After the audience ended, the Munster delegation was given lavish guest chambers within the castle.
As I walked while escorting Princess Isolde, my gaze settled on the huge general silently guarding her side.
Even through his armor, his massive muscles could not be concealed, and his sharp eyes held a killing intent that was anything but ordinary.
"Hey, General. You look pretty strong. What's your name?"
At my abrupt question, the giant general stopped walking and bowed his head politely.
"I am Morholt, commander of Munster's legions and maternal uncle to Princess Isolde, Your Highness."
"Morholt..."
I stroked my chin and looked him over with interest.
"Then are you the strongest warrior in the Kingdom of Munster?"
At my question, Morholt gave a bitter smile and shook his head.
"Forgive me, Your Highness. Even within Munster, I am no more than the third strongest."
"Hm? With that much spirit, and you're only third? Then who's the strongest knight in Munster?"
"The strongest knight in all of Iwerddon, and the first among Munster, is none other than Sir Marhaus, brother-in-law to His Majesty King Anguishaus."
Morholt spoke that name with reverence in his voice.
"He is a man blessed by the night, growing stronger as the sun sets, and when evening falls, his martial might becomes literally invincible."
A trait completely opposite to Gawain, who grew stronger in the daytime. So Ireland had some pretty interesting monsters of its own.
"Then who's the second strongest knight?"
When I asked again, Morholt gave an unexpected answer.
"The second is neither from Munster nor from Iwerddon. He is Sir Palamedes, who came from the distant continent of Saracen and remains at our court as a guardian knight. His twin-swordsmanship is truly close to divine skill."
"Palamedes?"
The moment that name came up, I flinched in surprise.
Palamedes.
The pagan knight who held the ninth seat among the Knights of the Round Table, Tristan's rival, and the man who secretly loved Isolde.
I never expected him to be staying in the Kingdom of Munster.
Still, aside from knowing he was from Saracen, I didn't know much else, so I couldn't tell whether he was Round Table material or not.
"Fine. Even if you're only third, on the scale of all Ireland you'd still be one of the top fighters. General, how about a light spar with me?"
At my unexpected proposal, both Morholt and Princess Isolde looked startled.
"If you manage to land even a single clean hit on me, I'll drastically reduce the taxes imposed on Munster as a vassal state and guarantee you much more favorable treatment. Well?"
"A spar with Your Highness Arthur, ruler of a kingdom... regardless of victory or defeat, how could I dare point my sword at your royal person?"
As Morholt showed his reluctance and tried to refuse, I let out a short laugh.
"If you're that scared, should I start by placing a geas that I won't hold any personal grudge over this spar?"
At those words, Morholt's pride twitched.
"...If you would go so far as to invoke a geas, then on my honor as a knight, I will accept Your Highness's proposal."
Of course, I had no intention of placing any geas. It was just a light provocation to make him fight with everything he had.
And so, in the training yard of Nogares Castle, we stood facing each other with wooden swords in hand.
Watching the scene from one side of the yard, Isolde's heart burned with anxious tension.
'His Highness Arthur may be the great hero who defeated King Rience... but honestly, wasn't that because of the overwhelming mystery of Pendragon's holy sword? My father wasn't inferior to King Rience in strength either, but in the end he still lost because of Marmyadose.'
Even Erin, once called the land of warriors, had now entered an age where victory and defeat were decided less by pure martial skill than by overwhelming Noble Phantasms and mystery.
That was why Isolde doubted whether Arthur could defeat Morholt with nothing but an ordinary wooden sword, without the holy sword.
Perhaps noticing her thoughts, Artoria, who stood beside her, spoke with a faint smile.
"Princess. Are you worried my brother might be hurt? Or... are you doubting his skill?"
"N-no! How could I dare entertain such a rude thought...?"
As Isolde flinched and hurriedly tried to explain herself, Artoria gently answered while stroking her swollen belly.
"I understand. My brother looks so young and beautiful, and the feats he's accomplished sound so unreal that a lot of people suspect they've been exaggerated."
Artoria's emerald eyes shone with deep trust as they looked toward me in the center of the training yard.
"But, Princess. There are people in this world who are exceptions unto themselves, beings who far surpass common sense. Watch carefully."
No sooner had she finished speaking than the air in the training yard burst apart.
"Here I come!"
Morholt closed the distance at terrifying speed that did not suit his heavy frame and swung his wooden sword in a horizontal slash.
But.
"Too slow."
My figure vanished as though scattering into thin air.
"......?!"
The moment Morholt thought his sword had struck mine aside, no impact reached his hand at all. It had only been an afterimage created by my overwhelming speed.
"What you're seeing and feeling right now is the me of the past."
At the same time my low voice sounded from behind Morholt, my wooden sword smashed into his solid waist.
"Kgh...!!"
With a heavy bursting sound, Bam!, Morholt's huge body was launched into the air. He spun once before crashing and rolling across the ground.
