Damon pivoted sharply, hooking his leg behind Thorne's. The marble courtyard, slick with rain, gave just enough slip to break the boy's balance. With a grin, Damon grabbed the front of his tunic, twisted, and slammed him hard onto the ground.
Gasps echoed through the ranks of noble sons and daughters, but Damon didn't care.
He leveled his sword at Thorne's head—just inches from his nose.
"That's one~," he said, voice light, almost amused.
Thorne wheezed, stunned, rain splashing across his face. But his eyes burned—not with pain, but pure fury. His hands clenched against the marble.
"Bastard!" Thorne cursed, half tempted to cry foul at the sneak attack—but he bit his tongue. The duel hadn't truly ended. If he called it unjust now and refused to continue, he'd lose what little respect remained in his blade.
He shoved himself up, ignoring the noble girl who rushed to help him.
"Again," he spat, snatching up his sword. His breath came in short, angry bursts. "You bastard—again!"
Damon tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. "Come at me, swine of Veras."
Thorne roared and charged.
Their blades clashed, the crack of wood on wood echoing through the courtyard.
"If I'm a swine," Thorne snarled, "then you're your father's bastard!"
Damon stepped back, twisting free from the bind. But Thorne didn't stop. His hands were a blur, relentless in motion.
"A bastard, you say?" Damon laughed, wild and bitter. "Wasn't there a rumor you bedded your own mother? Is it true?"
"Valtair!" he shouted, swinging again. "Don't talk like you—!"
His words were cut short.
Damon's blade slipped past his guard in a clean arc and struck hard across his throat.
Thorne choked mid-sentence, stumbling back with a sharp grunt, hand at his neck—though the wooden blade hadn't cut, the message was clear.
Silence fell.
Damon stood still, rain running down his face, sword lowered.
"Do you concede?" he asked—his tone measured, almost teasing him.
In a noble duel, there were only two ways to claim victory:
The first—have your opponent surrender and admit defeat.
And the second…
Thorne coughed, blood mixing with rain on his lips.
"NEVER!" he shouted, eyes blazing with hatred.
…the second was to beat them until they could no longer stand or lift their sword. To beat them to the point they can't pick up their swords.
Damon neither sighed nor spoke. He simply advanced.
One step forward—fluid, precise.
His sword snapped down. Thorne blocked, but barely—his grip was shaky, his stance a mess of rage and pride. Damon pressed in, his strikes fierce.
One, two, three—
Each blow drove Thorne back.
Clack. Crack. Slam.
His parries grew sloppier. The fourth was deflected wide. The fifth sent him stumbling. The sixth—Damon didn't swing; he kicked Thorne's leg from under him.
The noble boy crashed to the marble again, coughing, soaked through, and shivering now.
But Damon wasn't done.
He stepped on Thorne's wrist, pinning his sword arm. Not enough to break it—but enough to grind bone.
Thorne howled.
And Damon crouched beside him, expression unreadable.
"You should've conceded," Damon said softly, his voice just loud enough for the nearby noble children—heirs and heiresses—to hear.
"Now I have to fulfill the second condition… and end this duel."
Then, without hesitation, he drove the hilt of his wooden sword into Thorne's shoulder—angled to numb, not maim.
Thorne's fingers spasmed. His blade slipped from his grasp and clattered across the marble.
Silence fell over the courtyard, broken only by the rain and Thorne's ragged breathing.
Damon didn't move.
Not at first.
Then, slowly, he stood, turned his sword in his grip—so the hilt faced up again—and brought it down, hard, into Thorne's ribs.
Once.
Thorne cried out, curling inward.
Twice.
A sharp crack echoed.
The crowd flinched.
A third time—and Damon didn't hesitate.
He watched Thorne's face twist with pain and drank in the sound of his breath hitching and the dull, wet impact of wood against flesh.
He shifted his stance slightly and struck again—low and cruel—aiming first for the ribs he'd already cracked, then pivoting sharply and driving the hilt into the soft meat above Thorne's hip—where pain lingered longer.
The liver.
Thorne let out a strangled gasp—more air than voice—as his body curled instinctively around the blow. His legs twitched. Spittle mixed with rain at the corner of his mouth. A whimper escaped him, thin and helpless, like something breaking inside.
He couldn't scream.
Not properly.
And Damon saw it—the moment pain overtook pride.
Then he prepared for the fourth—
"Enough!"
A voice cut through the downpour.
A hand caught his wrist mid-swing.
Damon blinked.
A girl stood before him. Taller than most first-years, posture perfect, her hand firm but not trembling. She wore the fitted black jacket of a ranked cadet, a blue cord braided over her right shoulder, and a polished silver badge gleamed at her chest. Her sword was already drawn—resting lightly against Damon's chest.
Her eyes were amethyst. Calm, cold, commanding.
"That's not discipline," she said. "That's butchery."
The other students parted as more second-years approached, drawn by the commotion. Their crests gleamed in the rain—high houses, seasoned heirs. One of them muttered something under his breath; another narrowed his eyes at Thorne's crumpled form.
But the girl didn't flinch. Her gaze didn't leave Damon.
"You've proven your point," she said. "Now step back."
Damon looked down at Thorne. Barely conscious. Blood at his lip. Mud in his hair. The sword still laying beside him, untouched. No fight left.
He took a slow breath.
Then he lowered his weapon and stepped away.
The second-year girl nodded and turned to the crowd.
"This duel is over. And if it continues beyond this, it'll become the Academy's problem—not just House Veras's." she said firmly. "Right... Instructor Kael,"
Kael grunted, arms folded. His sudden presence startled the young nobles—they looked around in confusion but saw no sign of his arrival.
"You're not wrong, Lady Serina," he said, emerging like a ghost from thin air.
Lady Serina. Damon filed the name away.
As the second-years formed a loose wall between him and Thorne, Damon turned and walked back to formation, drenched and silent. "Give me a cloth," he said to Thorne's—that wasn't right—his shocked maid.
The nobles whispered again—but this time, with a different tone.
Some feared him.
Others… respected him.
But no one ignored him now.