The crowd roared with every clang! and clash! of steel against steel, but the sound felt distant, as though filtered through thick glass.
The air in the arena was alive with a thrilling sense of spectacle, the kind that made people forget their own mundane lives for a moment. To them, it was just a duel—a noble and a commoner, both refusing to yield, a fight of honor and pride.
But I stood among the others with a calm expression, my hands clenched together, and inside me a storm churned. I knew the truth.
This was wrong. All wrong.
Why now? Why here?
This fight wasn't supposed to happen yet.
The story I know—the story I remember—Lucas, the so-called protagonist, was destined to clash against that "minor-rate villain" much later. It was a climactic moment, tied to Emilia, a turning point in his growth. Not… this. Not in front of my eyes so soon. He hadn't suffered enough, hadn't unlocked his hidden strength, hadn't gone through the hardships he was meant to. If things went like this, if the narrative was allowed to deviate this much, then…
"…Lucas will lose," I muttered, barely realizing the words had left my mouth.
"Did you say something, my lady?" a boy beside me, a minor lord, asked.
I stiffened, forcing a light smile onto my lips. "No. Just watching the drama."
"You mean the match? Haha, yes." He laughed, a high, empty sound. "It's quite the show, isn't it? That Evan Ravenshade is a beast."
Their laughter felt hollow in my ears, a cruel mockery of the truth. My eyes never left the arena, never left the two figures locked in a death dance. Because this wasn't just a fight anymore.
This was the story shifting, twisting into something unfamiliar, something I didn't recognize. And the reason for that—
My gaze fixed not on Lucas, nor on Emilia, but on the one standing opposite him.
Evan Ravenshade.
The variable. The anomaly. The one who wasn't supposed to change anything… and yet, here he was, dragging the story off its tracks, an actor who had memorized the script and decided to rewrite his own lines.
----
[Evan's Pov]
The fight was still holding even ground, but the air had shifted. My playful smirk had vanished. I wasn't toying with my opponent anymore. No more sudden joy, no more teasing rhythm.
Because right now? I was pissed.
Lucas came charging, sword arcing down with brute force. I sidestepped, fast and clean, the movement a practiced blur. My speared rammed into his chest, the back end of the shaft a blunt instrument of pain.
"Gruuh—!" He staggered, thrown back by the blow, his ragged breath a testament to my strength.
And the reason I was pissed? Not because he'd managed to land a little hit earlier. Please. I'm not that petty—I can take a strike.
But a scratch on my face?
On this beautiful, flawless, handsome face of mine?
Now that's unforgivable. That's not just a mistake. That's a crime. A criminal offense.
And Lucas? He just signed the warrant.
Lucas was still down, chest heaving, arms scrambling against the dirt. I didn't give him time to recover. The moment his elbow hit the ground, I stepped in, spear raised high.
Thud! The concrete split under my strike, shards and dust flying as he rolled away at the last second, dirt smearing across his face.
I straightened, tilting my head, eyes locked on him. My grin was sharp, cold. I twirled the spear in one hand. "Now come on, pretty boy," I called out, my voice a mocking blade. "Where you running…?"
Lucas staggered up, sweat dripping down his temple. His chest rose and fell like a cornered animal, but his glare was still there, raw and burning. He wasn't a fighter; he was a survivor, a desperate man with a single, burning purpose.
"You fucking nobles…" he spat, voice hoarse, "you'll never understand the struggle of us common folk. You're born with everything handed to you, and you look at us like—like nothing–."
I cut him off, my voice annoyed. "Man, shut the fuck up and fight. Or did you forget? Your momma's on the line."
His face twisted in fury. "You son of a—!"
He didn't get to finish.
Because my arm moved before he could even blink. The spear left my hand with a sharp whoosh, slicing through the air like a silver streak.
Risky? Absolutely. But I've always liked risk. The theatricality of it was perfect. This was no longer a match; it was a performance, and I was its director.
Lucas's eyes went wide, pupils trembling as the weapon closed in. He barely had time to react, arms snapping up in desperation. His sword jerked forward, clashing with the spear's steel.
Clang! The impact rattled through the arena, the vibration running up his arms. The force pushed him back a step, boots scraping against broken stone. He had done it. He had survived.
For the briefest second, relief flickered in his eyes. He thought he'd blocked it.
That's when he realized.
