefully.
“One of the senior council members. A portion of the Marquis Rikelde’s private funds flowed into Rodan over the past few months.”
Issar narrowed his eyes.
“Marquis Rikelde…?”
“Yes. A leading voice among the pro-war faction. He wants the front expanded.”
Issar inhaled slowly.
“They’re testing me.”
Tergen nodded.
“An illegitimate upstart. Among the high nobility, someone like you rising in stature—makes them uneasy.”
“They fed me a fabricated front line report. To see how I’d react, how much disruption I’d cause…”
“Or to hope you’d make a mistake. Or someone would die. Or go missing. Or you’d stray from the command chain.”
Issar closed one of the documents and stood. He crossed his arms and looked up at the swaying lamp above. His gaze pierced the darkness—clear and sharp.
“Fine. If they laid the board for me…”
He stepped beneath the lamp.
“…I’ll play on it. But the rules—I decide those.”
Far on the outskirts of the southern district—where nobility and commoners blurred into the same gray shadow—mist crept through the alley walls. The air was thick with drunken groans, the sounds of scuffles, and the distant wail of hungry animals.
Issar walked through it all, wearing a nondescript coat. Hidden beneath it was a refined blade. A bodyguard trailing behind him spoke up carefully.
“You’re going yourself, sir?”
“I am.”
“But… that man has declared bankruptcy twice. And last month—”
“That’s exactly why he has no choice but to meet me.”
Issar’s stride was firm.
He stopped at the third floor of a decrepit inn. The door was rotted. Smoke leaked from the cracks. It barely kept out sound.
Knock. Knock.
The knock was flat. The reply came late.
The door creaked open, revealing a gaunt man with sunken cheeks.
“…Who are you?”
“I’m your last chance.”
Issar stepped inside first.
The room was wrecked, like the ruins of a life. Empty bottles, torn cards, scattered coins. The man at its center had unstable eyes, a gaunt face, a body that once might’ve been upright—now just a husk.
“Roen Listi. Legally recognized as a bastard of the House of Rodan. Birth registered seventeen years ago in the Empire’s Northern Bureau. Biological father: Ardel Rodan, former lord of the house.”
As Issar spoke, Roen’s expression hardened.
“Don’t say that name. He threw me away. Never acknowledged me. Not once.”
“You’re right. You were never acknowledged. That’s how you ended up here.”
Issar dropped a bundle of worn documents on the desk. It contained Roen’s debt history, lists of creditors, and a copy of the ID bond used as collateral.
“But you still carry the blood.”
Issar met his eyes.
“Imperial Nobility Law, Section 12, Clause 7: ‘A person who can prove direct bloodline, even if not a formal heir, may demand right of challenge in a territory duel.’
The law never abandoned you. It’s just as filthy as they are—but if you can wield it, it’s a fine tool.”
“You want me to fight for a territory?”
“You’re the challenger in name. I’ll do the fighting. You hide behind my name, I’ll hide behind your blood.”
Roen looked away. Sweat ran down his neck.
“Why’d you come to talk me into this yourself? Not here to kill me, are you?”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Issar leaned forward, one hand on the table’s edge. His voice struck like steel.
“Remember this moment, Roen. I gave you a choice. Climb up from the abyss with me—or walk out that door and disappear at the hands of those who still remember you.”
A pause. Then Roen licked his dry lips. His voice trembled.
“…How long do I get to live?”
“Until the duel ends. After that… depends on your talent for survival.”
Issar rose, gathering the documents.
“I won’t force a decision. But you know, don’t you? There’s no other way.”
The door closed. Darkness returned. But within it, for the first time, Roen placed a trembling hand on the chair.
His fingers shook.
The doors of the Nobles’ Registry Department always opened slowly—and closed even slower. A space layered with protocol, ceremony, seals, and wax. But that day, a name broke its sluggish rhythm.
“Roen Listi, recognized bastard of the House of Rodan, has submitted a formal challenge for the territory rights.”
After the clerk’s reading, silence followed.
