"Oh?"
Upon hearing Blake's proposal, the elderly Legion Commander raised an eyebrow, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes. In truth, he had been thinking the very same thing. After all, both men were warriors—and when it came to understanding one another, the clash of swords spoke far louder than words. Judging from their earlier exchange, it was clear that Celtic would gain no advantage over the young man with words alone. Thus, the only way to discern his true abilities was to converse in the language of warriors.
"That is an excellent proposal. Then..."
"Here will suffice."
Blake cast a casual glance around, then gestured toward the square in front of the castle. The nobles had already been turned away and were now confined to Elysium City, leaving Duskwood Castle temporarily off-limits. This was hardly surprising; with the banquet fast approaching, extensive preparations and decorations were underway—work that could not be allowed to fall under the guests' prying eyes. After receiving a handful of visiting nobles, Ophelia had simply moved all reception duties to Elysium City and ordered the castle grounds sealed off for the time being. As a result, the small square was now completely empty.
"Very well!"
A career soldier through and through, Celtic had no patience for elaborate games or posturing. Now that the young man had chosen the field of battle, he had no intention of declining. With a firm nod, Celtic strode purposefully to the center of the square, drawing the longsword at his waist in one smooth, fluid motion. While his movements lacked the lightning speed of the Flash Sheathe technique, they were executed with a seamless grace that spoke volumes of his decades of mastery over the blade. It was clear that the old man's skill with a sword was far from trivial.
Seeing Celtic had drawn his weapon, Blake stepped forward to face him, reaching back to grasp the hilt of his blade—and slowly drawing the pitch-black longsword from its scabbard at his waist.
What in the world is he doing?!
Watching Blake's action, Celtic's heart sank. He had fully expected the young man to wield the Flow Flash technique against him—but now, he was drawing his sword before the fight had even begun? Was he not planning to use that style at all? Had he seen through Celtic's intentions? Was this a deliberate choice... or an accidental oversight?
Though taken aback, Celtic refused to be distracted. He paid little heed to Blake's apparent "trick." Every swordsman had a signature style they favored above all others. If this young man was unwilling to use his Flow Flash technique, then Celtic would simply force him to reveal it!
"I'll be right back. Stay here and behave yourself."
Gazing at Celtic's calm, composed face, Blake shrugged his shoulders, then reached out to ruffle the hair of the little girl standing beside him.
"Y-Yes, My Lord!"
Though little Irene had never witnessed a duel between masters before, she could feel the tense, charged atmosphere hanging thick in the air. When Blake's hand touched her head, she stared up at him in surprise, responding automatically in a nervous stammer. It was only after he had withdrawn his hand that she seemed to snap out of her daze, looking up at the young man before her and calling out softly.
"T-That... Lord Blake... good luck!"
With that, little Irene pumped her tiny fist in the air, doing her best to put on a brave, encouraging expression. Blake merely smiled a relaxed, reassuring smile in return before turning to take his place opposite Celtic.
The square was sparsely populated. Preparations for the banquet were now in their final, most crucial stages, and the maids—regardless of their former strength or status as prodigies in their respective fields—had only one goal in mind: to ensure every last detail of the event was perfect. As a result, the impending duel drew little attention. Aside from two Wraith Warriors guarding the castle gates, who had wandered over out of curiosity, only a handful of the castle's outer staff lingered around the square's perimeter, watching the two men in the center with keen interest. These were not the maids who worked inside the castle walls, but rather refugees Ophelia had temporarily hired to assist with banquet preparations. Lacking the clearance to handle the more sensitive tasks, they found themselves with time to spare—and the chance to watch their lord engage in a sword fight was far too exciting to pass up.
"I'm ready when you are."
After casting a casual glance at the small crowd gathering around them, Blake turned back to face Celtic, twirling his longsword once in his hand before raising it steadily, pointing the tip directly at his opponent.
"Then here I come!"
Celtic wasted no time with further pleasantries. No sooner had the words left his mouth than his burly, imposing frame surged forward. Gripping his sword tightly with both hands, the elderly warrior brought the blade crashing down with all his might. A brilliant flash of silver light erupted in an instant, slicing through the air and whipping up a chaotic gust of wind that buffeted everything in its path.
"Oh?"
Noticing Celtic's opening strike, Blake's eyes widened in genuine surprise. Though the old man's attack was nothing more than a simple, straightforward slash—devoid of any fancy footwork or tricks—it carried with it a pressure so immense it threatened to crush everything in its wake. That single, unadorned strike seemed to fill every inch of space around Blake, pinning him in place and leaving him with no choice but to meet the blow head-on!
This old man is far from ordinary. That one strike alone was enough to reveal that his understanding of swordsmanship had long since reached the level of a true master. Facing an opponent of this caliber, any other swordsman would find themselves hard-pressed to hold their own.
