Chapter 147
Daniel found Lashrael standing near the marble archway that led deeper into the library halls. The prince's posture was calm, but his eyes carried the same quiet storm as before. Daniel approached with a half-smile, his voice steady yet laced with sincerity.
"Lashrael, I owe you an apology," he said, inclining his head. "I vanished before our spar, and I know you were counting on it. This place… shifted around me, and I had to make sure it was safe for all of you. I didn't mean to postpone."
The Crowned Prince studied him for a moment, then gave a measured nod. "I knew something had changed. This is not the void bubble Sylveth Melriel conjured. This place bends to your rules now. Which is why I asked you to spar in the first place. I needed to see—no, confirm—what you truly are."
Before Daniel could respond, Caerthynna wandered past them, curiosity glittering in her sharp eyes. She had been staring at the towering shelves of the library, their spines etched with runes no mortal tongue could easily pronounce. She reached for one book, but a caretaker, an ethereal attendant formed of soft light and ancient script bowed politely and intercepted her.
"I'm sorry, lady," the caretaker said gently. "Those archives may only be accessed by the Master of this Sanctuary."
Caerthynna narrowed her eyes, though the attendant's tone was respectful. "So all this knowledge, and you deny me a single page?"
The caretaker gave a small smile, serene as stone worn by centuries. "Not all knowledge is restricted. Much of what you see was left behind by the spirits of Lúthien who have already crossed over. Their wisdom is yours to read, if you ask. But the sealed tomes… those can only be opened by him." The caretaker gestured toward Daniel.
The elf woman glanced at Daniel, weighing him in silence, before turning back to the shelves, already preoccupied with hunting what she could read.
Daniel let out a quiet breath, then looked back to Lashrael. "So then, Prince. Still willing to test blades in this place?"
Lashrael's hand tightened around the hilt of his longsword. His eyes gleamed, hungry, focused. "That's why I asked you in the first place. Show me what strength you've hidden."
They began walking together, leaving the grand library behind. Their footsteps echoed along the obsidian bridge that led toward the training grounds, a coliseum-like space shaped from Daniel's subconscious design. Towering walls shimmered faintly with protective runes. In the center lay a wide arena of polished stone, scarred from past duels that had already been fought here in memory or in dream.
Melgil, refusing to follow them into the fray, chose a marble balcony overlooking the arena. She lounged comfortably, crossing one leg over the other as an attendant placed a steaming cup of tea and a small plate of cake before her. She smiled, clearly content. "Do try not to kill each other," she said lightly, raising her cup in mock salute.
Daniel drew his weapon with a smooth motion, the gun blade, a fusion of steel and arcane engineering. Its barrel hummed faintly with contained mana, while its blade caught the artificial sunlight spilling through the arena's open ceiling.
Lashrael drew his longsword in reply, its edge glowing faintly as he activated the armband artifact on his left wrist. A hexagonal mana shield flared briefly into existence, translucent but brimming with force.
The air thickened as both combatants faced one another.
Then Daniel moved.
He blurred forward, gunblade flashing, and unleashed a flurry of strikes, blades crashing, sparks leaping. Between each swing, Daniel pulled the trigger, arcs of lightning-laced bullets firing point-blank. Lashrael met the blows head-on, his longsword ringing as it parried, his mana shield intercepting bursts of gunfire and redirecting the energy outward in controlled bursts.
Daniel spun low, sweeping his blade in a crackling arc of fire, the flames rushing like a whip toward Lashrael's legs. The prince leapt back, planting his blade in the ground, and channeled a ripple of raw force through the stone. The arena floor split, jagged shards of rock erupting upward to block the fire.
Daniel leapt over them, his weapon glowing bright with a charged spell. He slashed downward—lightning exploding from the edge like a storm breaking free.
Lashrael braced, mana shield expanding into a full dome for a single heartbeat. The lightning struck, the shield screamed, then shattered in a burst of sparks. The force knocked Lashrael back, boots skidding across the stone, but he did not fall. With a roar, he lunged forward, sword raised, striking in a precise pattern of cuts and thrusts honed by years of royal training.
