Chapter 27 - Duel
I roll my shoulders, gripping the saber tightly, feeling its balance settle in my hand. Across from me, Howard stands with perfect posture, his feet planted in a textbook stance, his sword held at just the right angle, rigid, disciplined, the kind of stance drilled into nobles and soldiers who have spent their entire lives training in polished halls under expert tutors.
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It's almost amusing. He's confident, completely sure of himself. He expects this to go like every other sparring match he's had. A test of skill, an elegant exchange of swordplay. But real fights don't work like that. He's not fighting one of his father's knights. He's fighting me.
I grew up in the outskirts. There, fights aren't about form or honor—they're about survival. They're fast, brutal, and end the moment someone lands a decisive blow. There's no time to dance around, testing an opponent's defenses. I can't rely on my powers. Not unless I suddenly develop a deep hatred for the kid in the next few seconds. That means I need to end this fight quickly, before he has a chance to use his mark against me.
Kirper raises a hand, his voice carrying over the silent courtyard.
"Begin!"
I move.
One moment, I'm standing still. The next, I explode forward like a bullet.
The packed dirt beneath my boots barely scatters, my entire body a blur of motion. Gasps echo from the watching soldiers as I close the distance in an instant, faster than any of them can react—any of them, except Cain, whose gaze follows me with ease.
Howard doesn't even have time to blink before my blade is already swinging toward his neck.
His eyes widen in pure shock, a flicker of fear flashing across his face as he instinctively raises his sword. He manages to tilt it just enough to deflect my strike, our blades colliding with a sharp clang. But I don't stop. I don't hesitate.
I pivot sharply, my foot twisting into the dirt, and before Howard can regain his footing, my fist is already crashing into his unguarded face.
The impact is solid and brutal.
A sickening crunch fills the air as my knuckles drive into his nose, and Howard's body jerks backward. His feet leave the ground as he's sent sprawling, hitting the dirt with a heavy thud, skidding back several feet before coming to a stop.
The courtyard is deathly silent.
The gathered knights and soldiers stare, frozen in place, as if struggling to process what just happened. It took barely a handful of seconds.
Howard groans, dazed, blood dripping from his nose. He blinks rapidly, shaking his head as he props himself up on his elbows, his chest heaving. The shock in his expression quickly morphs into something else—humiliation.
Rage burns in his eyes as he stumbles to his feet, wiping his face with the back of his hand, smearing crimson across his cheek. His grip tightens around his sword, knuckles going white.
"Again," he snaps, his voice thick with fury. "I want a rematch!"
I let out a cold laugh, shaking my head in contempt as Howard glares at me, his face still twisted in anger. Blood drips from his nose, his pride clearly wounded just as much as his face.
"You lost," I tell him flatly, my voice dripping with amusement. "You don't get a rematch. That's not how this works. You hit the ground; I didn't. End of story. What, did you think this was some friendly spar where you get do-overs just because you're not happy with the result?"
Howard's jaw clenches, but before he can snap back, the heavy footfalls of the others jogging over cut through the tension.
Cain, Lieutenant Kirper, Sergeant Blake, and Count Ashland reach us quickly, their expressions varying from amused to irritated. Kirper's face is particularly firm as he steps between us, giving me a hard look.
"Enough," he says sternly. "Show some sportsmanship, Awakened Daath."
I sneer, throwing my arms up in disgust. "How rich," I mock. "You care about me showing sportsmanship, but not this brat throwing a tantrum and demanding a rematch because he couldn't handle losing? Right, that makes perfect sense."
Kirper's lips press into a thin line, but he doesn't argue. The Count, however, looks between his son and me, his expression flickering with conflict before he exhales, shaking his head.
"My son's behavior is unbecoming of a man bearing the name of Ashland," he says, voice firm but not unkind. "For that, I apologize."
Howard's eyes widen slightly at his father's words, but he doesn't dare argue. He just clenches his jaw, clearly trying to swallow his frustration.
Then the Count turns to me. "That being said," he continues, "I would like to request a rematch on his behalf. I believe my son deserves a chance to redeem himself."
I stare at him for a moment before I let out a loud, sharp laugh. "Oh, this just keeps getting better," I sneer, shaking my head. "Fine. I'll oblige. Not because I think he deserves anything, but because it'll be even funnier to kick his ass twice."
From the corner of my eye, I catch Cain's eyes glinting with amusement, though he says nothing, simply watching with his usual smirk.
Before the Count can respond, Sergeant Blake steps forward, his posture stiff. "Watch your tone," he says coldly. "You may be an Awakened, but you would do well to remember who you're speaking to. Disrespecting the Count is not something you can afford to do, boy."