Of course, Blake was not just any swordsman. That said, this was a friendly duel—not a fight to the death—and he had no intention of defeating his opponent with overwhelming force.
With that thought in mind, Blake's body leaned back in a single, fluid motion. As he moved, the pitch-black longsword, which had been pointing straight ahead, followed suit, withdrawing smoothly along with him.
In any other circumstance, this would have been a perfectly ordinary movement: when the swordsman steps back, the sword in his hand naturally moves with him. But to Celtic's eyes, the gesture was nothing short of astonishing. He had approached this duel with the utmost seriousness; though it was technically a friendly match, he had unleashed his full power with that first strike. His plan had been to overwhelm Blake with sheer momentum, forcing him into a head-on clash—a tactic he had used countless times before, one that had never failed to corner his opponents.
But Blake's simple step back left Celtic feeling as though he had punched nothing but thin air. It was like trying to hold a slippery eel—no matter how tightly he squeezed, his opponent slipped effortlessly through his fingers. A sense of emptiness and frustration washed over him instantly, leaving the old man more surprised than ever. Still, decades of battlefield experience had taught him to remain calm in the face of the unexpected. No sooner had Blake pulled back than Celtic adjusted his stance, the blade that had missed its mark pausing for the briefest of moments before flicking upward, aimed directly at Blake's left shoulder.
The strike was swift and brutal, perfectly timed to catch Blake in the split second between retreat and recovery. There was no way for him to dodge this time. As the blade lunged forward, the onlookers gasped in unison. Though few of them knew the first thing about swordsmanship, the clash between two masters unfolding before their eyes was so intense that even the sheer weight of their auras was enough to leave the spectators breathless. This was more than just a battle of skill—it was a contest of wills, a clash of auras where each man sought to dominate the other. For the ordinary men and women watching from the sidelines, the pressure was almost unbearable; they found themselves reacting instinctively to the ebb and flow of the duel. When Blake had leaned back to avoid Celtic's first strike, many of them had flinched, shrinking back as if they could feel the blade slicing through the air toward them.
Now, as Celtic's follow-up attack surged forward, the spectators held their breath in unison. It was easy to see why: Celtic's aura was as domineering as a raging storm, crashing down on his opponent with overwhelming force that left no room for escape. Blake's aura, by contrast, was soft and elusive—hard to detect, yet subtly influencing everyone around him all the same. In terms of sheer presence, the elderly warrior clearly had the upper hand.
He's forcing me into a direct confrontation.
Staring at the blade piercing toward him, Blake raised an eyebrow. Celtic's aura was undeniably formidable, and he could feel the old man's unwavering resolve to overpower him in a head-on clash. But that did not mean he had to play by his opponent's rules.
With that thought, the pitch-black longsword in Blake's hand flicked upward, pressing firmly against Celtic's blade. Then, his wrist twisted sharply.
The black sword, which had been lying flat against Celtic's blade, rotated in a single, smooth motion. In that split second of turning and twisting, Celtic's brow furrowed deeply. He could feel a strange, almost imperceptible force pushing against his sword—a gentle nudge that was barely strong enough to shift the blade's trajectory. Yet that tiny, insignificant deviation was enough to render his attack completely useless!
"Swish!"
Though his mind reeled in shock, Celtic knew there was no way to recall the strike once it had been unleashed. He could only watch, helpless, as his blade sliced past Blake's cheek, missing its mark by a hair's breadth.
"Whew!"
Only then did the onlookers exhale as one, the tension in the air easing as Celtic's attack missed its target and his aura faltered. But it was at that precise moment that Blake seized his chance, gripping his sword tightly and swinging it forward with all his strength.
"Clang!"
Celtic, his senses sharpened by decades of battle, did not miss Blake's sudden counterattack. He raised his sword in a hurried defense, blocking the blow with a resounding crash of steel on steel. But as their blades met, the force that surged through Celtic's sword left him momentarily stunned.
Why would he do that?!
Celtic had expected Blake to adopt a defensive stance, weathering his attacks before launching a counteroffensive to force him onto the back foot. But the weight behind Blake's strike was far greater than he had anticipated—it was not a mere counterattack, but a full-powered assault in its own right. What was he playing at?
Celtic's combat experience was unparalleled, but it was precisely this experience that left him momentarily frozen when faced with an attack he could not comprehend. And in the split second of hesitation that followed, Blake finally seized the opening he had been waiting for!
The black sword, having slammed into Celtic's blade with tremendous force, rebounded backward under the impact. Blake capitalized on this momentum instantly, spinning his wrist as the sword bounced back. In the blink of an eye, the pitch-black blade transformed into a sinuous, coiling serpent, striking toward the blind spot at the elderly Legion Commander's side.
