Morning broke gently over the Immortal Sect. Mist curled over the tiled roofs, birds sang from the courtyard trees, and the sun crept over the jagged ridges. But inside Durandal's small, shared quarters, peace was shattered.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The heavy knocks rattled the wood, jolting him awake. He sat up, hair disheveled, heart pounding. For a brief moment, he thought it was the city guard come to drag him back for his old crimes. His chest tightened.
Another crash against the door shook the frame. Whoever was out there wasn't knocking—they were demanding.
Durandal rubbed his eyes, the grogginess giving way to dread.(Who the hell is pounding the Sect's door at this hour?)
Durandal and Arhatam stepped out from their caves at the same time, bleary-eyed, their robes still loose from sleep. Both turned their heads as the banging at the Sect's gates grew louder and louder—until a thunderous CRASH shook the stone walls.
The wooden gates splintered inward. Dust swirled in the air, carrying with it the metallic scent of iron. As the cloud settled, a squad of armored men marched in—shields raised, spears glinting under the morning sun. Their disciplined steps echoed like war drums.
At the center of their formation stood two figures clad in pristine white armor, their crests unmistakable. The White Knights.
Arhatam's breath hitched, his knees trembling as though the earth itself had turned hostile. His lips moved without sound, muttering a prayer, or maybe just fear.
Durandal's jaw tightened, his brow furrowing. He clenched his fists, eyes narrowing at the sight.(Shield and Spear… and the White Knights. Why the hell are they here?)
The Sect's disciples began peeking from their dwellings, whispers spreading like wildfire. But the courtyard fell silent under the oppressive presence of the Order.
The White Knights raised their heads, scanning the Sect like lions entering a den of prey.
"Your young master is dead, thief," said one of the White Knights, "and so this place is ours, the new Shield and Spear!"
The news came like a hammer strike. Durandal was already in denial, his face frowning deeper. "What are you talking about? Show me his corpse!"
Arhatam had his jaw dangling opened at Durandal's brave demand.
The White Knight at the front let out a cruel laugh, the sound echoing against the broken gates like mockery carved into stone.
"His corpse?" the knight repeated, voice dripping with disdain. He tilted his chin, visor catching the morning light. "You think he left a corpse behind? He was swallowed by the ruin's abyss. Nothing remains. Not even bones."
The soldiers of Shield and Spear erupted into chuckles, sneers, and insults—each word like a dagger meant to twist inside the Sect's heart.
Arhatam's legs threatened to give way. His jaw still hung slack, disbelief painting his face pale. (Gone…? The young master… gone?)
But Durandal did not falter. His fists tightened until his knuckles whitened, veins rising like snakes on his forearms. His frown deepened, sharp as a blade about to be drawn.
"Lies," Durandal spat, voice cracking but resolute. "If you've got the guts to claim him dead, then prove it. Show me! Otherwise…" His eyes narrowed, teeth bared. "…you bastards are nothing but dogs barking outside a lion's den."
The courtyard froze. Whispers turned into a stunned hush. The Shield and Spear soldiers exchanged glances, then laughed louder, their spears tapping the ground in mock applause.
The White Knight's laughter, however, ceased. The visor lowered toward Durandal, the tone now sharpened like a spearhead.
"You dare insult us, boy? Then we'll carve the truth into your skin."
The mob of Shield and Spear roared with bloodlust, but the raised hand of the White Knight cut the noise like a blade. The armored figure stepped forward, the weight of his boots pressing against the cracked stone before the Immortal Sect's gates.
"Wait," he said, voice smooth yet brimming with arrogance. His hand rested casually against the hilt of his blade as he turned his head, visor reflecting Durandal. "How about this? You and I—one duel. Winner takes it all. Your Sect, your dignity, your future. If you lose, you bend the knee, and the Immortal Sect becomes ours."
The silence that followed was deafening. Dust still swirled from the broken gates, the morning sun glaring down like a judgmental witness.
