Let the Whales Fight, This Shrimp is Leaving! - Chapter 58

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 58
What was he supposed to do?
Deyan Boislav Nemanic was caught between irreconcilable choices.
If he fought with full intensity, Idir Hubert seemed far too fragile, and he couldn’t ignore the thick worry that clouded the spectators’ eyes.
Yet if he held back, he sensed it would displease Idir.
“What are you waiting for?”
He was at his wit’s end, paralyzed between two impossible options, but Idir simply prodded him onward with calm indifference.
“Are you asking if I’m serious?”
“Yes. Surely you’re not about to tell me you can’t spar with a woman?”
He wouldn’t say that.
On the battlefield, gender was irrelevant.
Only whether the opponent was an enemy or not mattered.
In fact, he’d faced quite a few women warriors, and among all of them, Giselle was the strongest in both power and technique.
But Idir was no knight, was she?
“If you won’t make the first move, shall I?”
“Yes. That would be better.”
He sensed that if he retreated, Idir wouldn’t budge either, so he steeled himself and took up his sword, anxiety and all.
“Hah.”
She drew a sharp breath and held her blade vertically before her face.
Then she dragged the tip across the earth to signal the start of their sparring match.
Idir exploded from the ground and brought her sword crashing down against his with brutal force.
“…!”
The moment their blades met, Deyan’s eyes widened.
She was far stronger than she looked.
He’d thought her formidable when she’d wielded the short sword for his blood, but this was something else entirely.
“Why do you look so surprised?”
Idir looked up at him with sharp, narrowed eyes and smiled.
“Did you think I couldn’t handle a sword?”
When war comes, I’ll lead from the very front and take the heads of enemy commanders with my own hands.
Her voice was soft and sincere, like a confession of love.
Yet what poured from her lips was violence incarnate.
In that moment, Deyan understood: he was that enemy commander she spoke of.
She twisted her arm and raked her blade across his sword guard.
Screeeech—
The blunt training blade shrieked against his own, a sound that set every nerve on edge.
Smoothly disengaging from the strength contest, she created distance and thrust toward his ribs in one fluid motion.
Deyan angled his blade and knocked her attack aside, then countered.
Thud. The heavy shock that traveled through the metal made her frown for just an instant.
Training blades wouldn’t draw blood, but being struck by metal could leave nasty bruises or even crack bone.
Deyan eased his strength accordingly, though he had no real sense of whether he was managing his power well—sparring with a woman was new territory.
“Are you all right?”
“Who worries about the enemy?”
Idir’s response was fierce. She twisted her torso and bore deep into his guard.
‘The short sword…!’
Somehow she’d drawn it.
The short sword at her belt was suddenly in her hand, driving into his ribs.
“Ugh.”
“Pay attention.”
No blood came, but there was a dull, throbbing pain.
Idir glared at him with exasperation.
“Since you can’t die anyway, a few stab wounds don’t bother you at all, do they?”
“That’s not—”
“No excuses. Focus. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry.”
She pointed out his lapse and returned to her opening stance.
Deyan rubbed his smarting ribs as he watched her grip her sword again with determined resolve, and he swallowed hard.
Unlike him, Idir possessed ordinary Healing Power.
If she were injured, she wouldn’t recover easily…
Look at the faces of the spectators watching this match.
They were all brimming with worry for Idir…
“…?”
Deyan blinked at their expressions.
Now that they’d grown familiar with the people of the Grand Ducal Castle, it was Deyan they were watching with concern—not Idir.
‘Why are they worried about me?’
Every face bore drooping brows and pitying looks in his direction.
As if they were sympathizing with him, feeling sorry for him.
‘Shouldn’t they be worried about the Ducal Princess, not me?’
The difference in their builds alone was nearly twofold.
Even if Idir was on the taller side for a woman, she was still far outmatched by him…
“Nemanic!”
Idir called out sharply, demanding his attention.
“Are you not concentrating?”
