Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C50

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Chapter 50:

stepped back, his blade flicking out to deflect the spear held by the ' princess. His voice rumbled through the cavern as he shouted, "Stop!" But just as his words echoed, the earth beneath them groaned and shuddered violently.

, , and exchanged alarmed glances before instinctively looking upward—only to hear a deafening crack. A jagged fissure, ten meters long, split open across the ’s ceiling. Sand and rubble cascaded down in torrents, pelting everyone with relentless force.

The tremors brought an abrupt halt to their battle. Brandon shielded his eyes against the chaos and barked over his shoulder for Cinnabar to retreat immediately. He cursed inwardly; this mine was far less stable than he had anticipated.

He assumed that the structural failure stemmed from the clash of powers within its depths—but something about it gnawed at him. Their skirmish with Kulan had barely begun; surely it shouldn’t have caused such devastation so soon?

There was no time to dwell on it. As he backed away, Cinnabar's voice rang out sharply from the other side of the chamber: "My lord, beware!"

Her warning came too late. The mine quaked again, more violently this time. Massive boulders tore free from the walls above, crashing down into the passage below. Light fractured chaotically, plunging the space into dimness.

Brandon moved to evade but found himself engulfed by a torrent of dirt and stone rushing toward him.

"Shit."

That thought flashed through his mind moments before darkness swallowed everything.

The tremors extended all the way to the surface, where the scribe overseeing the miners stumbled and fell amidst the chaos. scrambled to his feet, blood dripping from cuts on his face. The ground beneath him continued to shake, rumbling ominously. Panic gripped him as he surveyed the scene—most workers lay sprawled on the ground, while others fled in terror.

What could this be? An earthquake? Had unleashed her wrath upon them?

His body trembled at the thought.

---

In the frost-laden month of , Flada carried the scent of impending winter. From her balcony, gazed outward with pale silver eyes, catching glimpses of dense white mist clinging to the forest canopy like spilled ink dragging across parchment.

Many trees stood bare, their leaves scattered across the cold earth. Inside, however, warmth radiated from the crackling fireplace. Sparks danced off glowing embers, occasionally drifting beyond the iron grate to land softly on the red-brick floor.

Grifine lounged near the hearth, wrapped in a fur-lined shawl patterned in crimson and ivory. Her silver hair tumbled loosely around her shoulders, disheveled from sleep, and her bare feet peeked out beneath her nightgown. She absentmindedly pressed her pale toes into the plush carpet, watching as they sank into its softness, then smiled faintly.

Naturally, —a trusted elder minister and her half-tutor—would have scolded her for such casual behavior if he’d seen it. But his attention remained fixed on the documents spread across the mahogany desk before him. One particular report, written on weathered parchment, had arrived three days after the grand knightly tournament. It had been personally delivered by , who now stood silently behind him.

Clad in a sleek black ceremonial uniform, Nimuesis exuded an air of quiet authority. Her porcelain skin gleamed under the firelight, flawless as polished jade. She stood rigidly at attention, her gaze unwavering.

For a moment, silence reigned.

At length, Grifine stirred from the fog of morning lethargy. Rubbing her temples, she lifted her weary silver eyes to meet those of her two subjects.

"My apologies, Lord Orville, Nimuesis," she murmured, her voice tinged with languor. "I rose later than intended."

"Rest is essential," The words had not come from Orville but rather from the knight, who spoke first.

Orville glanced back at her. The female knight’s face remained impassive, yet the minister showed little surprise—this was typical of her. Her concern for Princess Grifine went beyond mere duty; it stemmed from a deeper, more personal place that transcended the usual loyalty of a subject to their sovereign.

"And what is this?" Grifine picked up the parchment, frowning slightly as she placed her hand atop a fist-sized crystal shard resting nearby. The crystal flared to life, projecting vivid images into the air.

Upon closer inspection, the scenes revealed recordings from the recent knightly tournament. Among them stood a young girl—, whom the princess recognized instantly. She replayed the footage, her brow furrowing further.

"What troubles you?" Grifine asked, curiosity sparking in her gaze.

"The swordsmanship," Nimuesis replied curtly.

"Swordsmanship?"

"There is... an issue with the girl's technique," Orville added.

"But isn't she 's daughter? What sort of issue could there possibly be?" Grifine countered, puzzled.

Nimuesis nodded once, producing a small bell from her belt. With a gentle chime, the door swung open, revealing a young knight clad in armor trimmed with white fur.

"How may I assist you, Lady Nimuesis?" he inquired respectfully.

"Attack me," she commanded without preamble.

The knight hesitated only briefly before stepping back, drawing his blade, and launching a swift strike. Though skilled enough to hold a gold rank among the royal guard, his attack proved futile. Nimuesis sidestepped effortlessly, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Half-drawing her own sword, she pressed it firmly against his neck, using her weight to drive him to the ground.