Durandal's breath sharpened. His fists trembled at his sides—not from fear, but from the weight of the moment. Arhatam grabbed his sleeve, whispering frantically.
"Durandal, don't! This is madness, you'll—"
But Durandal tore his arm free, eyes locked on the White Knight. His lips pulled into a snarl.
"…And if I win?" Durandal asked, his voice low, but firm.
The White Knight chuckled darkly, tilting his head as though humored by a child's defiance. "If you win, boy, then Shield and Spear walks away. No retaliation, no claim. We vanish from your Sect like smoke in the wind."
The soldiers laughed at the absurdity, yet the White Knight's tone carried conviction. This was no idle bluff.
Durandal stepped forward, the weight of his decision pressing on his shoulders, but his voice cut clear.
"Fine. I accept."
The laughter of the Shield and Spear order filled the broken courtyard, but Arhatam suddenly stepped forward. His hands shook as he fumbled with a small pouch, then he tore it open and scattered a black powder in a wide circle upon the cracked stone. The powder hissed faintly, clinging to the ground like ink.
"Wait," Arhatam said, his voice quivering but loud enough to cut through the jeers. "If this is to decide everything, then it must be fair. No blades, no armor, no tricks of steel. Only flesh and will."
He straightened his back, forcing a bravado that didn't match the fear on his face. "Strip to the waist. Just pants. No protection. A duel of men, not knights."
The White Knight turned his head slowly, visor gleaming. For a moment silence lingered, then a ripple of laughter broke out from the soldiers, harsher, mocking.
"You want me to fight like a savage?" the White Knight asked, almost amused.
Durandal stepped into the circle, eyes steady, voice calm but burning with defiance. "You said winner takes it all. Then fight me without your steel. Or is your pride nothing without armor?"
The taunt cut deep. Murmurs spread through the ranks of Shield and Spear—some sneering, others intrigued.
The White Knight stared, then lifted his gauntlets. One by one, he pulled them free and let them fall to the ground with a heavy clang. His men hushed as he reached for the buckles of his breastplate. Piece by piece, metal struck the earth. Finally, with a deliberate motion, he removed his upper garments, baring a body carved from years of war—scarred, muscled, unflinching.
The sunlight glinted off his pale skin, and he stepped barefoot into Arhatam's blackened circle.
"Very well," he said coldly, rolling his shoulders. "Hand to hand. No mercy."
Arhatam swallowed hard, his knees weak, while Durandal clenched his fists, veins bulging in his forearms as he mirrored the knight's stance.
Two men now stood bare-chested in the circle of black powder. No armor, no steel—only flesh, blood, and will.
The air grew heavy.Dust still lingered from the broken gates, yet the world outside that black powder circle felt distant. All eyes—Arhatam's trembling, the soldiers sneering, the Shield and Spear knights waiting—were locked on the two men inside.
Durandal rolled his shoulders once, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles popped. His chest rose and fell, heart hammering, but his eyes didn't waver. Across from him, the White Knight loomed taller, broader, scarred from battles Durandal could barely imagine. His jaw cracked as he ground his teeth.
They circled. Slowly. Bare feet scraping stone.
Then the White Knight lunged. No warning, no words—just raw violence. His fist swung wide and crashed into Durandal's jaw with a crack that sent him staggering sideways. The men of Shield and Spear howled in approval.
Durandal spat blood, but before his knees buckled, he threw himself forward with reckless fury. His shoulder rammed into the knight's gut, driving the man back a step. Durandal pummeled his ribs with wild, heavy punches—each one more desperate than the last.
The White Knight snarled, wrapped his massive arms around Durandal, and slammed him onto the stone so hard the ground shook. Durandal's breath left his lungs in a gasp.
Arhatam flinched, hands trembling near his vial pouch. (No, no… don't lose here…)
Durandal rolled aside just as the knight's heel stomped down where his head had been. He pushed to his knees, spit and blood dripping down his chin, and lunged again. His fist connected with the knight's face—once, twice—splitting the man's lip. The knight grunted, then roared, and hammered his elbow down onto Durandal's back.