Steel rang against steel. Gunfire roared between every strike. Fire and lightning danced in wild arcs, crashing against shield and sword alike.
And above it all, Melgil calmly took another sip of her tea, smiling faintly as she watched.
The courtyard of Lúthien had fallen into a silence so sharp it seemed to slice the air. The gathered councilors, knights, and mages stood in a wide ring, their eyes fixed on the two figures at its heart. Daniel, calm and unreadable, stood barefoot on the polished stone with no weapon in hand. Opposite him, Crown Prince Lashrael, heir to a line of warrior-kings, gripped his blade with all the solemnity of ceremony and the raw hunger of pride. His steel shimmered faintly, warded by Elven enchantments. Lashrael's expression bore the confidence of decades of training; Daniel's was that of someone who had lived through wars the elves had never dreamed of.
The first strike came with a flash. Lashrael lunged forward, his opening blow a sweeping cut designed to test Daniel's defense, as he would against any opponent. But Daniel's hand rose without hesitation. Instead of dodging, he caught the flat of the blade with the edge of his palm, redirecting the strike sideways with a clack that echoed across the courtyard. The elves gasped. To meet a blade with bare flesh was madness. Yet Daniel's skin glowed faintly with runic tracings, shimmering like tempered steel.
"Your stance is proud," Daniel said softly, stepping back, "but pride alone is predictable."
The prince snarled and pressed harder, driving into a series of elegant cuts, each flowing like water, each a piece of Elven sword dance. His boots skimmed the ground as if gliding. Daniel, however, moved in spirals, redirecting each arc with subtle turns of his wrists, his steps loose, almost lazy. To the councilors watching, Lashrael seemed a storm; Daniel, a still lake that bent and absorbed every wave without breaking.
Frustration grew in Lashrael's strikes. His swordsmanship, built on centuries of tradition, cut high and swept low, bladesong spinning with practiced flourish. But Daniel began to close distance—one step inside the prince's reach, then another. Instead of retreating, he pressed near enough to smother Lashrael's blade with his shoulders, elbows, and palms.
Then came the first counterstrike. With a motion foreign to every Elf watching, Daniel shifted into a sharp, coiled pivot, his body snapping like a whip. He drove his palm heel against Lashrael's chest, a motion taken from Wing Chun, exploding the prince backward two steps before the steel flashed up again. Before Lashrael could fully recover, Daniel's knee shot upward in a rising arc, a motion born of Muay Thai, cracking against the flat of the prince's sword to jar it sideways.
The courtyard murmured in disbelief. Daniel had no weapon, yet his body moved as if it were many weapons at once. His arms struck in rapid, short bursts—chain punches, elbows, and chops—while his legs shifted from fluid sweeps to crushing stomps.
Lashrael grimaced but pressed forward, switching to tighter, thrust-heavy maneuvers. His sword darted like a serpent, stabbing with precision meant to punish Daniel's closeness. But Daniel bent at impossible angles, his torso folding aside as if he anticipated each thrust a heartbeat before it came. When a cut finally grazed his sleeve, he answered with a brutal Krav Maga disarm, seizing Lashrael's wrist, twisting with bone-snapping leverage, and forcing the prince to wrench free lest he lose his weapon entirely.
"Impossible…" Lashrael breathed, sweat beading on his brow. "These movements… they are not of any school I know."
Now Daniel truly revealed the depth of his strange library of arts.
When Lashrael attempted overhead strikes, Daniel answered with the sweeping circular blocks of Aikido, letting the force pass harmlessly before spinning the prince away. When the prince's blade carved low, Daniel countered with the grounded, rooted power of Karate's stances, delivering sharp side kicks that nearly unbalanced Lashrael mid-step.
