CHAPTER 11: THE VOICE OF STEEL
The training ground was a square of flat stone, its boundary painted white. The midday light caught in the polished concrete, making the surface glare like a mirror. Heat shimmered up from the surface, blinding to the eye, suffocating to the breath. It was the kind of arena where every mistake was laid bare, where no shadow could hide failure.
On the training ground Theal stood in a sharpened stance, observing his opponent's every breath. Opposite him, unbothered and calm, stood the First Lieutenant of the BloodHounds—Sir Dante. He casually inspected his longsword as though this duel was a passing chore. His oval, narrow face bore a soft jawline dusted with faint stubble. Drooping eyelids gave him a look of languid patience, while a slim downturned nose only added to his detached poise. Long, wavy hair of a pale tone flowed past his shoulders, strands loose around his forehead, framing his calm smile.
"I never thought I would see the day a Squire would challenge me for my position. A brave young man indeed." His tone was warm.
Theal's nerves tightened the longer he watched Sir Dante's leisurely mannerisms. Every gesture felt deliberate, designed to unnerve him. "Hey Luca, I don't think this will go how I expected. If I get in trouble, don't hesitate," Theal mumbled inwardly, his thoughts sharp with unease. His external expression betrayed no emotion.
Beyond the boundary, the Knights of the BloodHounds leaned against the wall of the keep, murmuring with barely restrained excitement. "I knew he was too arrogant to pick First Lieutenant Dante," one whispered. Another snorted. "Doesn't he know that in Gourmand, Sir Dante is only second to the Knight Commander, Sir Ayton Turner, when it comes to swordsmanship?"
"I know his type," a third said, smirking. "Graduate from the Capital's academy, thinks he's above everyone else. So he rushes his progress, and now he dares aim at the First Lieutenant's seat as the Captain's right hand."
"It's greed for Equi," another chimed in. "Who wouldn't covet the First Lieutenant's wage? Twenty-five thousand Grelly against a Squire's one hundred Grelly—it's night and day. With that wealth he'd buy progress, and live a noble life."
Alden scoffed. "Since when do you care so much about wages? I saw Theal against the Captain—he didn't look bad. All he has to do is get Sir Dante off the training ground, and he becomes First Lieutenant."
"Shut up," Halric snapped. "You think it's so easy? Even if Sir Dante loses, he'll immediately challenge anyone here and reclaim his knighthood. And you—Alden—you don't have the courage to fight me, let alone him."
The knights broke into laughter. "Think so highly of yourself, Alden? For a farmer's son, it's not bad to dream. But Ewan has a better chance of becoming an Acme than you besting me."
Ewan snorted coldly. "Halric, your confidence grew fast. A moment ago you were praying to the Acme Santis so that the squire wouldn't pick you."
Their chatter ended when Sir Gael shot them a cold, silencing gaze. His attention snapped back to the stage, where swords began to sing.
The afternoon sun burned overhead, the stone floor blazing until it shimmered like molten glass. Siah slipped sideways, blade darting to deflect rather than block. Sparks spat as steel kissed steel. Theal ducked low, pivoting on nimble feet, but Sir Dante flowed with him, relentless and calm.
A hook of steel cut across—the feint high, the slam low. Theal barely absorbed the blow, wrists jarring from the shock, bones aching under Sir Dante's weight. Sir Dante pressed on, shoulders rolling with seasoned rhythm, each strike sharpened by countless bouts. His face remained detached, every movement efficient, controlled.
Theal's boots skimmed the stone, never rooted too long. A parry here, a sidestep there, his shoulders loose as he bent like a reed before the storm. "I should keep making him think I'm flailing. The less he expects, the more he reveals," he muttered between ragged breaths.
Sir Dante surged again—one, two, three blows in quick succession, swift and punishing. The tempo shifted. His blade snapped like lightning, precision replacing brute power. He dragged Theal's guard low, spun high, and forced him to scramble. The rhythm grew sharp, steel ringing like drumbeats in a storm.
For the first time, Sir Dante frowned. His perfect rhythm began to crack. Theal's strange, erratic patterns made no sense, yet every dodge and feint tilted momentum. The balance shifted—then flickered away as Sir Dante spun, blade slamming down in a brutal arc. Theal twisted, air splitting at his cheek as the strike missed by a breath.