In a sudden fury, she brought out a real sword.
“Maybe you need the threat of actual death to take this seriously?”
“No, no, I don’t!”
Deyan straightened his stance like a soldier snapping to attention under scrutiny.
“If you lose patience with me one more time, I understand the consequences!”
“I-I’m truly sorry!”
He felt a bead of cold sweat roll down his spine.
‘Something’s wrong here.’
The atmosphere was strange—the crowd’s reaction, Idir having shed her usual smile entirely.
Even Giselle, who should have been his sparring partner, seemed unsurprised by all this.
Their eyes met for a brief moment.
She gave a short nod.
It was a gesture that said, ‘I understand.’
‘What is this situation?’
It didn’t take Deyan long to fully grasp what was happening.
* * *
Moments later.
Deyan collapsed onto the dirt, gasping for breath, his mind still reeling.
“That was good sparring.”
“Your Highness, Your Highness, you’re…”
A monster?
The words he couldn’t bring himself to say lodged in his throat.
His throat was raw from the exertion.
And his lower back ached from the tension—stiff and locked.
Idir had come at him with tremendous ferocity.
Her vicious momentum and the killing intent that blazed in her eyes had worn him down relentlessly.
Worse, she understood the strength difference perfectly, and whenever a pure contest of power threatened, she would boldly abandon her sword and slip away.
When they crossed blades directly.
He nearly had a heart attack when, just as he was about to push her back by sheer force, she released the tension entirely.
She’d pivoted her body cleanly away from his stumbling fall, scooped up a dropped blade, and came at his back.
If he hadn’t rolled across the ground fast enough, she would have taken his head from behind.
The memory alone made the hairs on his neck stand on end.
‘When exactly did she swap the short sword for a real one?’
Wind whistled through the tears and rents in his tunic.
He was starting to think she was genuinely mad.
Now that his injuries no longer triggered her rampage, she’d evidently resolved to tear him apart without mercy.
And that stamina of hers—how could it be so relentless?
To look at her, she seemed nothing but a frail bloom.
But beneath the surface, her roots were laced with venom—a dangerous flower.
‘No, even calling her a flower was disrespectful.’
Idir Hubert was simply… herself. A singular force.
A woman consumed by vengeance, unscrupulous, paradoxical.
Perhaps there was no one else in this world quite like her, but should he ever meet someone with even a hint of her nature, he would say, ‘She’s like Idir.’
“Are you all right, sir?”
“…Yes. Thank you.”
Giselle handed him a towel and water.
He caught sight of Idir wiping sweat from her neck with her own towel while speaking to the knights.
“The Ducal Princess can be rather… harsh by nature.”
Idir’s stamina and strength were far inferior to his own.
But through sheer viciousness alone, she’d sustained the bout to its bitter end.
“Do you spar with the Ducal Princess often?”
“Yes. Several times.”
“Is it always like this?”
“…Yes.”
“The enemy I’d least want to meet on the battlefield.”
“I know.”
At his genuine assessment, Giselle let out a thin smile.
He was somewhat surprised—he’d rarely seen that expression from her.
“The Ducal Princess believes her own hands must be stained first and foremost. But as the Heir, she cannot train exactly as the knights do, so she’s developed her own method.”
Every day she runs for two hours to build stamina, trains in ballet to develop strength and flexibility, and then strategizes how to weaponize that against an opponent.
When brute force won’t suffice, she abandons the approach without hesitation and finds another way.
She doesn’t care about elegance—only about winning the fight. If necessary, she won’t shy from underhanded tactics.
To someone like Deyan, who fought by conventional methods, Idir was almost a natural enemy.
“When you catch your breath, I’d ask for a sparring match as well.”
“…This wasn’t over?”
“No.”
Like master, like retainer.
‘She’s just as much of a savage as her mistress.’
Deyan nodded grimly.
“Good grief.”
“Poor fellow.”
The onlookers clicked their tongues in unison—tsk-tsk—shaking their heads at him.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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