The duel became a study of contrasts: Elven grace and lineage against human adaptability and relentless experimentation. Daniel's style was not one art but all arts, a fusion of knowledge pulled from a thousand cultures. One moment his fists snapped in the precise linear strikes of Jeet Kune Do, the next his movements flowed into the grappling sweeps of Judo, using Lashrael's forward momentum to hurl him onto the stones.
Gasps erupted when Daniel landed a spinning back kick, borrowed from Taekwondo, that cracked against the flat of Lashrael's armor and forced the prince to stagger three steps. Every counter seemed impossibly timed, each response chosen with surgical awareness. To those watching, it was as if Daniel had already fought Lashrael a hundred times in secret and knew every pattern the prince would use before he made it.
Pride turned to fury. Lashrael's elegant form broke as he roared, abandoning tradition for raw speed and aggression. His blade blurred, whistling through the air with vicious cuts meant to maim rather than duel. Sparks flew as his enchanted steel clashed against stone pillars, showering the courtyard in light.
Daniel weathered the storm with unnerving calm. He shifted into tighter defensive cycles, his arms forming impenetrable spirals, a shield of movement. Still, a shallow cut traced across his forearm, crimson blooming. For the first time, the crowd dared hope the prince might prevail.
"Yield!" Lashrael demanded, his voice breaking. "You are nothing without your tricks! Stand and face me as a warrior of Lúthien would!"
Daniel's eyes narrowed. "A warrior clings to what he was taught. But a survivor… learns everything he must."
Then he struck. His counters accelerated, flowing beyond what Lashrael's eyes could track. He blended boxing's brutal hooks with Shaolin's fluid sweeps, interweaving locks, strikes, and feints into a seamless storm. His movements were not random—they dismantled Lashrael's rhythm, tearing apart his muscle memory, breaking the very foundation of his training.
Every time Lashrael attacked, Daniel answered with the perfect opposite. A high cut met a low sweep. A thrust met a sidestep elbow. A flurry met a crushing throw that slammed the prince onto his back. Lashrael's lungs burned, his arms trembling. His style, once flawless, was now unraveling before all of Lúthien's council.
Daniel advanced with relentless calm, his bare hands moving like a master's quill across a page. He weaved one final sequence: a trap from Wing Chun, binding Lashrael's wrist, a Muay Thai elbow to his jaw, a Judo hip throw to hurl him across the courtyard, and at the instant the prince stumbled to his knees, Daniel's hand shot forward in a precise karate spear strike—not to kill, but to halt the blade inches from Lashrael's throat.
The prince knelt, disarmed, his sword spinning across the stones, while Daniel stood above him with a hand that glowed faintly with runic wards.
Lashrael panted heavily, sweat dripping into his eyes. Shame twisted across his noble face. Daniel, however, only lowered his hand and stepped back.
"This duel was never about honor," he said quietly, his voice carrying across the stunned audience. "It was about truth. You are strong, Lashrael—but strength built on tradition alone cannot face the storms that are coming. Lúthien needs more than memory. It needs adaptability… survival."
The courtyard was silent for only a breath. The prince's blade skittered across the flagstones and clanged against the wall. Daniel's glowing hand lowered, and for a moment the outcome seemed sealed.
But Lashrael was not one to yield. The crown prince of Solnara had been raised in battlefields of training yards, polished by tutors who had spent their lives teaching the elegance of the sword. Defeat, especially before the gathered captains, generals, and lords of the court—was a poison he could not drink.
With a roar, Lashrael surged to his feet. His eyes blazed with more than pride; they carried the fire of desperation. The crowd gasped as he sprinted for his blade, scooping it in one swift arc, and with both hands he launched himself at Daniel in a storm of renewed strikes.
Daniel's eyes narrowed, calm as still water.
Lashrael pressed forward, his blade whipping in intricate flourishes, the forms of Solarion Sword Dance, an ancient technique passed through Solnara's princes. Each arc was a blur of silver: overhead cleaves, feints that became sudden thrusts, sweeps designed to tear flesh if even a fraction of a second was lost.