I smirk at Sergeant Blake, tilting my head just slightly as I let the silence hang between us, dragging it out just enough to make him simmer. Then, with deliberate slowness, I sneer, "Oh? And what are you going to do about it, Sergeant?" I put every ounce of disgust and derision I can into the last word, letting it come out like an insult rather than a title.
His face hardens, his jaw tightening. The scar down his cheek twitches as his expression darkens, but I don't give him the chance to respond before I go for the throat. "If you'd like, you can duel me next," I offer, my voice dripping with mock generosity. "But I assure you, your decades of training won't mean shit against my two months of divine power I guarantee that."
I laugh coldly, watching with satisfaction as his fists clench at his sides. His stance is controlled and disciplined, but the anger burning in his eyes is impossible to miss. Good be mad. Seethe more.
Cain finally decides to step in, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "That's enough, Ayato. Calm down." His tone is firm, but not scolding. More like an order he hopes that I follow.
I just grin. "Fine." Without another word, I turn on my heel, walking back toward the center of the courtyard. I don't spare the Count, Kirper, or Blake another glance; they can eat a bag of dicks for all I care. Pampered, rich fucks. Why should I care if I offended them? What are they going to do, execute me? Hang the first three mark bearer in history over hurt feelings. They can't, and they know it.
I glance over my shoulder at Howard, still standing there, his expression twisted in frustration and barely contained rage as he pinches his nose trying to stop the bleeding. I gesture lazily for him to follow, my grin widening. "Come, boy," I mock, watching his face tighten at the insult.
He storms after me without a word.
The group steps back once more, their expressions shifting between barely concealed anger, disdain, and—amusingly—worry. I catch the way Lieutenant Kirper's brows furrow slightly, as if second-guessing this entire ordeal. The Count looks tense, though he keeps his expression schooled into something neutral. Sergeant Blake, however, looks like he'd love nothing more than to take my head off himself.
I grin. Let them seethe; it's so funny.
Howard stands across from me, fists clenched, blood still dripping faintly from his nose. He's pissed, humiliated, and desperate to claw back his pride. It's obvious in the way he breathes too hard, how his shoulders shake just slightly.
Good. He's emotional. That'll make this easier.
I take my stance—or rather, I don't. Instead, I leave my saber sheathed at my hip, standing lazily with my arms relaxed at my sides. I tilt my head at him, smirking. "What, still want to do this? Are you sure you don't want to just go cry to Daddy and save yourself another beating?"
Howard's face twists in fury. "Shut the hell up!"
I chuckle, unbothered, rolling my shoulders as if I'm not even taking this seriously. Which, to be fair, I'm not. I gesture with my fingers, taunting. "Come on, boy. Show me what that oh-so-special power of yours can do."
Howard grits his teeth, stepping forward and thrusting his hand out. "Firebolt!" not even bothering for the LT to signal the start of the duel.
A small sphere of fire erupts from his palm, rocketing toward me. How cliché that the gods gave the short-tempered prick the ability to use fire magic. Clearly the gods find themselves to be comedians.
But it does not matter. I was expecting him to start with his power right away this time.
What surprises me, though, is how slow the damn thing moves. Compared to the invisible air bullets Cain forces me to dodge in training, this fireball might as well be crawling at a snail's pace. With Cain's attacks, I have to feel them coming, using my instincts and every heightened sense I have. But this? This is just a big, glowing target flying right at me.
Pathetic.
I sidestep effortlessly, watching the firebolt streak past me and dissipate against the stone wall several feet behind me. Howard's eyes widen slightly but then narrow in concentration. He thrusts his hand out again.
"Firebolt!"
Another one. Then another and another.
"Firebolt! Firebolt! Firebolt!"
He keeps screaming the incantation, flinging bolt after bolt, as if sheer quantity will make up for his lack of accuracy.
I weave through them with ease, my movements fluid, almost lazy. I move like a demon out of hell, slipping between the flames without breaking a sweat, laughing the entire time. The heat licks at my skin, but none come close enough to touch me.
Howard grows more frantic. He keeps casting, his voice cracking slightly from shouting. His fear is almost palpable even without the whispers heightening my awareness of it.
He's so goddamn predictable.
I don't even bother drawing my sword. Instead, I accelerate, closing the distance in a blink of an eye. Before Howard can react, I slam my foot into his chest with a brutal front kick.
The impact lifts him clear off the ground.
His breath leaves him in a choked gasp as he's launched backward, soaring several feet before crashing into the dirt, rolling to a stop in a coughing, wheezing heap.
Silence blankets the courtyard.
I stand where I kicked him, completely still, watching as the dust settles. The only sound is Howard's ragged breathing as he struggles to process what the hell just happened.