The sky was clear, yet the rumble of footsteps echoed like thunder on the edge of a coming storm.
In an unusual gesture of generosity, Duke Oswald had allowed the entire town to attend the duel. No one wanted to miss it. Even before it had begun, people were already speaking of it as legend: a foreigner from the Lands of Eternal Darkness facing the heir of Whitertown.
The stands filled at a frantic pace. The wealthier folk claimed cushioned benches, while the commoners crowded along the edges, pressed together like spectators at a public execution.
There was still time before it began, but the air carried the bitter taste of a festival scented with blood.
"Father," called a woman in her early thirties, hawk-faced and dark-haired, bearing such a resemblance to the man before her that no one could miss the bloodline. She held in her arms a baby no more than a few months old. "Is it wise for all of us to be here at the same time?"
Duke Oswald turned from the window, his cold gaze settling on his third daughter, Vanessa, before replying:
"It is necessary. The people are tense. It is good for them to see their leader."
"And now you turn the fight into a spectacle for the rabble?" Vanessa countered, rocking the baby with one hand. "What's next? Wagering in the town square?"
Oswald studied her in silence. Then the tension in his face eased, just barely, and he let out a dry, brief laugh.
"Nothing escapes you." He nodded as if recognizing a piece of the game still out of place. "In the midst of such darkness, a spark of relief should not be wasted. I would be a fool not to fan it."
Vanessa sighed and dropped into the chair opposite him.
"I don't understand. Why let that man live? Was what he said at the trial really so impressive?"
"It was not what he said, but how he said it. And the precise moment he chose to say it…" For an instant, he seemed ready to explain. Then he dismissed the thought. Vanessa was intelligent, like all his daughters, but this was a man's game.
"Let us leave that matter, child," the duke deflected. "How is little Lucas?"
Vanessa looked at him for a second, then sighed wearily.
"Exhausted. He misses his father." She hesitated, as if unsure. "Have you heard from Wilhelm?"
The duke straightened with visible fatigue and smoothed his tunic before replying.
"No. Everything that happens at the front line is sealed off, even from me. Only the king knows it all… and he is not one to share secrets."
Vanessa sighed in disappointment at her father's answer.
Oswald approached and offered her his hand.
"Come. The event is about to begin. Your sisters must already be on their way."
"Yes, Father."
Outside, the murmur of the crowd swelled like a rising tide. Peasants, lesser nobles, and merchants continued to pour into the duke's fields, impatient for the battle. The stands were nearly full, and soon the trumpets would announce the duel.
Alexander walked slowly, weaving through the excited throng. Mud clung to his boots, and his face was more solemn than usual. He made his way toward the duke's flagpole, raised above a large tent, where a squire was carefully fastening Rufus's armor, securing each piece with almost religious precision.
With a measured movement, Alexander stepped inside the tent. Rufus, clean-shaven and expressionless, greeted him in silence.
"Judging by your face, it wasn't a pleasant conversation," Rufus said, gesturing to the squire to leave them.
"I didn't expect to find you so calm," Alexander replied, closing the flap behind him.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Rufus answered without turning. "It's just another fight."
Alexander leaned against one of the tent's wooden posts. His expression was grave, almost grim.
"You shouldn't be overconfident."
"Did he make that good an impression on you?"
"That man is dangerous, Rufus. More than he appears."
He paused, letting the words settle like dust in the air.
"When I spoke to him, he resisted every attempt I made. He was ready to kill from the first moment we were alone."
Rufus adjusted his helm with a movement that was almost theatrical.
"If he's as dangerous as you say, then perhaps I'll finally sweat beneath this armor."
"Do as you wish," Alexander murmured with a sigh. "Just don't trust him. He's more capable than he looks, even if he lacks your brute strength."
"Could we use him?" Rufus asked, placing the helm on his head—a black, brutal piece that made him look more beast than man.
"I don't know… but if you can't tame him, you'd better kill him."