The circle filled with the sound of fists slamming flesh, bones grinding against stone, grunts and snarls echoing like beasts in a pit. No grace. No art. Just survival.
Durandal's eye swelled shut, his knuckles split and bleeding. But he grinned through the blood, spitting onto the ground. "Is that all you've got?"
The White Knight's face darkened. He lifted his knee into Durandal's stomach, folding him, then dragged him up by the hair. Durandal coughed blood into his face. The knight roared, blinded by rage, and swung—
Durandal ducked. His fist shot upward, smashing into the knight's jaw with a sickening crack.
Durandal's chest heaved like a beaten drum, sweat stinging his swollen eyes. The White Knight, lips curled in a vicious grin, suddenly snatched his sword from the ground. His aura flared violently.
"Antler Thrust!"
The blade shot forward like a horned beast, luminous, savage, meant to gore him through.
Durandal's eyes widened, but fire sparked around his legs. His foot blazed with Talon Sear—he twisted, kicking the thrust away just enough to keep the steel from piercing his heart. The impact burned his calf and numbed his thigh, but he stayed standing.
"You… you cheat—!" Durandal spat through blood, voice hoarse.
Then it hit.
An arrow sang from the sideline and buried itself into his shoulder, the shock stealing his breath. His body jerked back, eyes blown wide as blood gushed down his bare chest. His knees buckled.
"DURANDAL!!"
Arhatam's scream was raw panic. He hurled a vial with trembling fury at the black powder circle. CRASH!
The ground hissed and exploded into a suffocating wall of smoke, choking, acrid, burning the eyes of knight and mercenary alike. Shouts rang, curses tangled in the haze.
Through the blinding gray, Durandal felt a hand clutch his shoulder, dragging him back—away from the circle, away from the sword raised to end him. His mind reeled, breath shallow, but his teeth clenched. He spat blood, eyes glaring into the smoke.
( Cheaters… every one of them. )
Then the haze swallowed him whole.
The smoke spread fast, a choking blanket that turned the world blind.
"Hold your ground!" one knight barked, but his words broke into coughing fits. Another stumbled, eyes red and stinging, slashing blindly at the haze.
The White Knight who had unleashed Antler Thrust swung his sword in frustration. "Find them! Don't let that brat escape—!"
But panic was already gnawing at the group. Armor clattered against armor as men tripped into each other. Someone screamed, thinking he'd been stabbed, only to realize it was the sting of the acrid smoke clawing his throat.
The pair of White Knights tried to rally their men, but the circle had collapsed into chaos. Discipline was gone, the so-called order reduced to blind animals clawing for breath.
And above it all, the banner of Shield and Spear looked like a lie, its proud symbol disappearing in the murk.
Meanwhile, beyond the haze, Durandal stumbled, half-dragged by Arhatam's wiry arms. Blood dripped from the arrow in his shoulder, leaving a dark trail against the stone floor. His breaths were shallow, ragged, but his jaw clenched, refusing to let pain take him.
"Don't—don't you dare collapse on me now!" Arhatam hissed, his own voice trembling as he yanked Durandal down a side passage of the Immortal Sect caves.
"I… I won't…" Durandal grit his teeth, each step agony. His body shivered, not from fear, but from the fire coursing through his veins, the refusal to bow.
Behind them, the shouts of Shield and Spear grew faint in the smoke. Steel rang against stone, blind strikes hitting nothing, and the chaos of mercenaries turned to cursing confusion.
Arhatam's heart hammered, sweat cold on his skin. He didn't know how long they could run like this, but one thing he knew for certain: if Kazel truly was dead, then they were nothing but prey.
Still, he dragged Durandal deeper into the twisting darkness, muttering under his breath—half curse, half prayer.
( Young master… if you're alive… now would be a damn fine time to return. )