Daniel bent and swayed, letting the strikes whistle past his shoulders. His stance shifted lower, grounding into Wing Chun's rooted footwork. Where Lashrael's style was high, proud, and sweeping like a hawk's wings, Daniel's movements were close and efficient, as if he carved space into lines only he could see.
Steel sang inches from his throat. Sparks jumped as his forearm deflected the flat of the blade, redirecting its momentum. Lashrael's pace increased, rage fueling his mastery, until it was less like swordplay and more like a tempest.
Daniel shifted suddenly into Silat, his body weaving low as his palms snapped against Lashrael's wrists, breaking rhythm. He stepped inside the arc of the sword, knee striking toward the prince's ribs, but Lashrael twisted, recovering with the agility of one who had sparred since childhood. His blade flicked down, nearly severing Daniel's extended arm, only to be parried by a sharp Aikido redirection.
The two collided, locked in motion: Lashrael's blade pressed against Daniel's forearm, Daniel's shoulder rolling to neutralize force. They spun like dancers, sparks of steel and skin. This was not a duel of formality; it had become something primal pride against adaptability, lineage against innovation.
The prince roared again, abandoning elegance. His blade became savage, hammering downward with brute strength. He swung with two hands, the weapon shrieking as it bit into stone when Daniel sidestepped. Shards flew.
He leapt, delivering an overhead strike meant to cleave Daniel in two. Daniel raised his bare forearms, runes flickering, and redirected the blow with Xing Yi Quan's angular force, turning Lashrael's momentum aside. The ground split where the blade struck, cracks webbing across the courtyard.
Undeterred, Lashrael drove forward with a storm of thrusts—piercing stabs designed to skewer. His style had shifted to desperation, less refined, more brutal. Daniel bent back with Capoeira's rolling evasions, spinning from his palms, using even the courtyard stones as leverage.
One thrust grazed his shoulder, tearing cloth and drawing a thin line of blood. Gasps erupted. The prince's lips curved in triumph—until Daniel's eyes lit not with pain, but with an almost dangerous serenity.
Daniel exhaled, body loosening.
The next strike came, and he caught Lashrael's wrist with Wing Chun's lop sao, pulling it just enough to overextend. His opposite palm shot into Lashrael's sternum, a Tai Chi push that sent the prince staggering back two steps.
Lashrael recovered with a horizontal slash, only for Daniel to duck beneath it, snapping a Muay Thai low kick against the prince's shin. The crack echoed like breaking timber. Lashrael grunted, but spun with the pain, swinging again.
Daniel moved into Kali stick-fighting patterns, though empty-handed. His arms moved as though wielding batons, deflecting and redirecting steel as if it weighed nothing. Each time the blade came close, Daniel's forearms struck it aside with surgical precision.
Then came a pivot: Daniel seized Lashrael's sword arm, twisted into Judo's seoi nage, and hurled the prince overhead. Lashrael struck the ground hard, but rolled, springing back with defiance.
Breath ragged, eyes blazing, the crown prince charged again.
"Yield!" cried one of the lords in the stands. But Lashrael would not. His pride was too vast, his crown too heavy.
He unleashed a final storm of techniques, blending everything he had been taught: the Solarion arcs, the reverse thrusts of the Eagle Guard, even forbidden strikes designed to maim. His blade seemed everywhere at once, a silver whirlwind.
Daniel matched him, not with tradition, but with evolution. He flowed from Boxing's head slips, weaving past thrusts, into Krav Maga's ruthless counters, hammer fists and elbow strikes targeting gaps in Lashrael's defense. When the prince aimed low, Daniel leapt with Northern Shaolin's aerial kicks, his heel grazing the blade with sparks.
It was as though Daniel was not one man, but a hundred schools of war distilled into flesh.