At that moment, the trumpets sounded.
The duel was about to begin.
Giotto walked flanked by three soldiers. He wore light armor reinforced with hardened leather and metal plates along his arms.
The castle streets were empty, but the distant roar was not lost on him. As they approached the fields, the crowd came into view: ragged peasants, courtiers, soldiers, bent old women, children with fixed gazes. All eyes were on him.
The rumor had already become legend: the foreigner facing Rufus.
For a moment, fear tried to cloud his mind. Fear of dying. And then, a thought cut through his consciousness.
Will I have the strength?
The mark on his wrist burned briefly. A whisper crossed his mind—a phrase from an unexpected source. The memory of a film seen barely a week ago, as vivid as if it still echoed from the screen.
Strength is nothing. Will is everything. The will to act.
Giotto clenched his fist.
And kept walking toward the field.
The stands were packed. Giotto scanned his surroundings, noting both the spectators and the servants moving through the aisles.
In one corner, a rack of weapons stood guarded by two men. And before it, imposing, a warrior over seven feet tall clad in black armor, with plates so thick Giotto couldn't help but compare him to the Mountain from Game of Thrones, just as he had imagined him while reading the books—leaning against the ground, a sword so massive it looked more like a slab of iron.
Is that his weapon?
"Your attention!" a powerful voice called from the side of the stands. "His Grace, the Duke, wishes to say a few words."
Giotto looked up toward the dais, where Duke Oswald sat like a king upon his throne. Four women stood at his side. Two were dark-haired; one of them cradled a small baby. Another, the youngest of the four, could not have been more than fifteen.
But Giotto's gaze stopped, captive, on the young woman at the center.
She could not have been much older than him—perhaps between twenty and twenty-five. She had copper hair, high cheekbones, and a round face. She was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. Not a vulgar beauty, but that of a princess torn from the cover of a fairy tale… and even more perfect.
For an instant, Giotto forgot to breathe.
The duke rose to his feet. He lifted a gloved hand, and the entire field waited on his words.
The duke's voice struck him from his trance like a blow to the chest.
"People of Whitertown!" the duke began, his voice resonating over the crowd like the toll of a war bell. "In these dark days, when our villages burn and evil thrives beyond the woods, truth is not enough to proclaim. It must be proven."
He paused briefly.
"That is why today, before the eyes of the people, we will put this man's word to the test."
A wave of confusion crossed the faces of those present, not fully understanding the duke's words. But it didn't matter—the thrill in the air swelled under the force of his voice.
Meanwhile, the duke only hoped his words would reach those who needed to hear them.
He gazed at the crowd with solemnity.
"My nephew Rufus will fight in the name of this land's honor. And if the foreigner survives, then perhaps fate brought him here for reasons we do not yet understand."
The silence that followed was absolute, as if all held their breath. Only then did the duke speak again:
"Choose your weapons, foreigner. Let the steel speak."
The duke fixed his gaze on him, studying every step he took toward the weapon rack.
Giotto swallowed hard. His hands trembled slightly, though his face remained steady. In his chest, his heart pounded like a badly tuned war drum. Each step toward the rack felt like the passing of a sentence.
But he did not give in. He let the Traveler's memories guide him: muscle memory, knowledge of the fighting arts, techniques that should be physically impossible for a human body flooded his mind.
And with resolve, he took them. Aside from unarmed combat and ranged combat with firearms, the use of these two was what stood out most in his memories.
The knife and the sword. But instead of a long sword, he chose mobility: a long knife and a short sword. The knife was tip-heavy, unbalanced. Giotto felt it as soon as he gripped it, and the sword was heavier than it should have been, though not enough to slow him.
Whoever chose these weapons gave me the worst they had, Giotto knew, refusing to let the thought weigh on him more than necessary.
"Here stands my opponent!" Rufus bellowed, raising both arms like an actor preening before the audience. "Let the winds sing of my victories, and let the earth drink your blood!"
