"Begin."
The patriarch's command hadn't even finished echoing when Lyan moved.
No warm-up. No courtesy. No pause for the crowd to settle.
His practice katana snapped forward like it had been waiting for permission to breathe.
I barely lifted my shield in time.
WHAM.
The impact went through the wood, through my arm, into my shoulder. My bones rang. Sand jumped under my boots. The force wasn't wild—it was clean, efficient, placed exactly where it would rattle my balance.
The crowd erupted.
Cheers rolled down the seats like a wave. Not for the strike.
For what it meant.
Lyan finally glanced up at them, smiling like the arena belonged to him.
"You see?" he called, voice bright, arrogant. "This is what real training looks like."
He circled me like a duelist—feet light, posture perfect, blade aligned so naturally it looked like an extension of his wrist.
I was the opposite.
This was my first real duel. My first time standing on sand with a weapon meant to be used against another person. The sword in my hand felt wrong, like I was borrowing someone else's life. My movements weren't random, but they were ugly—defensive flinches, awkward steps, shield too high one moment and too low the next.
To the spectators, I probably looked dumb.
To Lyan, I looked like prey that hadn't learned how to collapse yet.
He attacked in short bursts.
A quick cut to the shield edge.
A step-in that threatened my ribs.
A feint that made my stomach lurch.
An angle change so smooth I lost him for half a heartbeat.
He laughed softly, as if enjoying my scramble.
"Come on," he said, loud enough for the front rows. "Swing back. Entertain me."
I didn't answer. I didn't even look at his face. I kept my gaze where it belonged—on his hands, on the katana, on the way his shoulders shifted before he committed.
I locked into survival.
Shield high. Sword close. Elbows tight. Feet planted. The only thing I truly trusted was what Ash drilled into me—breath, control, and refusing to panic.
In through the nose.
Out slow.
Again.
Lyan clicked his tongue, amused.
"Is that it?" he asked, pacing. "Just hiding behind shield?"
He slashed again—fast.
I blocked. My arm took the shock. My forearm buzzed. My grip tightened, then I forced it to loosen again.
Hands open. Shoulders loose. No rage swing.
Lyan began performing.
Not with grand gestures—he didn't need them. It was smaller than that. He let his attacks end in clean positions, blade perfectly leveled. He paused for the length of a breath after a neat exchange, just long enough for the crowd to react.
Then he tapped my shield.
Once.
Twice.
Like he was testing a tool at a shop.
"Still standing," he said, voice sweet with contempt. "How adorable."
His next hit landed with enough precision to make my shield angle wrong. The force slid across the wood and into my shoulder.
My boots skidded.
I stumbled.
The crowd howled—cheers and laughter braided together.
Lyan spread one hand toward them, smiling wider.
"Look at him!" he announced. "A badge and a dream!"
More laughter.
Heat climbed up my neck. The instinct to kneel, to apologize, to shrink, rose like an old habit.
I swallowed it.
Forced my feet steady again.
Refused to touch the sand with my knee.
Lyan's eyes gleamed when he saw that.
"Oh?" he said, delighted. "You're stubborn."
He dropped his blade low.
Before I could adjust, he clipped my shin.
Pain burst sharp and white.
My leg buckled. My balance wavered. For half a second I was sure I'd fall.
Panic surged.
Then Ash's voice cut through it like a slap.
Feet. Breath. Don't chase the feint.
I inhaled. Forced my heel down. Regained the line of my stance.
I stayed standing.
Lyan's smile twitched, just barely.
"Unbelievable," he muttered—then raised his voice again, louder, theatrical. "How long are you going to pretend you belong here?"
Another strike hammered my shield.
My forearm burned.
Lyan changed rhythm.
He stopped trying to "cut" and started to batter—driving the katana's weight into the shield edge, then into the shoulder line, then into the same spot again.
Not random.
Targeted.
Each impact was meant to numb me, to make my arm forget what it was supposed to do.
"Hold it!" Lyan barked, as if commanding my body to fail. "Break already!"
My defense grew heavier. Blocking started to cost more than it should.
And somewhere between the strikes, it hit me:
He wasn't rushing to finish.
He was shaping the fight.
Making it look exactly the way he wanted the city to remember it.
A noble heir humiliating a commoner on noble ground.
A story the crowd could drink like wine.
Lyan stepped in close.
Too close.
His katana pressed in, using position like a lever to hook my sword side. His shoulder bumped mine with controlled force.
