The date of the duel was closing in—just one day left.
Since clearing out the Cerberus nest, Lyst hadn't ventured beyond the city walls again. Not because he'd grown complacent, but because there were no suitable hunting grounds left near the capital of the Wilthorne Duchy. The only remaining monster populations were far to the east—roaming clans of Frostwolves and One-Eyed Giants.
Too far.
A round trip to those territories would take over ten days, and skipping the duel—especially one the Duke himself had agreed to witness—wasn't just foolish.
It was suicide.
So Lyst had shifted his focus. With the outer regions cleared and the Polley Merchant Guild under his thumb, he'd poured his time and energy into preparing for the inevitable. Gold flowed. Trade routes opened. Influence spread.
And now, standing in his private study beneath the high glass dome of the Melric family keep, Lyst held a shimmering vial up to the light.
The liquid inside gleamed bright blue, pulsing with arcane energy.
[You have acquired: "Remington Elixir"]
Quality: Rare (Grade C)
Effect: Permanently increases Intelligence and Agility by +1.
Note: Cannot exceed level-based stat cap. Effect expires after 3 doses.
He popped the cork and drank it in one motion.
A rush of crisp cold washed down his spine. His senses sharpened. Limbs lightened. Thought cleared.
[Attributes Updated]
Strength: 18
Vitality: 16
Intelligence: 17 → 18
Agility: 15 → 16
That made three bottles—each one rare, expensive, and a direct injection of power. The Remington Elixir couldn't match the raw impact of Turquoise Solution, which boosted all four core stats by one, but it was stackable.
Which made it better. Much better.
And vastly more expensive.
The Melric treasury had been bled nearly dry in recent weeks—but with the new trade route to the Gabriel Barony now operational, it was starting to refill. Slowly. Painfully. But it was working.
And if anything, the Polley Guild had made themselves very useful.
The knock at his chamber door came sharp and fast.
"Lord Melric! News from the capital!"
Lyst set the vial down. "Come in."
The door creaked open, revealing the elderly steward, Anco, panting slightly.
"He's left the Duke's castle."
"Who?"
"Lord Quent. The Duke's son. He's… headed for the Ambet estate."
That got Lyst's attention.
So. The little prince was finally making his move.
Quent had been silent for weeks. Rumors claimed the Duke had locked him down—possibly even banned him from leaving the estate after the duel was made public. If that were true, this sudden visit to the Ambet family meant one of two things.
Either Quent was trying to speak with Anna before the duel.
Or he'd discovered the truth.
"Have a man follow him," Lyst said quietly, strapping his family's heirloom blade to his back. "If anything changes—send word immediately."
The training yard of House Melric was spartan compared to the ornamental courtyards of other noble estates. No manicured gardens or marble fountains. Just open dirt, scarred stone, and worn targets. Space. Space to fight. Space to bleed.
The Melrics weren't known for their parties or politics. Their legacy was forged through blade and battle.
Lyst drew his sword, letting it hum through the air. The weapon—a rare-grade family heirloom—cut effortlessly. Clean. Crisp. The kind of steel that remembered blood.
[Melric Blade Technique – Lv. 5]
[Melric Breathing Style – Lv. 9]
[Strength: 27]
His current Strength stat was nearly double his level cap. The breathing style had pushed him far past the limits of what a standard second-tier class should be capable of. His muscles thrummed with contained power.
He practiced the motion again.
Draw. Slash. Reset.
Fluid. Fast. Deadly.
But midway through a stance, his instincts screamed. Danger.
He stopped.
Eyes narrowing, he lowered his center of gravity, feet sliding into the stance for a [Draw Slash]—blade still sheathed, ready to flash.
A figure dropped from the outer wall.
Lyst didn't blink.
"You're jumpier than I remember."
The man was tall—easily six-foot-three—with broad shoulders and golden-blond hair that gleamed in the sunlight. His violet coat was layered over a deep plum cloak, embroidered with golden thread that shimmered with noble arrogance.
Quent Wilthorne.
Son of the Duke.
And tomorrow, Lyst's opponent.
"You planning to fight me now, or are you just in the habit of climbing into noble keeps like a thief?" Lyst asked, not moving from his stance.
Quent smirked, stepping forward casually.
"You didn't seem like the type who liked grand entrances. Thought I'd keep it simple."
[Scanning enemy...]
[Scan complete.]
[Target: Quent Wilthorne]
Level: 21
Class: Shield Warrior (Tier 1 Advancement)
Health: 1371
Stamina: 861
Strength: 18
Vitality: 21
Intelligence: 16
Agility: 13
Skills:
– [Eternal Guard] (Rare, C): Absorbs 381–461 damage for 3 seconds. Boosted by Vitality.
– [Wilthorne Shield Bash] (Rare, C): Reflects portion of damage back to attacker.
– [Wilthorne Blade Arts] (Advanced, D): Deals 271–291 damage and causes bleeding.
– [Wilthorne Breathing Style] (Passive): +1 Vitality
Overall Combat Rating: E(Balanced / Defensive Focus)
Lyst exhaled. So Quent had already completed his Tier 1 class advancement. That meant—on paper—he was stronger than Lyst, who hadn't even completed his first job change.
But numbers lied.
Lyst's stats were well above Quent's. His Strength alone was nearing Tier 3 peak levels. Quent had training, sure—but he lacked refinement. And those skill levels? Pathetic.
The Wilthornes had money and pedigree. But they didn't understand power.
"Shield Warrior?" Lyst tilted his head. "Didn't take you for the type."
"What, you thought I'd be swinging a two-hander like some barbarian?" Quent smiled. "Not my style."
It made sense.
Shield Warriors were a subclass of the Martial Path—technically a part of the warrior tree, but mocked by most top-tier players in the later stages of the game. Good early. Tanky. Flexible. But they scaled poorly.
By the time the Galaxy Era arrived, they were meat shields and nothing more.
"I see," Lyst muttered, letting his hand drift away from his sword hilt. "You're here to talk, then?"
Quent nodded. "You sent a message. About Anna. I wanted to hear it from you."
"Did your guards not tell you?"
"They told me enough to be angry. But not enough to believe it." Quent's eyes narrowed. "So? Is it true?"
Lyst didn't answer right away.
He could have said yes. He could have laid out the whole web—Anna's lies, her affair with the painter, the planned elopement while the duel served as distraction.
But Quent wouldn't believe him. Not yet.
So instead, Lyst smiled.
"Come tomorrow. Fight me. Win or lose, you'll know the truth."
Quent's jaw tensed. His fingers curled into fists—but he nodded.
"Fine." He turned. "I'll see you on the field, Melric."
"Bring your shield." Lyst's voice followed him. "You're going to need it."
And with that, Quent disappeared over the wall, the sun painting gold across the city's spires.
Lyst stood in silence.
Tomorrow, one of them would fall.
But for the first time in weeks, Lyst wasn't worried.
He was ready.