The duel platform was silent—until Quent made his move again.
Another direct stab.
But this time, Lyst moved.
He had been waiting.
With a sudden, blinding motion—
Shing!
His blade flashed.
A pure white arc of light swept across the arena like lightning.
Quent's eyes widened. A tremor rocked through his arm.
What—?!
He stumbled back.
His sword… had flown from his hand, clattering behind him.
He looked down—his polished silver breastplate and armguard bore a shallow but clean gash across them.
It hadn't drawn blood.
But it had cut through enchanted steel.
And he hadn't even seen the strike.
No… that's not possible. That technique...
Recognition lit his eyes.
"That was… Melric's Draw Slash!"
The signature technique of the Melric family.
Among the Seven Legacy Houses of Wilthorne City, the Melric Draw Slash wasn't just a skill—it was a rite of legitimacy.
To wield it meant you were the Melric heir.
And only one in each generation ever managed it.
The Viewing Balcony
Duke Wilthorne's face darkened. His narrowed eyes followed Lyst's every movement now.
He leaned forward, speaking just loud enough for those near him to hear.
"Draw Slash… So the brat really inherited it."
Even Lyst's father, Melric the Blade, had never fully mastered it. The skill was too advanced, too demanding.
And yet the boy—just 29 years old—had unleashed it cleanly.
Not a scratch of hesitation. Not even a wind-up.
The implications were obvious.
Lyst had not only inherited the legacy—he had surpassed it.
What none of them knew, was that Lyst's mastery was only beginner-level.
[Melric Blade Art: LV5]
He had simply gamed the system.
Between his rare-grade C-rank skill and the brute amplification from his passive Strength scaling, his attacks hit like a third-tier warrior—or stronger.
F-rank and E-rank techniques, no matter how polished, would never match this level of burst damage.
The Crowd Reacts
On the lower floors, nobles and merchant lords erupted into whispers.
"That was the Draw Slash!"
"So the Melric family isn't dead after all!"
"I thought he was just a spoiled second-tier brat…"
"And Quent? Wasn't this supposed to be a guaranteed win?"
"Looks like someone underestimated the Melric bloodline."
Lyst's explosive attack had shattered the illusion.
Even the commoners watching from afar could feel the shift in tone.
Lord Ambett's Smug Smile
Among the audience, Viscount Ambett let out a long, hearty laugh.
"I told you. Quent may be the Duke's son, but he was never the favorite."
"Lyst? Heir to the last legacy of the Melric blade arts—he was always the better investment."
Of course, Ambett had never truly known how strong Lyst was.
He had simply gambled—reasoning that a dying legacy was easier to seize.
If my daughter had married him… and we gained access to those skills…
Ambett's eyes darkened greedily, watching Lyst with a hunger he couldn't fully hide.
He had no idea his daughter was already halfway out of the city, eloping with a failed painter.
Back in the Arena
Lyst's grip reversed, his blade now pointing downward, relaxed at his side.
He said nothing.
He had no idea that his Draw Slash had just revived his family's reputation—or that the other noble houses were quietly recalculating their alliances.
All he cared about was the man in front of him.
Do I finish this clean… or humiliate him?
A small part of him considered letting Quent go with just a scar.
After all, if he beat him too badly… it might invite direct retaliation from the Duke.
But then Quent raised his voice.
"I'll admit it," he growled. "You've mastered Draw Slash. That caught me off guard."
"But don't think that means you've won!"
His shield raised, sword hand trembling slightly, Quent resumed his stance.
"Wilthorne's true strength isn't in the blade—it's in the shield and the counter!"
He was right.
Shieldmasters weren't duelists—they were fortresses.
Defense. Reflection. Endurance.
But Lyst didn't hesitate.
As Quent began his next step forward, Lyst suddenly closed the gap.
Fast.
Too fast.
He's charging straight into my shield?!
Quent grinned inwardly.
He waited.
His shield glowed faintly—an activated skill, shimmering with retaliatory magic.
[Counter Shield: Active]
Three seconds.
Any frontal blow would be reflected back, enhanced by his Stamina stat.
Except… the blow never came.
Instead—Lyst vanished from sight.
A breath later, a boot crashed into Quent's back.
[CRITICAL HIT – Impact Damage]
His entire body lifted into the air, sent flying.
Wha—?! How did he—?!
Before Quent could even process it, Lyst was already airborne.
He had leapt after him.
One knee bent, his body tucked, blade reversed.
Midair strike!
The hilt of Lyst's sword crashed into Quent's gut—
Right above the waistguard.
[Impact: Staggered]
As Quent fell downward, gasping, Lyst vanished again.
Blink Step. No, pure footwork.
He reappeared below, just as Quent dropped.
Another kick.
Right to the wrist.
The shield—his last defense—was sent flying.
It landed with a heavy clang on the stone floor, and Lyst stepped onto it.
Firm. Dominant.
Quent coughed. His back arched. His stance broken.
Above him, Lyst stood in silence, one boot on the family's crest-marked shield, black hair tousled in the wind.
The crowd?
Dead silent.
This isn't a duel anymore.
It's a demonstration.