Talent Moves the World pt. 3

"It seems your son has taken the initiative." Kari low-key taunted the Count. At her words, Count Graf gritted his teeth, clenching the ball of his cane in suppressed rage. With a business smile, the Count faced the woman.

"My son—he is quite the brave one, is he not?" The Count chuckled, as if to lighten the gravity of his son's mistake.

Kari returned the smile. "Indeed, Count. Such bravery is commendable."

The count's expression immediately brightened. "Yes, yes! The boy is commendable. As is his strength. Although he may not be on par with the little duke, I assure you he has spunk."

"We shall see, Count." Kari returned.

The two watched with anticipation as Alva and the Count's son engaged in battle.

The young count used a thin long blade, similar to a stick, with a parabolic guard near the handle. Kari recognized the blade as a fencing sword.

How interesting. Kari thought to herself.

Without grievances, Alva started with his customary high kick, aimed at the young count's chin. The latter was quick to parry the attack with his sword, nicking at Alva's leather shoes—if only a bit.

However, that did not stop Alva from launching another attack, to which the young count forestalled by running to the opposite direction. Alva was quick to chase, bounding towards the young count and landing a kick, just a few inches from where he previously stood.

"Stop running, you coward!" Alva provoked. But, the young count merely smirked. And in locum of a reply, he thrusted his blade in a swift motion. Alva was surprised, barely dodging the blade as he halted his advance.

The young count then proceeded to jab his blade in a dangerously fast pace, taking a step forward with every prod. Alva had no other choice but to step back, dodging. He had no means to directly parry the blade, as he feared the worst—a poison-laced blade.

There was no rule, after all, that the weapons used should not contain any paralyzing or deadly chemicals. And, with his personal experience in a noble household, Alva knew just how dirty these people like to play.

"Stop dodging, coward." The young count returned the provocation. He smirked, watching as veins popped on Alva's temple.

"HAH?! Are you dumb or what?" Alva retorted.

The young count ignored his taunt, opting to continue thrusting his blade for that finishing blow. However, Alva's dynamic acuity was better. His shadow training was proving to be useful.

Frustrated by Alva's elusiveness, the young count upped his speed—to which Alva responded accordingly. The sudden increase in speed amazed the crowd. At this point, their movements were starting to look like blurs. Only those with good visual prowess were able to make out the exchange.

Neither spoke a word as they concentrated on the fight and this only served to increase the tension in the arena. The people watched with a great deal of intent, clinging on the edge of their seats at the high-speed clash among the two.

It was obvious to anyone, that the fight was stuck at a standstill, with Alva and the young count even in strength. Fighting on opposing sides, it was paradoxical how their personalities reflected each other. However, the difference between them was about to become apparent to everyone who was watching.

The crowd let out a collective gasp as the sound of bones breaking echoed in the arena. The young count dropped to his knees, coughing blood. And Alva raised his fist in triumph. The crowd cheered, chanting Alva's name.

"What?!" The Count exclaimed, stupefied by his son's loss. "What was that? What kind of barbaric—" He paused, realizing the weight of his words. Shooting a weary glance at Kari, he attempted to compose his emotions and opt to approach the matter in a much... 'peaceful' way.

"Master Kari," the Viscount covered, "Perhaps you might enlighten us a bit on the little duke's last move? I believe I have only seen him use his shank in the previous forays."

"Well, gentlemen, this goes to show how much a person can improve."

"Then, it was indeed your teaching." The Count growled, bitterly eying the group of medics that escorted his son away.

"By all means." Kari smiled, trying her best to quench the desire to laugh at the absolute dismay on Count Graf's mug.

"May I speak to you privately, Master Faust?" The count politely asked, biting the inside of his cheek in frustration.

To think that him, a Count, would ever speak amiably to a lowlife such as Kari—all because his stupid son got ahead of himself. His forefathers would surely turn at their graves should they get wind of this.

Nonetheless, the count was desperate. And he was willing to let go of his pride, just to satisfy his feelings of entitlement.

"Of course, Count." Kari replied. "Shall we have dinner at the club?" She invited him to the tea room.

"Very well." The count replied dismally.

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The theme for tonight's dinner is chicken—quite gruesome, I believe, considering the fact that Count Graf's shiny bald head had an uncanny resemblance to the boiled egg seated on top of . Nevertheless, the mother-hen dish was lavished in edible garnish, making it the star delectable. The other dishes were a mix of poorly tossed garden salad and some spiced anchovy to cleanse our palate.

The cuisine was exquisite, for once. I would have rejoiced if it weren't for the company I am forced to keep. Crabbily slicing his chicken with a scowl on his face, Count Graf ate with gusto. He was obviously upset.

After finishing his meal, he immediately wiped his mouth and plopped the napkin on the table with vex.

"I thought I made it abundantly clear, Faust."

"Abundantly clear, you say? Do elaborate, Count Graf." I asked him in an impassive tone.

"I clearly sent you a letter, informing you of my son's... condition. If he is to come out to be a knight, he needs reformation, something that only the likes of you can accomplish."

Look at him use his words—as if praising me—when in truth, he simply cannot handle his own son. Thus, he wants someone else to take responsibility for the egg. He really is quite the rooster. Impregnate the hen, then off he went, taking no responsibility for the child.

"Indeed, I have received your letter. However, I had no clue you were implying on such a brutish method to achieve your side of the deal."

"Brutish?" The Count scoffed. "This Tower is run by the money donated by your sponsors. What brutish method are you talking about? I simply asked for your cooperation, as one who has part ownership to the Tower." He reasoned.

"Who told you that?" I smirked. "You think, just because you throw wads of money in this Tower, you have ownership and the right to decide matters? Count, you are gravely mistaken."

Standing from my seat, I headed to Count Graf with a wicked smile.

"You seem to be forgetting. So, let me remind that pea-sized brain of yours. Talent moves the world, Count. Not money. So take your talentless child and be gone forthwith."

"What?! How dare the likes of you—oof!!" I pushed the count back to his seat, cutting him off.

"The likes of me?" I hummed playfully. "What about the likes of me?" I asked, giving him a devious smile. Before he could reply, I took my saber out of its sheath and stabbed the dorsum of his foot in one swift move.

The count wailed in pain, cursing me and crying out for help. But no one came for him.

"I've always disliked you, Count. And now, I can finally act on this repressed rage. Shall we?"