"Therefore! Please!" Hippolyta stepped forward and bowed without hesitation, giving Qianyi a perfect ninety-degree bow. "Please fight me in an honorable battle! Only then can I display my skill, glory, and pride without holding anything back!!"
"...It really is a shame you don't have a Saber face." Qianyi sighed. This girl was practically carved from the same mold as Artoria, King Arthur—stubborn like that purple-haired old hag's foot-binding cloth: smelly and hard.
To be honest, he had no interest in this so-called "battle of honor."
In his view, battle was battle. Battle was battle. It was an act of violence, a barbaric game of fists, blades, and weapons clashing against one another.
And violence was inherently for killing, because—if violence was not for killing, it had no meaning.
And that was indeed how things went. Once a battle reached its peak, the slightest carelessness could get one side hurt. Then tempers would flare, a spar would turn into a fight to the death, opponents would become mortal enemies, and things would eventually escalate until neither side could rest until the other was dead.
By then, no matter how close they had once been—inseparable companions, friends who had entrusted their lives to each other, an unbreakable community of shared destiny—it would all fall apart because of it.
Rather than using a fight to prove one's innocence, it was better to think about how to apologize to the person involved, explain things clearly, admit fault where fault was due, and reconcile where reconciliation was needed.
That was what normal people should do.
And so, Qianyi sighed and spoke in a tone that said, "Listen, I've got a simpler solution for you." "Hippolyta, instead of making this so troublesome, why not just honestly kill yourself, let your Saint Graph flow into the Lesser