Murmurs rippled among the nobles—mockery, disbelief, and irritation.
“Roen Listi? That gambling wretch is still alive?”
“He’s got Rodan blood, supposedly. But he was stripped of succession rights.”
“Hence the territory duel. As long as there’s a claim, it’s allowed. Word is, he submitted for a proxy duel.”
“Proxy? Like that wreck would fight for himself.”
“No name listed though. Nobility law only requires the challenger’s name. The duel’s legit, but where the hell would he find a proxy? He’s walking into death.”
In the far corner of the noble chamber, a man in a black cloak smiled faintly. Issar didn’t rise. He didn’t need to. The fact the challenge existed on paper was enough.
“A trivial ruckus.”
That was what Baron Rodan said.
In his quiet study, he sipped wine, waving off his advisors.
“If we accept the duel, it lends him legitimacy.”
“Just ignore it. He’s a bankrupt bastard—”
The baron chuckled and shook his head.
“But if we ignore it, we look like we’re running. It’s public now—filed with the Nobles’ Council. The gossip’s getting louder.”
One aide spoke hesitantly.
“Is it possible… someone’s backing him?”
“No.”
The baron cut him off.
“Roen’s a worm. Blood ties aside, he’s got no real support. This is just… a desperate lunge by a discarded whelp.”
He set his glass down.
“Accept it. Let it be a duel. Send someone. These farces deserve an ending now and then, if only as a noble courtesy. But if he *does* field a proxy… ready Braka.”
The duel day arrived under a rare clear sky above Baron Rodan’s training yard. Black tents and noble banners flapped in the wind. The dirt floor of the duel ring had been carefully leveled the day before, and the red clay outline was drawn bold—ready to soak in blood.
Before the duel began, Rodan’s people took their places with relaxed expressions.
Their champion was nameless. A third-rank knight from the city guard. “For a bastard,” they figured, “he’ll do.”
“Noble council observers confirmed.”
“Challenger’s party, arriving.”
Two figures approached from afar. One looked exactly as expected—gaunt, hunched under a shabby robe.
Roen Listi.
Baron Rodan sneered.
“He actually came alone. How admirably stubborn.”
But then the second man appeared.
At first, they assumed he was a guard. But his gait was no servant’s.
Centered. Poised. Battle-hardened. A worn scabbard hung at his side.
When he stepped into the ring, the gallery stirred.
“…Wait. That man…”
One of the baron’s aides fumbled his list.
“That’s Issar. Direct attaché to the Imperial Front Command… partial authority in internal affairs.”
Blood drained from the baron’s face.
“…What?”
“Issar. The bastard. But officially registered as a noble military officer. Commander of an independent, non-standard imperial unit.”
The name was known. Young. Illegitimate. But known for “cutting flesh through orders alone”—not bloodshed.
And now, the bastard held the sword behind the other bastard’s name.
“…This is a joke.”
The baron’s voice broke low. Finally, he realized—
Roen was merely a banner with no face.
The real enemy was the one standing behind it.
Just then, the yard’s knight captain stormed in.
“My lord! The original champion won’t do. That man’s a veteran fighter.
If we don’t respond—”
“Send in Braka. Now.”
Silence fell over the duel yard.
“Substitute duelist requested.”
Baron Rodan’s side called out.
The observing scribe gave assent.
“Request validated. As per custom, high-ranking knight ‘Braka,’ pre-registered. Substitution approved.”
The central gate opened. Braka stepped through.
He hadn’t drawn his sword. He didn’t need to. His face was calm, helmet off. A flawless greatsword hilt gleamed in his grip. His body was solid stone.
Whispers ran through the crowd.
“A war-returned butcher… That’s Braka.”
“A seasoned killer. You don’t win against that without drawing blood.”
Issar said nothing.
His hand rested on his scabbard. His pace was slow. Each step composed. Something coiled in the silence around him.
“Draw your sword.”
Braka was the first to speak. His voice was like packed earth.
Issar tilted his head ever so slightly.
Then his hand slid across the scabbard.
*Shick.*
Steel rasped.
