Kenji couldn't see Anselm's face, but he imagined the man's brow must've been pressed firmly against the inside of his mask. Shō visibly stumbled at Aiden's words, his mouth half open in disbelief. Erhardt, on the other hand, chuckled and began clapping, utterly delighted by the bizarre introduction.
Then, Anselm spoke. His tone was flat and incredulous.
"Come again?"
"Knight Errant! Aiden de Châteaunoir, at your service." Aiden bowed low with theatrical grace, leaving Shō staring like he'd just witnessed a car crash in slow motion.
Kenji couldn't believe what he was seeing. Up until this moment, Aiden had seemed like the most normal person here.
Anselm looked at him. Then at Erhardt. Then back at Aiden. Then at Erhardt again.
"Schmidt," he said slowly, "did he suffer any form of cerebral damage after his Psychic Attunement?"
Erhardt only shrugged, unfazed. "Negative, Hansel. Aids is as sane as they come! If there was brain damage, it definitely predates the attunement."
Anselm went still for a moment. The silence stretched long enough that even the drones hovering above seemed unsure whether to record or flee.
"Very well," he finally said. "Show us your [Gift], Knight Errant."
Aiden straightened, his expression shifting into something oddly noble, or at least, what Aiden thought looked noble. He held the blunt blade before him, eyes narrowing as a faint shimmer of light began to gather at its edge.
Kenji leaned forward, curiosity outweighing his secondhand embarrassment.
Then… nothing.
No response. No hum of power. Not even the cliché golden light or dramatic wind-up you'd expect from someone shouting a sword's name like an anime protagonist.
Anselm's brow twitched upward. Shō mirrored the expression. Even Erhardt frowned, tapping a drone as if it might explain what just happened.
"Uh— I need an opponent for this," Aiden said with an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "It doesn't really activate without a proper foe. Or, y'know, a few."
Anselm stared at him for a moment that felt far too long. Kenji half-expected him to step forward himself. Kenji silently prayed he wouldn't. Instead, the Iron Captain turned to the recruits.
"Does anyone here wish to challenge this 'Knight Errant'?" His voice carried through the hall.
Kenji sighed. The last thing he wanted was to watch another massacre. Aiden looked almost disappointed that none of the instructors jumped at the chance. Did he not see what happened earlier? Was he suicidal or just that confident?
Then, a hand rose. "Let me, sir."
The voice belonged to Octavia Aina Lichtmann. She stood, her expression unreadable, and walked toward the weapon racks. Her hand closed around a slender rapier. An elegant and polished blade, long enough to reach her chest. She gave it a single practice swing, the motion smooth and practiced.
Turning back, her green eyes met Aiden's cheerful wave with quiet indifference.
Without another word, she stepped onto the stage. She held her rapier up, and Aiden did the same with his own sword.
"When you're ready," Anselm said.
Octavia's green eyes glinted, then she readied herself for a quick thrust to Aiden's chest. But before she could, Aiden's blue eyes snapped open. The blue in his irises glowed and was slowly consumed by a radiant gold.
The System, the one that only he should hear, resounded throughout the hall.
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[ "The Tale of the Knight Errant and the Progeny Plague" ]
[ Challenger: Octavia Aina Lichtmann ]
[ Adjusting Current Parameters... ]
[ Physical Boosts Applied based on Understanding ]
[ Psychic Boosts Applied based on Understanding ]
[ Added Resistance to Piercing Damage ]
[ Added Resistance to Slashing Damage ]
[ Added Flaw: Weaker to Blunt-Damage ]
————————
The golden light radiating from Aiden was almost blinding. The light was divine, almost theatrical, but Octavia saw through it. Recognizing her chance, Octavia moved.
With a sharp step forward, she lunged, her rapier cutting through the air toward his chest. The strike was clean, practiced, and would've earned her an easy victory the instant the blade met flesh.
Except it didn't.
The tip halted just short of Aiden's chest. There was no impact, no resistance, as if an invisible barrier stopped it cold.
'What?'
Her mind barely had time to register the impossibility when a flash of silver caught her eye. Octavia twisted aside instinctively, her coat flaring as Aiden's blade whooshed past where her ribs had been. His strike was wide, showy, but powerful nonetheless.
They faced each other again, her green eyes narrowing in challenge. Aiden only grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself.
"Apologies, milady," he said, raising his sword in an almost courtly fashion. "I'd hate to mar that lovely face of yours."
Octavia exhaled through her nose, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. "Chivalrous and arrogant. How fitting for a knight."
"Still working on the title," Aiden replied with a wink.
The two circled, the air thick with tension. But beneath the battle between both warriors, there was a spark of amusement neither could suppress.
Then, Aiden charged.
His movements were sharp and deliberate. Not wild, but calculated aggression. Each swing of his sword forced Octavia to react, to move, to defend. Steel crashed against steel in quick succession, sparks bursting with every parry. One strike nearly caught her shoulder, another whistled past her head.
For all his theatrics, Aiden was no slouch. His technique was refined, clearly measured where it needed to be, and wild enough to keep her guessing. And, to her surprise, he wasn't holding back. He treated her as an equal combatant, not someone delicate to be spared. That alone earned him a measure of respect.
'Think, Octavia.'
Her mind raced. She'd seen his abilities' parameters. It gave him a few resistances but also exposed his weakness. Either Aiden was arrogant enough to leave that detail obvious... or his system truly couldn't help itself.
Blunt damage. Perfect.
She stepped back, twisting the grip on her rapier. It wasn't meant for what she was about to do. It was too light, too elegant, but if she was careful, it would suffice. Switching her hold into mordschlag, she reversed her grip to wield the weapon like a hammer.