He shoved.
My boots dug into sand as I slid backward.
He leaned toward my ear, voice low enough only I could hear.
"Keep breathing, worm," he murmured. "I want you awake when you break."
Then he pulled back, smile returning for the audience like a mask snapping into place.
I didn't swing in anger. I didn't chase him.
I made a rule.
Shield guards the centerline.
Sword only moves to reset distance.
Nothing else.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't heroic.
It was stubborn.
It was a refusal.
Lyan's strikes kept landing—on shield, on armor, on the edges of my guard—but I stayed upright.
Minutes crawled.
At first, the crowd loved every hit.
Then they started to get… annoyed.
Murmurs slipped through the cheers.
"Why isn't he down yet?"
"He's dragging it."
"I thought Lyan ended these in five minutes."
I heard Lyan hear them.
His smile tightened.
His eyes sharpened.
"Don't start whining," he snapped at the crowd, voice suddenly sharp. "You'll get your ending."
He turned that sharpness back on me.
"And you—" he hissed, stepping in again. "Stop. Standing."
He struck harder.
Faster.
Not as playful now.
I kept breathing.
I kept blocking.
I kept existing.
The murmurs grew louder.
Somewhere behind the noise, someone said, "It's been… what, fifteen minutes?"
Lyan's jaw tightened at that.
"Fifteen?" he repeated, like the word tasted bad. "This—this is taking fifteen minutes?"
He attacked again, furious now, not hiding it.
Footwork became a blur. Sand sprayed under his steps. He launched a sequence meant to overload—high strike, low snap, diagonal cut, then a step behind my angle so fast I barely tracked it.
"Move!" he barked, like my slowness offended him. "Kneel!"
My shield caught the first.
My sword caught the second awkwardly, barely.
The third clipped my left side.
Pain flashed bright enough to steal breath.
My shield arm jerked, trying to recover.
Then… nothing.
No response.
My hand didn't tighten.
My fingers didn't hold.
The world tilted as the shield simply slipped out of dead fingers and dropped into the sand with a dull thud.
A single sound rippled through the arena—an eager inhale.
Lyan's eyes lit up.
"There it is!" he shouted, triumphant. "Finally!"
He dashed forward to deliver the finishing blow.
His katana thrust toward my forehead, straight and clean, the kind of strike trained for years until it became instinct.
"Try blocking this," he spat.
I should've panicked.
I should've flinched.
Instead, I forced air into my lungs and let it out slow.
Just like the day Ash stood in front of me and refused to let me move until my breath stopped shaking.
Calm. Focus one thing.
I did what my shy habits had trained into me for years—watching hands, watching how people moved, because meeting eyes felt too much.
Now it mattered.
I saw the twitch in Lyan's grip.
The tightening in his forearm.
The slight turn of his shoulder that committed the thrust.
And my mind… accelerated.
Not like magic.
Like survival.
Like a trapped animal suddenly seeing every crack in the cage.
The world didn't stop.
It only felt like it slowed because my thoughts were racing ahead of my body.
Color drained out of everything. The arena, the crowd, the sand—washed into black and white and grey. Sound thinned until it was distant, muffled, like I'd sunk underwater.
And then I saw them.
Small points of light—brief, sharp glows—along his movement.
One on the middle section of his sword.
One near his gripping hand.
One in the line of his shoulder.
One at the angle where his posture exposed him for the smallest fraction.
My instinct screamed at me to hit them.
A path unfolded in my mind—clear as if someone had drawn it with a blade.
My sword to his katana.
Curve to his left shoulder.
A final line that begged to go to his throat.
My stomach turned.
The line begged me to take his throat. I can't.
Not with wood. Not with this crowd watching. Not with Myrina waiting for me somewhere in the abyss.
Not like that.
I gripped my sword with both hands and swung with everything I had left—not toward death, but toward interruption. Toward the first light, following the path as best as my shaking arms could manage.
And the moment I moved, the world snapped back into full speed.
CLACK!
Wood slammed against wood.
My hands went numb instantly, pain shooting up my wrists like fire.
But his thrust had been knocked aside.
I'd parried him.
For a heartbeat, Lyan froze.
His mouth opened like the words didn't come out fast enough.
"…What?"
The crowd made a confused sound.
Not cheers.
Not laughter.
A surprised inhale, scattered and uncertain.
Lyan's shock curdled into fury.