The blade was thin. Lightly curved. Older than polished iron.
“…You’ll cut me with that?”
Braka laughed.
“Then let’s see it.”
And Braka lunged.
His first strike wasn’t a feint.
A direct cleave—pure force.
He wielded his sword two-handed, no shield. Wind split before him.
*Boom—!*
Issar dodged, but the shockwave cracked the ground.
Then came three more slashes. No finesse.
Just crushing weight. Pressure. Dominance.
Issar backpedaled.
Off-balance. His cuts veered wide.
Sweat formed.
He was young.
Experienced in war, yes—but this wasn’t war.
This was a duel against a butcher.
Braka’s sword grazed his side.
Cloth tore. Blood spattered.
“This is a deeper fight than you think,” Braka muttered.
“Tactics, politics—none of that wins here.
This place is for those who know blood.”
Issar panted.
His breath caught.
Boots sank into mud. Ankles stuck.
Arms ached. His body faltered with each lift of the sword.
His heartbeat turned to tremor.
Braka gave no pause.
“Scared, are you?”
Steel rained again—relentless.
Issar didn’t block.
He couldn’t.
It was no defense, but an angle—waiting for the least-harmful strike.
His wrist was pinned. Jaw turned. Knee dropped.
Blood hit stone.
His body was cut in several places.
His sight blurred.
Then—
On the back of his hand, blood slicked steel—
and the blade pulsed.
Something moved, beneath the darkness clinging to the edge.
Not light. But something like a thread, coiling through the metal.
Only two noticed.
The gallery remained oblivious.
An unreadable texture shimmered faintly—a breath from the depths.
Braka hesitated instinctively.
“…What is this…”
He whispered.
“…A living blade?”
Issar rose again.
His eyes were changed.
The fear was gone.
Pain forgotten.
He no longer fought.
He *was* the fight.
Next move—clear.
A downward cut—an arc aimed at Braka’s chest.
The air warped behind it like a cry.
Braka lifted his blade—
—but Issar feinted.
He curved, flowing like an afterimage—
and drove his real strike below—at the leg.
“—Khh!”
Braka staggered.
Issar stepped in.
His blade rose vertically.
And again, the strange ripple—like darkness peeled from the air.
A red line bloomed on Braka’s leg. He held his stance—
but barely.
He limped back, resetting his footing.
Blood flowed freely. Yet his eyes still burned.
“Good,” Braka growled. “Then let me return the favor. Take this!”
Braka’s greatsword descended.
Not wind—but weight incarnate.
A technique of overwhelming force.
None had withstood it.
But then—
Issar’s eyes caught light.
He didn’t see the swing—he saw the gap.
He turned his body.
Right foot grounded. Left shoulder dropped. Sword reversed.
Through that gap—his blade entered.
A red line burst across Braka’s chest—
and he collapsed.
His greatsword hit stone with a clamor.
Issar stood with blade in hand—breath short.
The stands fell silent. No one spoke.
Not even the nobles.
They hadn’t just seen a victory.
They’d seen a shift in power.
A bastard.
The shadow of imperial nobility.
No one said it. But everyone knew.
He had crossed the threshold.
Circular Notice, Item 36:
“On the legal validity and conventional legitimacy of territory inheritance by duel winner Issar regarding the former Rodan estate.”
The Council Chamber of Nobles was always cold.
Old crests cast shadows along the gallery walls, and crescent-shaped chandeliers dropped light down from black marble pillars. The blend of wood and stone silenced the air. Nothing stirred but the rustling of documents.
Only authorized voices spoke—only at their time.
That day’s topic was unusual.
‘Bastard.’ ‘Duel.’ ‘Inheritance.’
None of the words fit this space.
Thus, no expressions changed.
No voices rose.
But every gaze was sharp.
Only soft murmurs passed between seats. This was Issar’s first time as an official agenda item. But his name already lived in every mind.
“Victory confirmed. Oversight by Inspection Corps. Written waiver submitted.”
The inspector’s clerk read aloud.