Because by the time he looked back to his side, I was already there. My shadow loomed over him, spearless, but grinning like a wolf about to sink its teeth into prey.
His eyes went wide, breath caught in his throat. He had forgotten the most important rule: never let your opponent dictate the pace.
And my smirk? Wider than ever.
I didn't hesitate. My fist snapped forward, driving hard into his side—right into the liver.
Guuh! Lucas grunted, his body jolting as he tried to sidestep, but the shock hit him a beat late. His breath caught, his knees buckled.
"Aa—!" The cry tore out of him, ragged and broken.
I didn't let the chance slip. My leg shot up, a side kick slamming into his thigh with a dull thud, knocking his stance apart.
Before he could even recover, my boot whipped up again, cracking against his nose. Blood sprayed, his head snapping back, and I closed in.
He swung his sword desperately, but my hand shot out, seizing his wrist. I yanked him forward and drove my forehead into his face.
Crack! His nose shattered under the headbutt.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than him. "Did that again." It was a dirty move, a low blow, but he had started this. There were no rules here, only winners and losers.
But I didn't stop. I twisted my hips, coiling power, then unleashed a roundhouse straight into his center mass.
The impact boomed. His body lifted off the ground, crashing backward, the sword tumbling free from his grip as he flew.
The clang of steel hitting stone echoed louder than his groan.
"ooo man, that was brutal…"
"Fuck, look at his nose—hah! It's like a pig's snout now. Oink, oink!"
Laughter rippled through the crowd. My lackeys, Aron and the others, were yelping like dogs.
"Hah! The momma's boy is gonna widow!"
"Dude, that doesn't even make sense—"
"Shut up, man!"
The voices from the audience blurred together, but I ignored them. Their noise didn't matter. The fight wasn't over.
Lucas was still moving—barely. His breath came ragged, his face swollen and bloodied, but those shaking arms of his refused to let his body collapse. He hadn't given up. He was an animal, clinging to life.
"Good," I muttered, stepping over to the fallen weapons.
I grabbed the spear first, spinning it once in my hand before dropping it aside. Then I picked up the fallen sword, its blade catching the light, a mockery of its owner.
With a casual shove of my boot, I pushed the sword across the dirt until it scraped to a stop right in front of Lucas.
He lifted his head just enough to see it, blood dripping down his chin. He was a broken man, but his eyes still held that defiant fire.
"What are you waiting for?" My voice was calm, almost cold. "Pick it up."
He stared at me, eyes wide, lips trembling, but his hand didn't move.
I tilted my head, squatting slightly so my shadow fell over him. My voice dropped low, cutting sharp into him.
"Are you just going to sit there and watch? Or are you so desperate you'd abandon even your mother?"
The words twisted the air heavier than any strike I had thrown. It was the final move, the one that would break him completely.
"Pick. It. Up."
As the response to my words, Lucas picked up his sword again. His hand trembled, his body screamed of pain, but still—he forced himself up, dragging his battered frame onto his feet. Blood ran down his jaw, his breaths came ragged, but his eyes held that stubborn fire.
"Let's… let the one last, final one begin," he growled, his voice hoarse, yet unbroken. He had found his second wind, a surge of power born from pure hate.
I straightened my stance, spear in hand, and gave a small nod. No more words. No more taunts.
Just the clash of steel and the sound of our resolve. The audience leaned forward, breaths held, tension filling the entire arena. This was the climax they had been waiting for.
Lucas charged first, his sword swinging with every ounce of desperation and pride he had left. His strikes were strong—wild, reckless, but carrying the sharp edge of a man unwilling to accept defeat.
Every swing had weight, every strike desperate enough to overwhelm anyone else.
Anyone except me.
I parried. Deflected. Countered. My spear hissed through the air, each thrust precise, sharp, biting into his openings, leaving shallow cuts that drew crimson lines across his body. Sparks scattered as blade and spear clashed, screeching like wild beasts locked in a death struggle.
Lucas was fighting like the protagonist he was supposed to be—throwing his soul into each strike. But me? I was calm. Detached. Every move of his felt slowed, predictable. His desperation only widened his flaws, and I exploited them mercilessly.
A shallow cut grazed my arm, another nicked my side, but compared to him? My injuries were like insect bites. His body, on the other hand, bore the marks of my spear: his leg slashed, ribs bruised, shoulder torn.
Then, with one sweeping motion, I slid my spear low, carving across his thigh, and followed up by stepping in close. My elbow slammed hard into his vertebrae.