All eyes turned to Giotto, as if expecting a reply. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure of what they wanted from him. But then Alexander's earlier words came back to him, and he allowed himself a slight smile before adopting a serious, focused expression, stepping up to face the giant.
"May your knife chip and shatter," he said, patting his chest before raising the long knife to his forehead, blade down.
A brief joke before battle, a reference only he would recognize in this moment—but one that served to still his nerves.
The silence in the arena was absolute.
Giotto assumed the stance the Traveler's memories had insisted upon: one foot forward, the other slightly back, body loose yet ready for combat.
The knife, steady in his right hand, pointed horizontally toward his opponent; the sword, in his left, crossed slightly over the knife's line. Both arms were firm but relaxed, poised to react in an instant. A perfect stance—balanced between attack and defense.
For a few seconds, time seemed to stop—until the chime of a bell split the air, signaling the start of the duel.
Giotto moved first. He didn't attack; instead, he circled the giant with slow steps, eyes fixed on the man's shoulders, where every strike was born.
Rufus stood tall, the weight of his sword resting in one hand as though it were a walking stick.
A flash. A roar of steel. The black blade carved the air toward his neck. Giotto stepped back, feeling the wind of the edge graze his face. There was no respite—Rufus twisted his wrist, bringing down a diagonal slash that threatened to cleave him in two.
Giotto leapt back. The steel tore into the leather of his armor, ripping away a charred piece.
How can he move so fast for his size…?
Rufus advanced, each step making the ground tremble. Giotto turned at a diagonal, forcing him to pivot. The second strike came in low, horizontal, aimed for his hip. Giotto dropped his short sword to intercept.
The impact was brutal—sparks, a crack in his arm. Bone screamed; at the same time, something within him knit back together with a dull, grinding ache.
"You run like a hare!" Rufus roared, adjusting his helm in mockery. "Come on, foreigner! Show us something worth watching."
Giotto said nothing. His breathing slowed. The world sharpened, each moment stretching thin. He saw the openings—every time Rufus lifted his weapon, his left armpit was exposed. Small, but enough for a narrow blade.
Rufus raised his sword for a downward blow. Giotto rolled beneath it, sprang to his feet, and drove the dagger toward the gap. A metallic screech stopped him—plate over plate.
The giant had anticipated him. Rufus's arm closed around him in an embrace of steel. Ribs cracked. Air fled his lungs.
Giotto writhed, using the motion to wrench free and dodge another slash that skimmed past him. Rufus tried to kick him. Giotto vaulted onto his leg, climbing like an animal to his shoulder.
With both hands, he brought the short sword down against the helm. The blow rang through the arena. Rufus grunted, staggering.
The heir hurled his sword skyward with impossible force. The blade spun through the air. As it fell, it aimed for Rufus's back—and for the spot where Giotto clung.
Giotto hurled himself aside. Steel fell like lightning—Rufus raised a hand and caught it between two gloved fingers.
The crowd's murmur swelled into a roar. Rufus smiled, reached up, and with deliberate slowness removed his helmet, revealing his pale, shaven face.
"You'll die looking at my face," he said, raising the sword above his head as though it were a warhammer before bringing it down.
Rufus closed in at a quick but measured pace. When he reached range, he thrust the greatsword straight for Giotto's abdomen. Giotto barely caught the blow with both sword and knife, but the force hurled him backward like a rag doll, knocking the breath from him.
He felt each rib groan under the pressure; for an instant, he thought himself dead. Blood welled from his mouth in a hot rush as a howl of triumph rolled through the crowd, watching Rufus strut in apparent victory.
On the ground, Giotto kept his eyes closed. A slow, searing heat spread through him as his body began to knit itself back together in seconds. Those moments dragged on, every fiber rebuilding with pain bordering on the unbearable.
