Chapter 192: Chapter 188 — Trial Of Iron
The Trial of Iron was a brutal tradition, one long since forgotten. Every dispute was settled with a blade, with only one man left standing.
As time passed, the Church had formed, temples and priests had risen, and society had evolved. The people had been given a cleaner method of conflict resolution. It was the entire reason the Tribunal of Iron had been established.
Yet, a mere seventeen-year-old boy, with snake-like words and the charisma of a preacher, had riled the crowd into a frenzy. Their eyes burned. Their voices shook the hall. They wanted blood.
The Ferran people had been bred in war. It was buried deep in their bones. Now, the Lightning Prince had simply reached in and awakened those instincts.
There was genuine surprise in Ingrid’s eyes. The stakes had been against Zephyrion moments before, yet he had somehow turned them against his opponents.
Menias’ argument had been based on duty and necessity. No one was exempt from serving the Iron Father. But Zephyrion had stepped over that entirely.
No mortal could judge another. There was no arguing against that, not without spitting on the very foundation the Church stood upon. The absoluteness of the Iron Father.
Her brother was the least religious person she knew across the Empire. Iron Father absolute? Bullcrap. He had found a crack in the Ferran faith and shoved a blade through it.
Ingrid chuckled. She hadn’t realized it, but her thumping leg had stilled. The ugly look on Menias’ face was somehow pleasing to her.
The talk of battle had completely won over Garrick’s attention. He was grinning from ear to ear, cursing inwardly that he hadn’t brought beverages. This had just turned into a spectacle.
Garaxe and Tenius’ eyes were slightly wide with shock. The turnaround had certainly never been within their expectations, much less the concise and heart-gripping speech Zephyrion had just given. It was probably the most they had ever heard the block of ice speak.
Tobias and Fiona both wore openly excited expressions, while Kaiden did his best to maintain an air of indifference. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined somewhat by the fact that both his fists were clenched tightly at his sides.
It was as though a switch had been flipped.
The momentum that had once rested firmly with the Sarakhel had vanished. Now, the gloom clung to their side like a shroud.
Of them all, Koran’s expression was the ugliest. The roaring crowd only seemed to deepen the chill in his heart. A Trial of Iron... the fact that Zephyrion wanted this to happen made him deeply uneasy.
He rose to his feet.
There was no changing the crowd’s mind anymore, but he could still control one thing.
Time.
"Ferrans!"
The crowd gradually fell silent. Koran swept his gaze across the hall before speaking.
"We have heard your voice, and the Trial of Iron shall be held to determine true justice!"
Cheers erupted throughout the hall, but Zephyrion frowned, catching the sharp glint hidden within Koran’s eyes.
He knew exactly what this was.
"But unfortunately, the Trial of Iron is a long-forgotten tradition. It requires an anvil fitted with a scrambler, one we no longer possess."
Koran intended to postpone the duel.
The entire point of this was to catch them off guard, to leave them with no time to think. Postponing it would accomplish the opposite. It would give them time to regroup, time to stir the crowd again, time to act.
He couldn’t allow that.
"So I suggest we postpone the duel for one week. Until we can properly prepare the arena."
A week? He might as well have canceled the entire thing. Zephyrion stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak.
Then a ripple passed through the hall. He froze. The ground beneath them began to tremble.
A moment later, metal surged upward like a rising tide, twisting and folding into the shape of a colossal anvil. Intricate runic markings crawled across its surface, etching themselves before settling into a faint glow. As the final rune completed itself, a low hum spread throughout the hall.
Zephyrion frowned the moment he felt his element being restricted.
’A scrambler.’
The anvil. The rune imprinting. Such flawless, effortless execution.
Zephyrion, along with every other eye in the hall, looked upward to where Kastor sat upon his throne, as motionless as a carved statue.
"Do it now."
Zephyrion couldn’t help but pause. Had his father really just... helped him? Certainly, this meant everything could proceed as planned.
’No.’
The thought was smothered almost as soon as it appeared. There was no fondness between them. This was more likely a chance to spit in the Sarakhel’s face than anything else.