His face twisted.
"No," he snapped, voice cracking with anger. "No—don't you dare."
He spun and attacked again—refined technique snapping back into place, faster and sharper, as if he could erase the moment by burying it under ten more.
"That was luck!" he shouted to the audience, too loud, too fast. "You hear me? Luck!"
I stumbled back, no shield, left arm uselessly buzzing.
I forced my breathing down again.
In.
Out.
Focus only on his sword.
It happened again—briefly.
The grey world. The thinning sound. The points of light flickering into existence like openings only I could see.
I followed the path and met his blade.
CLACK!
Another parry.
Rougher. Uglier.
But effective.
Lyan's footwork paused for the smallest fraction of a moment.
A crack in perfection.
His eyes widened.
"…Again?" he whispered, and this time the words weren't for the crowd.
The crowd reacted—an upward ripple of noise, surprise spreading like spilled ink.
He didn't expect me to do anything.
Neither did they.
I didn't chase the opening. I couldn't. My lungs burned and my arms shook. I reset my stance, forced my feet into the sand, forced my breath into control.
Lyan recovered instantly, throwing showmanship back on like armor—too quickly, too forced.
He laughed loudly, for them.
"See?" he announced, pointing his katana at me like I was a joke. "He's flailing! He's guessing!"
Some people laughed with him, relieved to have permission.
But it wasn't the same laughter as before.
It was thinner.
And underneath it, I felt eyes shifting—curiosity creeping into places that had only held contempt.
The points of light began to fade.
Not all at once. Slowly. Like my mind couldn't hold that speed forever.
My breath grew ragged. I hadn't noticed how much it cost until it started slipping away.
My vision blurred at the edges. The grey world didn't return as clearly. The openings became harder to find.
Lyan punished it immediately.
"Good," he snarled, voice low and vicious now. "There you are."
A heavy strike slammed into my sword side, jolting my wrists. I twisted awkwardly, barely redirecting it with the flat of the blade, the movement ugly enough that it felt like luck again.
He struck again.
"Fall!"
I stumbled.
Caught myself.
Stayed standing.
"Why—" Lyan's voice rose, sharp with real anger. "Why won't you fall?"
My arms trembled violently now. My breathing stayed controlled only through effort, like holding a door shut against a storm.
The crowd's energy shifted.
Most still wanted me humiliated.
But endurance was becoming its own spectacle.
Even if they hated me, they couldn't look away anymore.
High above, in the VIP viewing room, Alcatraz du Vonel watched without expression.
I couldn't read boredom or assessment from that distance.
But I saw something else.
Interest.
Not kind interest.
The kind a predator has when prey does something unexpected.
Beside him, Fennec du Vonel had been lounging.
Now he was leaning forward.
Lyan noticed.
I saw it in the tightening of his jaw.
His pride wasn't just wounded.
It was being observed.
And that was worse.
He stopped laughing.
Stopped performing.
His stance shifted—sharper, cleaner, no playful angles. The katana rose with perfect control, the kind of posture that didn't belong to a game.
His voice dropped—still loud enough to carry, but stripped of playfulness.
"Enough."
The word hit the arena like a hammer.
He turned his head slightly toward the crowd, toward the nobles, toward the VIP room.
"I need to end this," he said, calm now in a way that scared me more than his shouting. "Now."
My sword felt like it weighed double. Both my arms trembled, muscles screaming.
But I set my feet anyway.
For Myrina.
I tasted blood where I'd bitten my tongue earlier.
Lyan lifted the practice katana higher.
"Be prepared," he said calmly, eyes locking onto mine at last, "I will put my everything on this one."
Then the air changed.
Not wind.
Something that made my skin prickle and my breath catch.
The sand at his feet stirred, not from movement, but from pressure—like the space around him tightened.
A familiar feeling crawled into the arena, the same strange presence I'd sensed before, but heavier now, gathering toward him as if the world itself was leaning in.
Fennec's eyes widened.
He rose to his feet fully, shock plain on his face.
Up in the VIP room, Alcatraz leaned forward to the edge of his seat.
And for the first time since I'd seen him, the patriarch grinned—wide and bright, full of excitement that didn't belong in a father watching his son spar.
It belonged in a man watching a spectacle become real.
Around Lyan, something unseen manifested—an oppressive shimmer that made the air look wrong.
Lyan's aura awakened.
And the crowd… finally went silent.