Before the knight could react, Nimuesis pinned him down, her weapon poised inches from his throat.

"Nimuesis, your skill grows ever sharper," Grifine remarked, admiration flickering in her eyes.

Far from humiliated, the knight accepted her offered hand and rose with a respectful bow. "Forgive my inadequacy, my lady."

As commander of the royal guard, Nimuesis commanded both respect and admiration from her subordinates. While some harbored envy, none doubted her prowess or loyalty.

Sheathing her sword, Nimuesis addressed the princess. "This is military swordplay—a style designed for swift resolution."

Grifine tilted her head thoughtfully. "Our nation's martial arts are not quite like this."

"It has been refined," Orville explained. "Its essence lies not in technique, but in principle. Its goal is simplicity—to incapacitate or kill swiftly. Targets include vital points: the neck, waist, arms, and knees. Only those who have spent years honing their skills on the battlefield can truly master this style of swordsmanship."

The princess pondered this, replaying the recording once more. She focused particularly on Freya's final strike, noting subtle similarities to the style demonstrated earlier.

"You believe this stems from experience?" she asked.

Nimuesis nodded.

"Though improvised initially, the follow-through mirrors military doctrine." Orville added.

Grifine frowned, intrigued. "You claim this style requires years of honing on the battlefield, yet she has no such experience. She was once a militiaman in and fought briefly against —but only for a few days."

"Yes," Nimuesis affirmed, her tone measured and calm.

"But there is another possibility," Orville interjected, his gaze thoughtful as he glanced downward. "A veteran."

"You mean someone taught her? That man, ?" Grifine inquired, her silver eyes narrowing slightly.

"No," Orville replied firmly. "I had him investigated—Marden, the former captain of a guard unit. He is undoubtedly capable and bore witness to the horrors of the . Yet, he is nothing more than an ordinary soldier, seasoned by battle but unremarkable in other ways."

The princess tilted her head, considering this revelation, while the firelight flickered across their solemn faces.

"Indeed," the princess agreed, nodding her head thoughtfully. "His other pupil—, based on the report—does not appear to wield this style of swordsmanship either."

And yet, there remained another unspoken possibility: that Freya was a prodigy. Such individuals were rare, capable of grasping the intricacies of swordsmanship without the need for years of painstaking practice or battlefield experience. But given the undeniable evidence of Freya's abilities—abilities that everyone present had witnessed firsthand—this notion was quietly dismissed, left unmentioned in the quiet hum of their deliberations.

"Then who?" Grifine wondered aloud.

"One remains outside our scrutiny, Your Highness," Orville hinted cryptically.

Recognition dawned in Grifine's silver eyes. "You mean him?"

Orville inclined his head.

"But he is young," Grifine reasoned. "Unless..." Her voice trailed off, uncertainty clouding her thoughts. After a moment, she asked, "Is there any way we might learn more about him?"

As the question left her lips, a flicker of realization crossed her mind. Beneath her calm exterior stirred an unfamiliar anticipation—was she seeking answers to unravel this mystery, or was it something deeper, a desire to understand him? Perhaps both, though even Grifine herself could not say for certain.

"Unless we can return to Buchi," Orville ventured cautiously.

Grifine frowned, her brow furrowing. "Surely those who escaped from Buchi must have some information to share?"

"They claim otherwise," Nimuesis interjected smoothly. "None of them seem to know him well. I even sent someone to inquire Breyson privately, but he stated he had no knowledge."

"He was definite?" Grifine repeated slowly, weighing the words carefully. "Not merely unsure?"

Nimuesis nodded, her expression thoughtful yet tinged with frustration. She, too, sensed that something was amiss, but try as she might, no further clues presented themselves. The trail had grown cold, and the truth remained stubbornly out of reach.

"Let us set this aside for now," Grifine decided, tucking strands of silver hair behind her ears. "Can this style be disseminated?"

"Not via Freya," Orville shook his head. "Lady Nimuesis observed her closely. She understands fragments, nothing more."

"Unless we find the original source," Grifine pressed.

Both advisors nodded solemnly.

Turning to Nimuesis, Grifine posed her final question. "Can you reconstruct it? You are one of our realm’s finest swordsmen. Surely there is some recourse?"

Nimuesis paused, weighing her words carefully. "I will try, Your Highness. But do not expect miracles. Without firsthand battlefield experience, replication may prove impossible."

"I see." Grifine sighed, resolving herself. "Then I shall task Lord Orville with aiding you. Seek veterans of November’s War—they may hold insight."

After a pause, she added, "Focus on this alongside preparations for . I believe this art holds great promise. I leave it in your capable hands."

"As you command," Orville bowed.

"Yes," Nimuesis echoed softly, inclining her head.

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