Aiden lunged again, blade arcing toward her ribs. Octavia slipped under the strike, pivoted on her heel, and slammed the pommel of her rapier straight into his face.
"Gah—!" Aiden reeled, clutching his nose as blood spattered the floor. Before he could recover, Octavia swung again, the flat of her blade colliding against his side.
The strike was hard enough to make him buckle.
"Ugh!" he hissed, falling to one knee and clutching his waist. "C–Cheap shot…"
Octavia lowered her rapier, exhaling through a small smirk. "We're in a battle, you idiot," she replied, brushing back a strand of hair. Then, a touch softer, "And you fought well."
Aiden grinned through the blood and pain, half-proud, half-dazed. "Heh. Worth it."
"Your fighting style is unacceptable." Anselm's voice cut through the fading hum of the room like a blade through silk. His tone carried no anger, just the cold precision of judgment. "While your skill is undeniable, this is not a stage for theatrics. The Choir does not value flair. We value results."
His words hung heavy in the air. Every recruit straightened instinctively, even those who hadn't been part of the duel. Aiden, still catching his breath, lowered his sword and bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"I understand, Sir Grimmel," he said, the usual confidence in his tone subdued but not gone. "For what it's worth, I'll take proper missions seriously."
Anselm's one visible eye narrowed behind the slits of his mask. "See that you do. Out there, lives will depend on your discipline. I'd rather you strike to kill than waste your effort trying to look good, Mr. de Châteaunoir."
The silence that followed was heavy — not scolding, but instructive. Aiden straightened, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his gauntlet and giving a curt nod.
"Understood, sir."
Aiden placed the blade back onto the rack and began walking down. Octavia turned to leave, but Anselm Grimmel's voice stopped her.
"You are already here, Ms. Lichtmann. Why not show us your psychic abilities?"
Octavia shook her head politely. "I have no such abilities to speak of, Sir. I am much like you, but a simple swordsman. The only reason I'm here is to test my skill."
Anselm's gaze lingered. "But you lie, Octavia Aina Lichtmann."
She froze, eyes narrowing cautiously. Kenji could almost feel the beads of sweat forming in her mind, though on the surface, she remained perfectly composed.
"You may not carry traditional Coffin Abilities," Anselm continued, drawing his black blade, "but you hold another set of powers. Show me."
Octavia's jaw tightened. "What are you talking about—"
"Your last name, Lichtmann," he interrupted. "Legends speak of a family serving the reigning emperor in the German countryside. An empire hidden in darkness, offering medicine in exchange for arcane knowledge, wealth, and influence."
Octavia's eyes widened slightly. "But… that's only—"
"Do you deny it?" Anselm's tone was steady, almost clinical. "These are no mere legends, Lichtmann."
Octavia gritted her teeth, knuckles whitening around her rapier. Anselm drew his Black Blade, the metallic thrum vibrating through the air like a pulse of menace. He stood poised, each movement precise, predatory.
"Did you know I've killed people on this very stage?" Anselm's voice was calm, chilling. "I will rush forward and split your head from your body. Your rapier will shatter. You will die here. There is only one way to stop it, and you know what that is."
Octavia's throat went dry.
"Sir… this is madness!" Her voice shook, her body tense as Anselm stepped forward.
"I thought you would have figured it out, Ms. Lichtmann. There is not a single sane person in this organization. Only madmen can fight the unseen."
He surged forward. Kenji instinctively looked away, bracing for impact. With a heavy cry, she lifted her rapier and called:
"DIE UNSTERBLICHE ZUGABE!"
Her words weren't just spoken; they resonated. A whisper of power rippled through the stage itself. Steel plates shuddered and lifted as if alive, ascending violently beneath her feet. Sparks arced across the supports; the lights flickered as the floor warped subtly, forming a cage of polished metal around her, forcing Anselm to step back.
The hall seemed to inhale with her command, the very air trembling in response. Octavia held her broken rapier like a conductor's baton, sweat streaking her face, eyes blazing with green fire. The stage had become her instrument, her voice a key striking the strings of reality.
Anselm's gaze sharpened. He took a measured step back, one dark eye narrowing beneath the iron mask.
"Krähenlied," he murmured, tone wary, calculating. "You are of Krähenlied, correct?"
'Krähenlied?' The word echoed in the room, a ripple across every mind present. Even Kenji felt it, a shiver crawling down his spine as the reality of her hidden power sank in.
Octavia gritted her teeth. "So what if I am?" she hissed. "Are you going to kill me for it?"
Anselm's gaze remained steady. The only response he gave was the quiet sound of steel sliding into its sheath.
"No," he said, stepping back toward the corner of the stage. "If you were truly a spy, you would never have used the name Lichtmann. Nor would you be here, given the number of auxiliaries and soldiers your family commands."
"They would never risk sending a daughter into a situation like this. You are here of your own volition, are you not?" Anselm rhetorically asked, not prying for any more information. Octavia grit her teeth, but nodded.
"I will not question your purpose for being here. Serve the Choir well, Octavia. You are dismissed."
With a final bow, Anselm turned to the crowd and called on the next recruit. Erhardt's drones flew in to repair the stage, welding, bolting, and screwing the metal together.
Octavia silently turned and walked back down the steps. She could feel every eye in the room staring, and she groaned in knowing that she'd have to explain what just happened.
'No, I don't...'
Octavia decided to think. Whatever Krähenlied was, she would not tell anyone. They'd just have to guess; only the higher-ups had to know.