At last, he rose—eyes still shut—drawing murmurs of awe from those watching, marveling at his willpower. Once steady, he sank into a deeper focus than ever before, sharpening every sense to its limit. He knew: he didn't need to be stronger or more skilled—only faster, more cunning.
One chance. That was all he needed. And the man would be flat on his back in an instant.
The world expanded around him. Without looking, he could sense every small movement within two meters. Then he opened his eyes.
Everything had changed: colors dimmed, time slowed like an old VHS recording. And he felt it—the same sensation that had seized him before arriving in this world, that unsettling impression of folding space. Back then, he had meant to move only a few meters but had made a mistake and ended up in another universe.
The feeling now was different—sharper, freer. He didn't need to move—only to will it—and his sword could drive itself into the seam between chest and abdomen… or his knife could open the thin line of his foe's neck.
Giotto considered it, the Traveler's battle experience flooding his mind. But he held back. If he did, every superstition these backward people held about him would no longer be rumor. And though he knew he could escape now, he had nowhere to go.
He eased that sixth sense and let his body move like water, slipping past a diagonal strike that sought to split him.
He stepped in, shifting his longsword while his knife locked the enemy blade into the ground. He sought the neck but withdrew at the last moment.
He didn't stop there. Another step forward, closing in further, parting knife and freeing Rufus's sword in such a way that any attempt to reclaim it would throw him off balance. He was smothering him, denying every chance to defend effectively.
From the podium, Duke Oswald watched closely. The foreigner's tactics were strange but functional, with undeniable elegance in a single combat. Oswald was no fool—he knew his nephew's skill and cunning. That Giotto had pushed him far enough to earn respect as a warrior already spoke of his strength.
"Father," murmured Vanessa, "is it possible Rufus could lose?"
The duke didn't answer at once. The duel had lasted ten minutes. Though Rufus had shown superiority throughout, Giotto had answered with precision, like a serpent waiting for the exact moment to strike.
The thought of Rufus losing was absurd… until he saw him move with a disquieting fluidity, as if the battlefield itself flowed around him, denying every attempt of his nephew to regain control.
Oswald, a warrior forged in the crucible of war since the days of King Arthur, when he had fought the barbarians threatening Britain, recognized it in the foreigner's green eyes: that empty, honed look, ready to kill.
When Giotto broke Rufus's stance and left him open to the next strike, Oswald no longer hesitated. The foreigner advanced, sword and knife ready to open his opponent's throat.
"Stop!" the duke commanded, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple.
A roar burst from his nephew's lips, more beast than man. Every gaze turned to the thin line of blood running down his neck—a tangible memory of the blade's kiss.
Silence claimed the arena. Every gaze clung to the moment, as if to trap it in time. Giotto withdrew his sword calmly, stepped back, and knelt before the duke, head bowed.
Rufus rose. Eyes bloodshot, he cast his greatsword to the ground like refuse, raising a cloud of dust. He left the field without a backward glance, determined to ignore whatever words his uncle might offer.
"You have proven your worth, foreigner," Oswald declared, ignoring the frowns of his inner circle, Rufus included. "Upon my name, while you walk my lands, you will be treated as an honored guest."
The duke narrowed his eyes at the bowing figure. In a deep voice, loud enough for all to hear, Giotto replied:
"I thank you for your kindness, my lord."
Without another word, the duke turned and made for the castle, his daughters and guard following behind.
----------------------------
And so we move forward in the story: Giotto leaves behind his status as a prisoner after having nearly killed the heir to the duchy. We get a bit more insight into life in the palace, and new characters are introduced.
I can't believe how long it took me to write this chapter. The battle turned out to be more difficult than I imagined. Honestly—and I'm a little embarrassed to admit it—this is the first fight I've ever written in my life. I don't think it's perfect, but I worked really hard, and for my first time describing a combat scene, I'm quite satisfied with the result.
But tell me, what do you think of this chapter?
—The Author