Again Sir Dante came—refined, flawless, precise—but Theal stopped meeting force with force. He angled strikes aside, redirected them, every deflection spending Sir Dante's power against him. Each clash pulled the First Lieutenant closer to imbalance. Theal's mind narrowed to a single thought: One mistake. Just one.
Their swords locked at the crossguard. Sir Dante bore down, crushing Theal toward the ground. With a desperate twist, Theal slammed a free hand into Sir Dante's knee. Sir Dante stumbled—half a step, but enough. Theal pivoted, using the momentum to fling him back. His legs trembled.
Another blow came like thunder, and Theal's boots screeched against the stone. He angled his guard instead of blocking, slid the force aside, and found a gap. He lunged in—but Sir Dante countered instantly. The hilt smashed into his ribs, pain exploding hot, stealing his breath.
He staggered, the boundary line at the heels of his boots. Sir Dante's blade arced again, merciless. Theal ducked, sweat burning his eyes, vision dimming. Each strike rang through his bones.
"Don't block—redirect," Luca's voice cut through the haze.
Theal obeyed. Steel slid away instead of crashing into him. His chest heaved, relief flooding. "Luca, you finally decided to help," he thought desperately.
Sir Dante's rhythm returned—high, low, thrust, sweep. Every step drove Theal toward collapse. His ribs throbbed, his arms trembled. "Boy, he's repeating," Luca's voice whispered. "Every third cut he drops his guard. Wait for it."
Strike. Deflect. Strike. Endure. The third came—the dip was there. Theal lunged, blade flicking into the gap—only to be parried effortlessly. Sir Dante's calm never wavered. He shoved Theal back and drove a boot into his chest.
Theal's heels scraped stone, his body reeling. The knights watching snickered, confident the fight was already decided. Sir Dante's eyes looked cold, blade rising for the final stroke.
Blood dribbled from Theal's lips. "He's not just stronger. He's untouchable. I have no way of besting him with a sword," he whispered to Luca. Yet he raised his blade, shaking.
The clash resumed, faster, sharper. Each blow cracked against his failing guard. His lungs burned, his body screamed. He twisted, spun, deflected just enough to survive.
"Feints. Angles. Buy some time," Luca urged. "I'll activate your stillness ability of bias. But you must mask it with something dirty, or the Captain will notice. You'll never scratch this man with normal means."
Theal obeyed, shifting his movements. Sir Dante's rhythm faltered, irritation creeping into his strikes. The crowd murmured—Theal was lasting too long. But the illusion shattered when Sir Dante hammered down, tore Theal's sword from his hand, and leveled steel at his throat.
Theal froze, chest heaving, unarmed. Sir Dante's blade pressed close, eyes cold, victory certain.
Theal snarled—and spat.
The glob smacked Sir Dante across his eyes. He recoiled, hand jerking to his face. Theal lunged, fist crashing into Sir Dante's jaw with all the fury of desperation. The crack echoed through the courtyard.
Sir Dante stumbled back—one, two steps—His boots scraped past the white-painted boundary. The crowd gasped. Silence fell.
Theal fell to his knees trembling, chest heaving, blood on his lips. Fury burning in Sir Dante's eyes. He stared at Theal with cold, promising hate.
Theal couldn't meet his gaze. He stared at the ground, shame crawling under his skin.
Luca's voice curled like smoke in his skull:
"It seems you learned something from the brother you loathe so much."
Theal won. Barely. Ugly. "No that's not me I cannot achieve my goals acting like that thing."
Sir Gael stepped between Theal and the approaching Sir Dante, voice booming. "The winner is Sir Theal, First Lieutenant of the BloodHounds of Gourmand!"
Dante walked off slowly, fury simmering in his cold gaze. The knights exchanged uneasy looks. Halric whispered, fear thick in his throat. "I think one of us is about to lose our knighthood… and maybe our life."
Theal whispered to Luca. "The Pantheon will investigate. Can you hide that stillness was used?"
Luca chuckled darkly. "The Eidolon Spirit is one of my fragments of consciousness. They wont be able to trace the selective perception Etch technique's source. They'll believe he suffered lingering effects from past battles. Victory doesn't ask how, only who."