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The clash was inevitable.
Dwarves lined the watchtowers, eyes fixed on the field below. Rows of dragon-slayer ballistae rested beside them, bolts loaded and ready.
If the Elves tried anything beyond the agreed duel, Thorin would not hesitate to start a war.
As for Bard… no one cared what he thought.
No weapons. No food. No real army.
Land occupied without permission. Supplies begged from others. And now trying to profit without risking anything.
When survival itself depends on charity, dignity becomes a luxury.
…
According to the rules, the Elvenking released a signal arrow. The moment it struck the ground, the duel would begin.
"Whoosh—"
The arrow landed.
Jimmy's eyes sharpened.
He surged forward.
There was no courtesy in his movement. No restraint.
Beorik's first arrow came fast and vicious, aimed straight at the slit of Jimmy's visor.
Jimmy sidestepped left without slowing.
Another arrow followed. Then another.
In Jimmy's perception, every trajectory was clear. Every line of death is visible before it forms.
Dodging was effortless.
Only one problem remained.
Beorik was fast.
He retreated while firing, maintaining distance with flawless footwork, exploiting the classic archer's advantage. Step back. Release. Step back again.
Jimmy didn't accelerate yet.
He was watching. Learning how Elves fought.
Let him perform.
But Beorik wasn't just skilled… he was dangerous.
Arrows embedded in the ground began to matter. Beorik subtly adjusted his shots, forcing Jimmy's dodges into narrower angles, compressing his movement space step by step.
"Whoosh. Whoosh—whoosh."
Beorik's signature technique.
Three arrows loosed in a single draw, streaking straight toward Jimmy's face.
Another three followed instantly, sealing off his escape routes.
"Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh."
The final volley targeted the cord at Jimmy's waist armor.
Jimmy stopped dodging.
He raised his arm.
Clang!
The arrows shattered against his bracer.
Then—
He accelerated.
The sudden burst of speed shattered Beorik's rhythm. Alarm flared across the Elf's face as he fired while retreating, struggling to reset distance.
"Whoosh—"
Jimmy hurled his cleaver.
Without pause, he drew his second blade and threw that as well.
Beorik didn't react.
By trajectory alone, both blades would miss… passing harmlessly to either side.
Seeing Jimmy charge barehanded, Beorik almost smiled.
An archer at close range was not helpless.
He was Beorik.
"Whoosh! thump!"
Just before the blades reached him, Jimmy kicked a stone.
The stone flew faster than an arrow.
Jimmy stopped moving.
The stone struck the cleaver's hilt midair.
The blade twisted.
Its path changed.
The hilt slammed into Beorik's chest.
Boom!
Blood burst from Beorik's mouth as he was thrown backward.
Thunk!
The second blade followed, skimming his armor and pinning him cleanly to the stone wall behind him.
Silence fell.
Beorik lay immobilized.
Defeated.
After losing arrows for half the duel, the Wood-elf champion had been overwhelmed by two casually thrown blades.
Clean. Precise. Absolute.
Reluctance aside, the result was undeniable.
They had lost.
Beorik lay pinned in place, fury written across his face. What angered him most was not defeat… but that the battle had ended before he could even demonstrate his close-quarters skill.
"You lost," Jimmy said calmly.
Beorik clenched his jaw.
"As expected of the Dragonslayer," Thranduil said evenly. "Yes, we concede."
He lifted a hand.
"We will send scholars to instruct you in agriculture. And we will honor the agreement made with Balin."
"Your Majesty," Beorik protested, "this was my mistake. Allow me another match. Dragonslayer, you wouldn't dare face me again—"
"Enough. Beorik," Thranduil snapped.
Beorik was trapped in the moment.
Thranduil was not.
From the instant Jimmy accelerated, from the moment the blades left his hands, the outcome had already been decided.
There were no coincidences on a battlefield.
Every apparent stroke of luck was the result of calculation. No one wagered life and death on chance.
Jimmy had known exactly what would happen the moment he kicked that stone.
That was why he had not moved afterward.
Because the result was already certain.
A second duel would change nothing.
Beorik believed he had been careless. He thought his close-combat skill could turn the tide.
He did not know that Legolas himself would not last a single exchange against Jimmy.
That burst of speed earlier… it had been as fast as an arrow.
And Thranduil knew it was not Jimmy's limit.
No warrior exhausts himself in a duel that does not decide everything.
The arrows that struck Jimmy earlier had proven something else as well.
His armor did not fear Elven bows.
Combined with his speed… and those massive blades…
If Jimmy charged into an Elven formation, it would be a catastrophe.
Five hundred Elves no longer felt like a guarantee.
Kings did not gamble on mutual destruction.
That was the thinking of desperate men.
A king chose the table, not the pyre.
"Beorik's defeat is not disgraceful," Thranduil said calmly. "Now, let us observe the Dragonslayer's second match."
The words were polite.
The meaning was clear.
Please! Continue your demonstration.
Bard's face drained of color.
He knew his limits.
His strength lay in archery… and even there, he could not match Beorik.
As for close combat, one glance at Jimmy's weapons told him everything.
A man who wielded a great cleaver was not necessarily the strongest.
But he was never weak.
And those blades… thrown casually… had carried terrifying speed.
Bard had no illusions.
"Jimmy Halstead," he said hoarsely, "must we truly do this. We are both human."
He swallowed.
"Could you not help your own kind. I can make the people obey you. I can make you lord of Dale—"
"Bard," Jimmy interrupted quietly, "you are not a demon. Do not whisper temptations like one."
His gaze was cold.
"Fight me with everything you have."
"If your ancestor truly struck Smaug," Jimmy continued, "then show me that courage. Do not imitate deceivers."
He stepped forward.
"You occupied land without permission. You intended to keep it."
His voice sharpened.
"Dale belongs to the dwarves. If you wish to live there, you obtain their consent."
"This has nothing to do with me being human."
He stared Bard down.
"Can you swear that when Erebor's people return, you will surrender Dale?"
Bard could not answer.
"You cannot," Jimmy said flatly. "Because this is an invasion."
"You are not desperate," Jimmy continued. "You are opportunistic."
He raised his blade.
"So fight."
"Show me the resolve that makes you worthy of being a conqueror."
"If you lose," Jimmy said, "then stop talking."
"If you win," he added, "Dale is yours."
The field went silent.
The second duel was about to begin.
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