Mirabel had come to watch, her gaze high above as the grounds below remained clear.
It was around four o'clock. The day had shifted, moving forward as I prepared myself.
They would think my actions crazy, messy, but this had all been planned the moment I returned.
I would try my absolute best in this fight. I would try to kill him, and he would see my potential.
At the same time, Mirabel would realize she did not need to lower herself so much.
Afterwards, Malachi would arrive. He was not so weak or foolish as to leave me waiting more than a day.
I lifted the dulled iron sword as he did the same, brushing his hair back with a soft sigh.
"Are you sure? These will still hurt, not enough to kill, but—"
I laughed, feeling magicae flow through my blade, a subtle aura wrapping it like a living thing.
"Yes, I'm certain I can handle this much."
When he saw what I had done, he smiled for the first time. I saw Mirabel's eyes light up.
This was difficult for beginner knights.
To accomplish it without training since my parents died, over five years ago, was extraordinary.
An event that would surely be noticed.
We moved without any declaration. His blade arced overhead.
I leaned back, sliding across the dirt, spinning into a stark lunge. Every motion was calculated.
I allowed my weakened body to fall and roll in a way that conserved energy, using the limitations of my frail form to my advantage.
He pivoted smoothly, deflecting my blade, then lunged again. This time
I deflected with ease, letting my slight imbalance force him to overcommit, creating openings I could exploit.
Our swords clashed repeatedly, sparks erupting on each strike.
Back and forth we moved. His strikes carried killing intent, though Mirabel seemed unfazed.
She basked in the glory of my power, the same power that had once made her scream.
"Alright, Nicholas. Win!" she called.
[Nicholas was empowered, his lover's voice seemed to grant him infinite strength, or so it seemed.]
I smiled and moved faster, my blade arcing toward his right. He shifted and swung down.
I blocked, then pushed upward, stepping closer and driving my palm into his chest.
I leveraged my lower strength, allowing my weak, tremoring frame to spring with gravity and momentum, turning fragility into force.
He skidded back as I struck from the right again, swinging with all my might.
He tilted his sword down, mine crashed to the ground, and he raised his leg to kick.
Ten strikes collided in what felt like less than a second, each impact hammering my chest.
I coughed, blood tasting metallic in my mouth, and blasted back, only catching myself thanks to the uneven ground.
My lungs burned, but the struggle sharpened my senses, each jolt teaching me the boundaries of my own frailty.
I raised my sword as he charged, runes briefly flickering across its edge. Then came the spell.
Space and time compressed into a point, gravity converging into a dense vortex that shot forward.
It was my father's gravity magic, one I had been forced to use runes to command.
Yet the runes were merely a language; the law itself could bend without them if one understood the system behind it.
My body's limits were dictating every nuance of the spell.
Sansir only smiled. Bronze flames erupted from his form, consuming the miniature black hole with ease.
I coughed, blood falling from my lips.
"Nicholas, don't use such a powerful spell! Think!" Mirabel shouted.
I lifted my left arm.
Runes streamed from my pores, but they were unnecessary.
They were a tongue for channeling laws that could otherwise be shaped with pure will.
I pushed forward, allowing gravity to surge ahead, forcing him back.
I lunged, boosting myself with the spell.
My weakness dictated the precision of every strike; my frailty guided me to conserve, to strike with timing and angle instead of brute force.
For the first time, I saw him hesitate. I forced him to react, to unleash his own attack.
Flames burst from his body, sparks brushing my skin with dull, searing heat.
My own endurance was tested, the spell burning me as much as it did him.
Every consequence was immediate; every magical action demanded I withstand it.
I was blasted into the air, then fell hard to the ground.
My chest ached from the force, my arms burned from channeling magicae beyond my limit.
Yet I kept my focus, my eyes locking onto his blade resting just before my neck.
"Sorry," he said, calm, measured, almost gloriously composed, his presence both a challenge and a standard to surpass, "but I win."
I looked up at his face. He was smiling, proud, almost reverent of the fight we had just waged.
He was hooked, drawn in by the intensity, the rawness of it.
He reached down, and I caught his hand. He pulled me to my feet.
"My prince," he said, "that fight, though you lost, if you hadn't been cursed with that illness, maybe…"
I smiled faintly, feeling the subtle hum of magicae still lingering around my blade.
Magic was the foundation of battle, yes, but so was limitation.
The gravity of my spells, the cost of my exertion, the strain on my body, all of it imposed a natural boundary.
I could not wield power beyond my endurance.
My weakness dictated every strike, every movement, every calculation.
"No," I said firmly, shaking my head. "Even if that were true, you were holding back. You didn't even use your Regalia."
He scoffed, about to retort, when Mirabel leapt down and landed beside me, her hand falling onto my shoulder.
"Nick! That was amazing! Where did you learn to fight like that?" she exclaimed, eyes shining.
I glanced at her, then back at Sansir, who looked momentarily disappointed, though his pride remained intact. I chuckled softly.
"You know my father forced me to cultivate during my childhood. I've simply applied it."
It was true.
To surpass the natural weakness of the body, to refine one's potential beyond ordinary limits, cultivation was essential.
It was the sharpening of reflexes, the strengthening of body and will, the shaping of raw magicae into precise, controlled force.
Yet even with cultivation, I was bound. I was only within the first wall, a limit that shackled me greatly.
Sansir, by contrast, had reached the seventh.
To stand before him at all, to move and strike as I had, was almost impossible.
Only my father's harsh training, my years of endurance, allowed me to bypass those constraints, to surge forward where others would collapse.
I rubbed under my nose, letting a small grin play across my lips. "So," I said, voice quiet but firm, "is my resolve grand?"
Sansir's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. "So you really plan to start a war?"
Mirabel did not speak as I replied. "They were going to, in the end. We will simply move first."
He nodded, though reluctance tightened his jaw. "You have changed. I no longer sense that overwhelming sin bearing down on you."
My arm trembled slightly. Even the mention of it made a part of me want to lie down and sink into endless sleep.
And yet I continued.
"I will not rest," I said, "not until Anstalionah stands in a position where we can survive."
The Golden Authority, the force that killed me in my past life, would not become a threat so early in this one.
They were going to move after the war had already begun, promising sanctuary between the two nations.
Only to cause ruin to one of them. My own.
Both of them looked at me in awe.
Was it my words… Or the faint hue of black light flowing beneath my veins, pulsing softly through my skin?
Yes. They saw it. They felt it.
"Trust me," I said, my voice steady, unwavering despite the ache threading through my bones.
"I will not regress. I will progress forward, tear down our enemies, and bring absolute serenity to this kingdom."