“Roen Listi, former Rodan heir, signed and sealed a document transferring territorial inheritance to his guardian—immediately after the duel. His own signature, stamp, and validation by two clerical officers.”
“A guardian? For someone not even a formal noble?”
Count Brian of the Rikelde faction scoffed.
“A guardian? That’s mimicry. Without a noble title, you’re telling me that waiver counts?”
“Roen Listi isn’t registered with the noble council, but he’s listed in official records as a bastard of House Rodan.”
Another noble countered.
“And operational logs show him running the estate for three months alone. His signature appears in tax records.”
“In other words—no precedent.”
Count Brian raised his brow.
“He assigns inheritance without a title, and the bastard *accepts* it? What next? Will you let some thief raise a flag, kill a man in a duel, and say, ‘This is mine’?”
Silence.
Then a chair scraped softly.
From the eastern podium, Duke Elhar stood.
He adjusted his papers and strode forward—polished uniform, impeccable presence.
The moment his name was heard, subtle glances darted across the room.
Elhar—officially ‘neutral,’ but long known as a counterbalance to Rikelde. When he moved, it was never without intent.
He was closely tied to the Trade Bloc—aristocrats profiting from commerce with the Republic. When war disrupted trade, they suffered.
Rikelde’s push to expand the front threatened them.
They hadn’t said it, but everyone suspected—Issar had backing.
Elhar’s voice was calm.
“The law is clear.”
He read slowly.
“Section 7, Article 3:
‘A duel, if conducted under official oversight, settles civil inheritance disputes.’
Noble or not, law is not emotion—it’s structure.”
Brian frowned. Another near him whispered,
“Elhar again. Using this to hit Rikelde.”
“If he’s pushing this hard over a bastard, there’s more going on.”
Unbothered, Elhar continued.
“The Rodan estate was clearly won in duel.
Voluntary transfer. Overseen signing. Legal threshold met.
There is only one thing we can dispute:
Emotion.”
A few nobles chuckled.
Elhar turned slightly.
“That the rules were followed too well—that is not a flaw in the law.
That is a flaw in our traditions.”
Quiet.
He finished,
“Roen Listi’s statement is part of official records.
If we deny Issar’s inheritance—then abolish the duel clause, or rewrite inheritance law.”
He fell silent.
The chamber did not.
Now, the Council weighed those words.
Late afternoon light seeped through the canvas. In a bare room, the only sounds were the wind and the rustle of parchment.
Issar stood by the window. Outside, newly assembled soldiers trained, while an old Rodan banner still fluttered—untouched.
The flap opened. Tergen entered—dressed in a crisp uniform and black overcoat.
“Inheritance approval has passed by formal circulation,” he said quietly.
He placed a sealed folder on the desk.
“Four dissenting votes. Seven abstained. The rest—silent. Official ratification begins tomorrow.”
Issar nodded. He sat and opened the folder. The seal embossed on the front read simply:
“— Former Rodan Estate, Officially Transferred.”
“— Recipient: Roen Listi.”
“Elhar moved,” Issar murmured.
Tergen hesitated, then responded.
“Yes. No official statement, but the day before the vote, his aide made informal contact. Delivered documentation on the inheritance’s legal viability. Inspection logs, signed affidavits.”
“Did he name conditions?”
“Not directly. But he voiced unease about Rikelde’s growing influence—and called this an ‘opportunity to begin reforming the noble order.’”
Issar gave a faint smile.
“Calculated political capital.”
He looked back down at the documents. The name ‘Rodan’ would now vanish from record.
Tergen spoke again.
“What do you plan to do with Roen?”
Issar was silent. His fingers pressed the edge of the seal. The gold trim was cool to the touch. The pages still smelled new.
“I’ll clean it up—when the time is right.”
Tergen nodded. He didn’t ask further.
“He’s a flag that’s served its use. And flags, when they stop moving in the wind… no one remembers them long.”
Outside, a sergeant barked training commands.
Issar gazed beyond the window—his voice quiet.
The air inside the tent was cold.
And the shadows of the past were gone.