Zephyrion didn’t particularly care, the reason was irrelevant. What mattered was that there was no longer an excuse.
The game was set.
He turned toward Koran.
The man’s expression had twisted into something unpleasant. He looked as though he’d just bitten into something rotten. The look vanished quickly, replaced by the calm confidence expected of a High Priest, but Zephyrion could still see the anger smoldering beneath it.
Unfortunately for him, it was about to get much worse. With the stage prepared, there was nothing left to delay the duel.
Koran seemed to realize the same thing. He disappeared from the platform shortly afterward.
It was only later that Zephyrion discovered where he had gone when he spotted him speaking to Menias in a distant corner of the hall, away from the eyes of the crowd. A barrier concealed their words, but Zephyrion paid it little attention.
Nothing they said could change what came next.
Zephyrion stood alone atop the anvil, a blade already formed around his arm.
...
"Listen to me carefully, son."
Koran gripped Menias by the shoulders and held his gaze.
"Do not underestimate him. Some of the rumors surrounding him may be exaggerated, but he is not weak. Stay cautious. Always. You’re stronger than him. More experienced. So the moment an opportunity appears, end it."
Menias’ eyes hardened.
He disliked the caution his father showed toward Zephyrion. Yet there was no one in this world whose judgment he respected more.
"...Yes, Father."
Koran studied him for a moment before his expression softened.
"You were not born with the divine talent of the others, but you’ve worked for everything you possess. Never forget that. You’re my son, Menias. Never forget."
Something brightened within Menias’ eyes.
"Yes, Father. I won’t fail you. I promise."
Resolve settled in his eyes. He gave a firm nod before turning and making his way toward the stage.
"My fellow Ferrans!" Menias thundered on the stage. "Are you ready to witness true justice?"
A wave of cheers rolled through the crowd.
"Are you ready to witness the wrath of the Iron Father? Of our Divine One?"
"YES!"
The response came louder this time, shaking the hall.
A manic light flickered within Menias’ eyes.
"ARE YOU READY TO SEE THE GUILTY PUNISHED FOR THEIR SIN?"
"YESSSSS!"
The crowd erupted into a frenzy, thousands of voices crashing together.
Menias grinned. A blade formed around his arm as he pointed it toward Zephyrion.
"Then watch me as I bring the sinner to his knees."
The cheers lingered, echoing across the hall. Zephyrion said nothing.
Eventually, the noise began to die down as both men stared at one another across the anvil. Then—
"Begin."
Neither moved. The hall seemed to still around them. Then Menias lunged.
His blade vanished into a storm of thrusts that tore through the air.
One moment, Zephyrion stood motionless with his blade lowered. The next, his arm blurred.
Sparks erupted. The sharp clang of steel rang throughout the hall. Every thrust was perfectly parried. Zephyrion hadn’t moved so much as a step.
Menias’ eyes narrowed. Zephyrion could see the shock within them.
The scrambler prevented any use of the elements beyond reinforcing one’s body and blade. As a Mark Seven, Menias should have been stronger. Faster. Zephyrion, according to public knowledge, was only a Mark Six. That was what the entire world believed. If only they knew how wrong they were.
Undeterred, Menias slid back and planted his foot firmly against the anvil. His eyes held a fierce light.
A technique.
Techniques differed from rune arts. They required no comprehension, meaning even a non-Ascendant could learn them. The tradeoff was that they demanded endless repetition. Thousands upon thousands of movements practiced until they ceased being actions and became instinct.
They were powerful. Versatile. In the hands of a skilled user, they could decide the outcome of a battle between equals. Yet they possessed one glaring weakness. Techniques could be read. One simply needed the eyes to see them.
Menias’ blade carved toward his leg. His whole body lit up in Zephyrion’s eyes. Weight shifted backward. Wrist twisted slightly.
A feint.
The blade abruptly changed course, shooting toward the base of Zephyrion’s chin.
Menias’ eyes brightened. A killing blow. It was over.
The blade pierced empty air. The next thing Menias knew, a fist was buried deep in his gut.
The world lurched. His feet left the ground. Blood and spittle burst from his lips as he hurtled backward, skipping across the anvil before finally crashing to a halt.
