Chapter 59: Lucian vs. Sebas
Moonlight fell like water across the courtyard at the rear of the residence.
The courtyard was not large, but it was kept with great care. Stone-paved ground gleamed faintly silver-white in the moonlight; the low hedges on every side had been trimmed with precision; climbing roses ran along the base of the walls, and the night breeze carried their scent in intermittent drifts.
This was where Lucian occasionally trained with his sword. Tonight it had become the site of his standoff with Sebas.
Lucian stood in the center of the courtyard, right hand on his longsword, the blade catching the cold gleam of moonlight. He was in the light leather practice armor he used for training, his gold hair shifting slightly in the night breeze.
Across from him, ten paces away, stood Sebas.
Sebas was in his black tailcoat, hands hanging naturally at his sides, back perfectly straight — rooted to the stone like an old pine that had found its crack and claimed it.
"Mr. Sebas."
Lucian's voice broke the courtyard's quiet.
"You don't need a weapon?"
The moment it left his mouth, he recognized it for the unnecessary question it was.
He knew perfectly well Sebas didn't need one. A level-100 dragonoid — against someone like Lucian, who supposedly stood at the threshold of the Realm of Heroes, the man probably wouldn't need to use a single finger.
But keeping up appearances required saying things like this.
A gentleman's courtesy could not be abandoned.
Sebas gave a small shake of his head. A warm smile settled on that deeply lined face.
"I am not particularly skilled with weapons."
His voice was steady, as though stating something too obvious to need emphasis.
"Please don't hold back on my account, Mr. Lucian. Come at me as you like."
The corner of Lucian's mouth twitched slightly.
...Not particularly skilled with weapons.
Sebas's class breakdown: Ascetic Monk Lv10, Martial King Lv10, Vanguard Lv5, Inner Force Monk Lv15, Outer Force Monk Lv5, and others.
Total combat level: 100.
The single greatest melee combatant in Nazarick.
Saying he wasn't particularly skilled with weapons was, technically, accurate.
Lucian drew a slow breath and pressed the noise in his head back down.
"Coming in, then."
Even knowing this was unwinnable, the warning still had to be given.
Might as well build some goodwill, so he didn't end up with a fist through his skull.
Sebas gave a slight nod, raised both hands to chest height, and settled into a fighting posture.
Lucian dropped his center of gravity, shifted his weight forward, and tightened his grip on the hilt.
He said it silently to himself.
[Flowing Acceleration.]
The moment the Martial Art activated, a cool sensation spread from the crown of his head — as though something had reached in and gently adjusted something inside his mind.
His nerves had been sped up.
Everything around him seemed to slow. The way the moonlight fell, the dry sound of wind through the hedge, even the occasional distant clop of hooves from the street beyond the wall — all of it stretched into long, slow notes.
This Martial Art temporarily accelerated the user's nervous system, increasing attack speed. The cost was fatigue accumulating inside the head — the more it was used, the worse the exhaustion afterward.
But Lucian only needed one strike.
[Super Slash.]
The longsword came down from above in a single driving arc.
Fast enough that only a white-silver afterimage remained in the moonlight.
The blade tore through the air with a sharp, high cry and drove straight at Sebas's shoulder.
He held nothing back.
Against an opponent like this, holding back would have been pointless. And he needed this strike to probe why Nazarick had become so interested in Martial Arts.
The moment the blade descended.
Sebas moved.
But the movement was almost nothing — only his fist rising to meet the falling blade.
A sharp metallic ring rang through the courtyard. Crisp, brief, the sound of an invisible bell struck once and released.
The hand gripping the sword registered it from the webbing of the thumb all the way through the palm — a violent, jarring pain.
It did not feel like striking a fist of flesh and blood. It felt like striking a block of refined steel. No — harder than refined steel.
The sword blade was still trembling, putting out a low hum.
That it hadn't shattered was probably Sebas exercising some restraint.
As for Sebas's fist — the white glove hadn't even been nicked.
Lucian looked at that perfectly intact white-gloved fist.
One second of silence.
Then he drew his sword back and stepped away.
"That's enough."
His voice was level. No emotion in it that could be read.
This had been the agreed rule before they started.
One strike only.
When Lucian had proposed it to Sebas, the reason he gave was that he was concerned about hurting him.
Understandable enough, given appearances.
Sebas was a merchant's butler from the Empire. Lucian was the foremost fighter among the Kingdom's nobility. If a noble champion sparred with an elderly manservant and put him in the ground, that was not a story anyone would want circulating.
Sebas had accepted that reason without comment.
But Lucian knew exactly why he had proposed the rule.
He was afraid of being killed.
He sheathed the sword and looked up at Sebas.
No damage whatsoever. That was the assessment.
Sebas was looking down at his own fist.
The fist still held the posture of the block — white glove unscratched, not even dust on it. Sebas's brow shifted slightly. Something that looked genuinely like puzzlement had entered his eyes.
Was the Martial Art Lord Ainz specifically warned about really only this strong? No. Lord Ainz cannot be wrong.
Sebas looked at his fist for several seconds, then raised his head. The expression on his face was difficult to read.
The moment had gone slightly awkward.
Moonlight lay quietly across the space between them. Wind moved through the hedges, the sound unusually clear, as though drawing attention to what had just happened and how unremarkable it had been.
Lucian could feel that his breathing was still a little quick. Sebas, on the other side, hadn't so much as ruffled his clothing — as though he had just caught a falling leaf.
Lucian stood where he was and waited for Sebas to speak.
"Mr. Lucian."
Sebas's voice was still steady, but a note of earnestness had entered it.
"I understand you're concerned about hurting me. But there's no need to worry."
He paused, then reached into the inner pocket of his tailcoat and produced a small scroll.
"I carry a healing scroll with me."
Sebas held it up briefly for Lucian to see, then tucked it away again.
"So please, don't hold back on my account."
His gaze rested on Lucian, warm and sincere.
"Please use your Martial Art and come at me with everything."
Lucian stood where he was, looking at that earnest face.
He meant it.
Lucian opened his mouth. Something was about to come out.
Then it didn't.
What was there to say?
That he already had used a Martial Art?
That would be embarrassing beyond recovery.
Besides, Sebas had just handed him a perfectly good excuse, and that excuse had already been applied.
The corner of Lucian's mouth was twitching.
This kind of unconscious humiliation was the worst kind.
His fingers ran lightly over the sword hilt. The metal's characteristic cold came through into his fingertips.
Still, from Sebas's reaction just now, Ainz had most likely simply misjudged the strength of Martial Arts — not grown suspicious of him.
That was good news.