Thanks to his astonishing toughness and reflexes, he immediately broke his fall and got back up, but the throbbing pain in his waist was more than enough to leave him horrified.
'This... this is the speed and strength of a teenage boy?!'
"Come on, if you're warmed up now, show me some spirit. You're too weak for a warrior of Erin."
When I provoked him with my wooden sword resting on my shoulder, a beastlike fighting spirit boiled up in Morholt's eyes.
"Kraaaah!!"
He drew up the mana of his entire body and kicked off the ground.
The straightforward vertical chop he brought down carried such overwhelming destructive force that it looked capable of pulverizing even a boulder in one blow.
But I did not dodge. Instead, I thrust forward my forehead, packed with concentrated mana, and charged straight at his wooden sword.
KWA-BOOOOM!!
The instant Morholt's wooden sword, reinforced to the hardness of steel, struck my forehead head-on, it shattered into pieces with a tremendous tearing blast and scattered in every direction.
"Wh-what...! You broke a sword with your head...!"
In that split second when Morholt lost himself in shock at such a beastly response that shattered all common sense—
"An opening."
My fist shot out like a cannonball and smashed into Morholt's right ribs.
"Kugh...!!!"
Morholt's body bent like a bow, and his eyes rolled white.
The destructive shockwave bursting from my fist punched through his body and struck the wall of the training yard behind him.
Thud.
A single blow.
Morholt dropped to his knees like a felled tree, collapsed forward, and coughed up blood.
"Is that all you've got?"
I looked down coldly at him where he had fallen.
"If you're a warrior of Erin, then show me some spirit. Are you trying to stain the valor of the great heroes of old like Cu Chulainn and Finn MacCool? Handing your country over to Rience so easily and declaring submission by offering hostages to me... as a ruler, I'll grant that it was a wise choice, but as a man, as a warrior, I honestly didn't like it."
From the distance, Merlin, who had been waiting nearby, waved her staff and cast healing Magecraft, and Morholt's broken ribs slowly began to knit back together.
Planting a trembling fist against the ground, he slowly rose with a blood-soaked face.
"Kh... I never imagined that a young foreign king would be the one to rebuke Erin's fighting spirit and will."
He clenched his fist tightly and took his stance.
"Your Highness is right. At some point, we hid ourselves beneath the fine-sounding name of chivalry and forgot the native wildness and resolve of the Celts, who once threw their lives on the line as warriors."
His eyes changed. They were no longer a knight's eyes, but the primal gaze of a hunter stalking prey.
"Good. That's the look."
I threw away the wooden sword I had been holding and raised both fists.
From that moment on, the training yard became the stage for a crude and desperate exchange of bare-knuckle combat.
I did not dodge.
Every time Morholt's heavy fists grazed past, the floor of the training yard was gouged out, but my fists struck three times faster than his and hit Morholt's vital points with far deadlier force.
Thud!Crunch!
A blood-spraying collision of naked bodies.
With her hand clamped over her mouth, Isolde watched that beastlike fight in awe.
'That isn't... a knight's battle. It's like watching the fighting of the hero Fergus in person...!'
In the end, after dozens of clashes, Morholt collapsed onto the dirt once more, and this time he could not rise again.
It was a perfect defeat. In the end, he had failed to land even a single clean hit on me.
"Haa... haa... I've lost, Your Highness."
Morholt panted, covered in blood.
Letting out a rough breath, I walked over and casually held out a hand to him where he lay.
"Good work. I liked your grit a lot."
I gave him a small smile and pulled him to his feet.
"From now on, if you're a man, and if you're a warrior of Erin, never forget that resolve. You failed to land a clean hit, but... I liked the eyes you showed as a warrior back there, so I'll promise Munster treatment far more generous and exceptional than anywhere else."
"Ah... Your Highness."
Morholt lowered his head deeply, looking at me with overflowing respect.
I waved to Isolde, then coolly left the training yard.
Isolde hurriedly supported the staggering Morholt and asked,
"Are you all right, Uncle?"
"The world... is truly vast, Princess."
Morholt stared at the place Arthur had departed from and spoke in a trembling voice.
"If King Arthur unifies this Britain and becomes its new ruler... then perhaps the age of Erin's glorious warriors of old will truly return to us as well."
Isolde too felt her heart pounding violently.
'The pride and will of Erin that we were losing. That foreign king was the one who carried it deep in his heart instead.'
She recalled myths from the distant past.
Wasn't Scathach, Cu Chulainn's teacher and the great hero who slew gods, also not from Ireland, but from this very Britain?
Perhaps, when one traced their origins, the people of Britain too were fellow warriors who shared the same blood as themselves.
Isolde's eyes followed Arthur's gallant retreating figure in rapture.
It was the beginning of something beyond mere reverence for a savior: pure admiration and a fluttering heart directed toward a true Celtic hero.
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