The duel reached its fevered peak. Lashrael, drenched in sweat and ragged with breath, let out a final cry that carried the desperation of a prince who refused to yield. His blade rose in trembling hands, one last desperate strike meant to cleave through pride and failure alike. His arms shook from exhaustion, his chest heaved with every tortured breath, yet still he surged forward—like a drowning man grasping for air he could no longer hold.
Daniel did not flinch.
He stepped into the arc of the descending blade, his body flowing with unshakable precision. His hand brushed the steel aside with the delicate touch of Wing Chun's chi sao, sensing and guiding its energy until its deadly line cut harmlessly past his shoulder. At the same instant his knee rose, driving upward with the ruthless power of Muay Thai, slamming into Lashrael's abdomen. The prince folded forward with a choked gasp, the breath torn from his lungs.
Daniel did not relent. He flowed seamlessly into the next movement, his heel snapping forward in a Karate mae geri front kick that struck with piston-like force. The impact sent Lashrael stumbling backward, his boots scraping across the courtyard stones as the watching nobles cried out in disbelief.
Before the prince could recover, Daniel pivoted, seizing Lashrael's imbalance. His arm hooked around the prince's shoulder, and with the effortless leverage of Judo's osoto gari, Daniel swept his opponent's leg from beneath him. Lashrael's body hit the ground with a thunderous crash, dust rising in a cloud that clung to sweat and shame alike.
But Daniel's chain of mastery was not yet complete. He stepped forward with the calm certainty of a man who had studied countless ways of war. His palm drew back, gathering controlled force, and struck downward with the precision of Kung Fu's iron palm. The blow did not land on flesh; instead, it collided with the flat of Lashrael's sword as the prince struggled to lift it in defense. The weapon was torn from his grasp, spinning through the air in a glittering arc before clattering against the dais at the far edge of the courtyard.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Lashrael, robbed of blade and strength, crumpled to his knees. His arms hung limp at his sides, his chest heaving as sweat and dust streaked his face. The proud fire of Solnara's heir was dimmed, his face pale, his pride in tatters.
Daniel stood above him, unarmed yet unshaken, one hand glowing faintly with runic wards. He extended it forward, not in cruelty, but in restraint holding the finishing strike just inches from the prince's throat.
"Enough," Daniel said softly. His voice was low, almost tender, but it carried with an iron weight that pressed upon every soul present.
Lashrael trembled. He tried to push himself upright, but his body no longer obeyed. His knees buckled again, dragging him down until, for the first time, the crown prince bowed. It was not out of courtesy, nor ritual, nor pride, it was necessity, the collapse of a man who could fight no longer.
Daniel withdrew his glowing hand and stepped back, granting his opponent the dignity of space. His gaze swept the silent court, and his words came not as boast, but as truth.
"This was never about your honor, Prince," he said. His voice was calm, tinged with quiet weariness. "This was about truth. Tradition is strong but tradition without change is brittle. What is inflexible will break." His eyes swept across the faces of generals and nobles, his tone heavy with meaning.
"The storms that are coming will not be won with pride or honor. They will be won with survival. And survival demands adaptability."
The words echoed like a tolling bell.
"The first settlers of region toward were Lúthien, were the Rothchester clan called home" Daniel said, his voice rising with quiet authority, "were not trained Solnaran warriors by birth. They were wanderers, refugees, families without crowns or thrones.
They adapted. They endured. And they fought beside Cererindu, the warlord who became your kingdom's founder.
Not because of bloodline, not because of pride,but because survival was greater than pride. That is your true legacy, Prince Lashrael." His eyes narrowed, piercing. "Not your crown. Not your name. But your capacity to change."
The prince's eyes widened. Shame warred with revelation across his noble features, and for a long moment he could not meet Daniel's gaze. His head lowered, shoulders slumping under a weight far heavier than any sword.
The duel was over. Daniel had not only bested the crown prince in combat—he had shattered the illusion that lineage alone could guard the kingdom's future.
And in the silence that followed, as the two onlookers exchanged glances heavy with fear, awe, and newfound respect, a single truth settled upon every heart:
Daniel had won.