What kind of swordsmanship is this?!
Celtic's face turned grave in an instant. In the span of just a few short minutes, this duel had completely upended everything he thought he knew. He had been confident in his ability to pressure Blake into revealing his true techniques, allowing him to uncover the young man's secrets. But from the very beginning of the fight, the battle had unfolded in ways he had never imagined possible. Earlier, Celtic had been able to recognize the traces of the Flow Flash technique in Blake's movements—but the sword style he was using now was unlike anything he had ever seen before, a style he could not begin to identify.
Could it be that this was not a formal sword style at all, but merely a series of improvised reactions?
Impossible. Under the relentless pressure of his attacks, the young man's responses had been too quick, his counterstrikes too fluid. The entire sequence of his counterattack had been executed with flawless precision—something that could never be achieved through talent or instinct alone. To judge a swordsman's mastery of a style, one need only look at the fluidity of their movements and the philosophy that underpinned their attacks. The Flow Flash technique was built around the core principle of the Flash Sheathe: draw the sword and strike in an instant. But the style Blake was using now followed an entirely different philosophy—avoid direct confrontation, strike with unpredictable, shifting movements. This was undoubtedly a refined, inherited sword technique!
But was that even possible? Could a young man barely twenty years old master not only the Flow Flash—a high-level technique among high-level sword styles—but also wield another, equally sophisticated style with such proficiency? Not even a prodigy destined to become a Knight could hope to achieve such a feat!
Despite his shock, Celtic's sword never wavered. On the contrary, as the black serpent lunged toward him, the sharp blade in his hand suddenly erupted with a brilliant, blinding light, like the sun bursting forth from behind the clouds!
"Boom!!"
A wave of warm energy exploded into the air without warning, swirling outward in an invisible vortex that advanced slowly but inexorably, blocking the black serpent's fangs and forcing it back.
In that moment, Celtic's true power as a high-ranked swordsman was finally unleashed in full.
Unfortunately, not everyone was eager to witness this display of strength.
"Honestly, Lord Blake—what on earth are you two doing out here?!"
The sudden eruption of high-level sword energy had not gone unnoticed inside the castle, and it left Ophelia thoroughly exasperated. She frowned deeply, muttering under her breath as she stormed out of the castle gates—only to find that the unexpected tremor had sent a fresh layer of dust settling over the newly decorated banquet hall, requiring the tablecloths to be changed all over again. This was the last thing she needed. In her eyes, it was bad enough that her lord was doing nothing to help with the preparations—did he really have to go out of his way to cause trouble? What was he thinking? She had been the one to suggest the banquet in the first place, but he had agreed to it readily enough, had he not?
But as Ophelia stepped outside the castle, ready to give Blake a piece of her mind, her gaze suddenly locked onto Celtic—and her face drained of all color, turning ashen with horror. She stumbled backward in panic, retreating into the shelter of the castle gates before pressing her back against the cold stone wall, gasping for breath. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat—a sight so out of character for the usually composed young woman that it bordered on unimaginable.
"Miss Ophelia?"
Charlotte, who had followed Ophelia out of the castle, stared at her pale, terrified face in concern. After all, Ophelia's reaction was nothing short of bizarre. Charlotte cast a curious glance toward the square outside, but saw nothing that could possibly explain her companion's fear. Even so, she could not help but voice her worry.
"What's wrong? Did something happen?"
"N-Nothing... I... I just..."
Ophelia shook her head, casting another terrified glance toward the square outside—now transformed, in her eyes, into a den of vipers waiting to strike. She shook her head violently, then began to back away slowly. It was not until she reached the end of the corridor, on the verge of entering the banquet hall, that she finally came to a stop, her face looking marginally calmer than before.
"I'm sorry, Miss Charlotte. I'm not feeling very well. Please proceed with the banquet preparations exactly as we discussed. If Lord Blake asks for me, tell him I've retired to my room to rest... and that I do not wish to see anyone for the time being."
"Of course."
Charlotte could hear the unspoken lies and excuses in Ophelia's trembling voice. After all, as a spirit, Ophelia was incapable of "falling ill." But as a maid, she knew better than to pry into matters that were not her concern. With a polite smile, she nodded her head in agreement. Ophelia let out a long, shaky breath, offering her a grateful smile in return.
"Thank you, Miss Charlotte. Please tell Lord Blake that I will keep a close eye on a certain young lady who really ought not to get into any trouble."
With those words, Ophelia turned on her heel and hurried away, pressing a hand to her heaving chest as she rushed up the stairs to the guest chambers on the third floor. When she reached the door of one particular room, she paused, taking a deep, steadying breath. Closing her eyes for a moment to compose herself, she raised a hand and knocked softly on the door.
"Princess Fili? Are you inside?"