He coughed, stumbling, nearly collapsing on the spot.
It was ending. I could see it.
The duel had reached its final stretch. His eyes were dulling, his body faltering.
Victory was mine—just a matter of time.
And, honestly… I was getting bored.
"Let's end this circus," I muttered, tightening my grip on the spear.
The audience leaned forward, sensing the climax. I pulled back, raising the spear high, ready to deliver the decisive blow.
The sharp tip glinted under the arena lights as I aimed directly at Lucas's chest—the strike that would make him taste his first true defeat.
But then—
Something shifted.
It was faint, subtle, but undeniable. The air… it changed. Like a ripple passing through reality itself.
A sudden, sharp pull on my magic, a momentary flicker of an unfamiliar force. It was gone in a fraction of a second, a single, fleeting disruption, but it was enough.
My hands twitched. And before I could comprehend what had happened—
Slip.
My spear left my grip.
"What—?!"
I didn't even have time to understand.
By the time my eyes widened, the only thing I saw was the gleam of Lucas's blade closing in. He was a man possessed, his body moving on instinct alone.
Flash.
Pain tore across my chest as his sword ripped through my clothes, biting into my flesh.
The world seemed to slow down. I could feel the sharp edge cutting through the air, the coldness of the steel, the sudden, searing heat of my own blood. My balance wavered.
Then came his kick. A vicious strike slammed into my legs, and my world spun. My body was thrown back, and the ground met me mercilessly.
Thud.
Air was stolen from my lungs as my back smashed against the concrete floor. I gasped, pain flooding every nerve. I was dazed, disoriented, a puppet with its strings cut.
When my blurry vision cleared, the first thing I saw was cold steel—a sword tip hovering just before my throat.
Lucas stood over me, panting, bleeding, his body trembling, but his grin—mocking, triumphant—made his victory clear.
The arena was dead silent. Nobody understood what had just happened. How the tide had turned so suddenly.
"Looks like I win—" he rasped, raising his voice enough for all to hear.
But before he could finish, I moved.
My leg coiled and snapped, sweeping his ankle in a circular motion. His eyes widened, caught off guard, as he crashed down beside me.
Thud!
I didn't hesitate. My hand shot out, seizing his sword arm, pinning it down before he could react. Then came my fist.
Crack!
The first punch slammed into his face, blood spraying.
The second was harder, rattling his teeth.
The third crashed against his temple, his head bouncing against the concrete, leaving him dazed and reeling.
And then came the fourth—brutal, deliberate. My fist buried into the side of his face, the force so great it cracked the tile beneath us.
The audience gasped, some even screaming. Lucas didn't dodge. He couldn't. His body went limp under me, his consciousness fading. I had him completely. I could've finished it right there, knocked him out cold.
But I didn't.
I pulled back my fist, stopping just before the final blow. My chest heaved, blood dripping down, but my glare bore into him.
"You should celebrate a little later, you fuck," I hissed, voice low, venom dripping from every word. "I still hadn't given up."
Slowly, shakily, I pushed myself up, towering over his broken form. The teacher raised his hand, about to announce the outcome.
"The match is over! The winner is—"
"Stop."
My voice cut through the silence.
I raised my hand, expression unreadable.
"I surrender. I've given up on this match."
Gasps erupted across the crowd, confusion spreading like wildfire. Lucas, half-conscious, blinked in shock. The teacher froze mid-sentence.
And I… just stood there.
Blood trickled down from the gash across my chest, warm, sticky, soaking into the fabric. The pain was there, sharp and throbbing, but my eyes weren't on the wound. No… they were searching. And then I found her.
A delicate figure in the crowd—my sweet, dear fiancée.
The moment our eyes met, I smiled. Not gently. Not tenderly. Not with even a hint of affection. No, the smile that stretched across my face was sharp, crooked, bitter—a scar carved in real time. And her? She lowered her gaze, unable to meet me. Her lashes trembled, her lips pressed tight, and her shoulders hunched in shame.
She couldn't look at me… not after what she had done. Not after the line she had dared to cross.
Yes. The very same woman—the one I was bound to by vows and promises, the one who should've been my shield—was the reason for the blade buried in my chest. It was her hand, her interference, that left me bleeding in front of everyone.
And now, even with the crowd roaring, even with the sting of blood searing through my body… the silence between us screamed the loudest.