Ventren waited for the next match.
One bout blurred into another. He faced farmers, dockhands, millers, guardsmen, mercenaries—men of honest labour and limited training. They fought bravely, some stubbornly, but all of them fell. His sheer mass overwhelmed most opponents, and his years as a Freehold mercenary did the rest. Experience and timing mattered and knowing when not to strike mattered most of all.
In his adventuring days, Ventren was the lead offense. Rogue orc tribes, brigands emboldened by numbers and cultists ceremonies—once even a deranged mage whose spells tore stone apart. Compared to that, the tournament thus far felt almost… gentle.
He was near invincible, yet he knew better than to trust that feeling considering he was felled before. After five victories, he stood before the final match of the Ironhold qualifiers. This time, he brought a shield.
The herald's voice rang out over the arena.
"On the right stands the warrior of Marport—Ventren the Immovable! Veteran of the dissolved Freehold, undefeated in the lists! Will his wrath continue?"
A roar answered.
"On the left—Sir Alexios of Ironhold! Knight of the Keep, bearer of the billhook!"
Ventren stepped into the sand, tournament armour gleaming beneath the sun. Across from him stood Alexios. Immediately, Ventren noticed the weapon.
The billhook.
Long-shafted, versatile—a hook, spike and edge. A weapon more often seen in the hands of city guards breaking formations than in tournament duels. It was a peculiar choice.
Alexios was also unique in that he was the only one wearing a short side-cape fastened at his shoulder, black and orange cloth marked with a golden horse. His knightly insignia. It fluttered slightly in the breeze.
That billhook might be a problem.
The horn sounded.
Ventren did not advance cautiously this time. He charged with his shield forward—nearly pavise-sized—he lowered his centre of gravity and drove ahead, intent on collapsing the distance before the polearm could dictate the fight.
Alexios moved instantly.
He sidestepped with precision, feet already shifting as Ventren charged past the line he'd aimed for. The billhook snapped out—not striking but hooking.
The blade caught Ventren's leg.
Ventren was yanked sideways and down.
Shock flashed through him as he hit the sand, armour clattering. But instinct took over as he rolled, came up on one knee and axe already moving to guard.
The crowd erupted. At last—a real fight.
Alexios did not press recklessly. He reset his stance, billhook held diagonally and eyes locked on Ventren through the visor. The knight was calm and focused.
Ventren rose quickly. This time, he advanced slower.
He struck upward with his axe, forcing Alexios to parry while simultaneously driving his shield forward to knock the billhook aside. He stepped in hard, body to body subsequently forcing the knight to give ground.
Alexios hooked the shield, though Ventren let it happen.
He twisted sharply to the right, shoving with his shield arm and bringing the axe down in a brutal arc. The blade crashed into Alexios' shoulder and biting into chainmail.
A collective gasp swept the stands.
But Alexios did not fall. With a grunt of effort, he shoved Ventren back—actually shoved him back. The strength surprised Ventren. Before he could reset, the billhook snagged his shield again. Alexios yanked it and the shield tore free from Ventren's grip as it skidded across the sand.
Now it was axe against polearm.
Ventren parried desperately as the billhook lashed out—hooks seeking limbs and spikes darting for joints. Each strike forced him to move, to give ground. The weapon's reach dominated the space between them.
For the first time in the tournament, Ventren was on the back foot and the crowd loved it.
Steel rang as sands kicked up. Ventren deflected a hooking strike with the axe haft, twisted aside from a thrust aimed at his visor then barely avoided being dragged down again as the billhook snagged at his leg.
Careless! That was careless of me!
Alexios pressed, relentless but controlled, using reach and leverage rather than striking wildly. This was not an untrained peasant swinging, he was a knight trained to dismantle men like Ventren.
For a fleeting moment—It looked as though Ventren might actually lose and for the first time since stepping into the lists, he smiled behind his visor.
Shit… This is the first time I've faced a real knight and not a brigand poser, is this how they usually are?
Although he praised Alexios, Ventren had had enough of reacting. He made a decision that silenced the arena and threw his axe away.
The weapon spun end over end and landed in the sand several paces behind him. For a heartbeat, confusion rippled through the crowd. Alexios hesitated—only for a fraction of a second but that was all Ventren needed.
The billhook lashed forward, Ventren stepped into it.
He caught the polearm shaft under his arm, muscles screaming as he wrenched it sideways and yanked Alexios toward him. The knight barely had time to register what was happening before Ventren's fist crashed into his visor.
The impact rang like a bell and Alexios collapsed onto his back in the sand.
Ventren tore the billhook from his grasp and flung it aside—this was no longer a duel of reach or finesse.
This was akin to a bar fight.
Alexios scrambled up, now fully understanding Ventren's intent. The distance closed again—too close for weapons to matter. This was the final stage of plate armor combat between experienced warriors, undignified and dirty. Plate scraped against plate as they clinched, hands clawing for leverage, boots digging furrows into the sand.
There was nothing graceful about it.
They slammed into one another, trying to unbalance, to trip and to break. Breaths came harsh and loud inside enclosed helms as sweat pooled beneath gambeson padding.
Ventren's pure physical strength overpowers.
Alexios was skilled—trained—but he simply could not match the raw force driving into him. With a guttural grunt, Ventren twisted his hips and threw him down again, crashing onto him with bone-shaking weight.
Ventren mounted him. Fists rained down short, violent strikes—then his hand went to his dagger.
"Do you yield?" Ventren roared.
"No!" Alexios spat back. "I still have fight in me!"
This prideful knight… I might end up accidentally killing him..
The knight lashed upward, punching Ventren's helm then clawed for his own dagger. Steel slid into a vulnerable gap beneath Ventren's arm. The blade bit through chainmail.
Ventren snarled as pain flared hot and sharp along his armpit. Blood soaked into gambeson but he did not stop.
With a growl that sounded inhuman, Ventren drove his dagger into Alexios' already weakened shoulder, forcing it through mail and padding alike. The knight screamed, the sound raw and unrestrained.
Alexios bucked violently, managing to shove Ventren aside.
Both men hit the sand hard but Alexios rose first.
He staggered forward and kicked Ventren's helm—once, twice—each blow jarring his vision. Before he could strike again, Ventren seized his leg and wrenched.
Alexios fell backward with a sickening crack.
A scream tore from him. "I YIELD!" he cried. "I YIELD!"
The referee was on them instantly, dragging Ventren away before instinct could carry him any further. The referee himself had to block a wild strike with his own shield to stop Ventren. The horn sounded again, long and final.
The arena erupted.
"VICTORY!" the herald proclaimed. "Ventren the Immovable of Marport stands triumphant! Champion of Ironhold! He shall represent the Archduchy at the Great Tournament in the Royal Capital of Halzyon!"
Ventren stood chest heaving with blood dripping beneath his armour, staring down at the defeated knight—then turned away.
That was hell.
Moments later, other knights of the Ironhold descended into the arena. Words of praise followed, solemn and sincere. Before the assembled crowd, Ventren was invited to the Ironhold Dynasty Mansion for an honorary knighthood ceremony. After all, he would carry Ironhold's name to Halzyon.