Cairos raised his hand high, the arena falling silent in anticipation. "Then let the final bout of today's Ceremonial of Swords… begin!" His hand drove downward, sending a crisp gust of wind rippling across the field—a signal that the last battle had officially commenced.
Without hesitation, Ronald and Percival charged at each other, their movements fluid and purposeful. Percival's left hand spread wide, steel claws gleaming in the light, and he growled, "I'll tear you apart!" With a swift, merciless arc, he brought the claws down. The screech of steel meeting steel echoed through the arena.
Ronald's shield shot up just in time, absorbing the brunt of Percival's strike. The impact rattled his arms, but with a controlled twist of his torso, he redirected the blow toward the ground. Dust and small stones exploded outward as Percival's claws struck nothing but empty air. Ronald's gaze sharpened, and he called out, "Seriously, brother? You really want to scratch me? Too bad—I've got the height advantage."
Seizing the moment, Ronald swung his sword in a calculated arc, aiming at an opening in Percival's guard. But Percival's veins bulged visibly, his fingers trembling as he gathered his strength. With a powerful twist of his torso, he redirected the force, kicking the sword aside with precise, concentrated strength.
The strike sent Ronald staggering backward across the arena floor, his boots digging into the dust to steady himself. Even as he regained his balance, he smoothly shifted into a solid, defensive shield stance, every muscle coiled and ready, eyes locked on Percival—anticipating the next move.
"Let's test it," Ronald said, drawing his sword backward, the blade glinting as he channeled mana into it. With a sharp glance at Percival, he swung forward. A surge of concentrated force erupted from the blade, hurtling straight toward Percival like a slicing gale.
Percival crossed his arms, fingers tightening until the veins bulged, and braced himself. The force slammed against him, scattering dust and debris, but he tore through it with sheer strength, steel claws humming. "Relying on such tricks won't do you any good," he said, his tone calm yet sharp, a slight smirk gracing his face.
Behind him, Ronald muttered under his breath, "Tricks? No… it's strategy." In an instant, he pivoted, swinging his sword downward in a precise arc meant to finish the bout.
Percival reacted immediately. His iron finger claws screeched along the edge of Ronald's sword as they slid toward his face. Clang! The piercing sound of metal on metal rang through the arena. Ronald barely managed to block in time, but three shallow cuts grazed his shoulder, burning slightly. He retreated a step, creating distance, and tested the wounds. "Not that deep," he murmured, eyes narrowing, unwavering in focus.
The tension in the arena thickened, the air charged with both power and strategy. Every movement between them was deliberate, each strike a test of skill and cunning, and neither was willing to yield.
Ronald raised the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, a faint glimmer of determination in his eyes. A sudden gust of wind swept through the arena, and Percival took advantage of it, launching forward with a burst of blinding speed. Both of his hands, tipped with iron finger claws, scraped against the ground as he sprinted, sparks flying like fleeting stars.
Ronald steadied himself, planting his feet firmly into the cracked earth, shield raised with unwavering poise. His gaze sharpened, locking onto his opponent with a calculated intensity. Slowly, he drew back his sword, ready to meet Percival's assault with precision.
In a quiet, controlled whisper, he invoked, "Guardian's Retort." Immediately, a shimmering wave of blue energy radiated from his shield, flowing across his body like liquid steel. The force bolstered his stance, reinforcing both body and spirit, preparing him to counter whatever Percival unleashed next.
From the sidelines, Lionel's eyes followed the duel intently. Suddenly, a faint shimmer appeared before him—a translucent screen hovering in the air. Words formed on it: "Unique Skill Detected: Guardian's Retort."
Lionel blinked in surprise. "Guardian's Retort?" he murmured, curiosity sharpening his gaze.
The system's voice resonated clearly, calm and analytical:
"Guardian's Retort: This skill absorbs the energy of incoming attacks, storing it to reinforce the user's body and amplify the next counterattack. The effectiveness scales with the magnitude of the absorbed force, allowing strategic defense to become a potent offensive response."
Percival's head tilted slightly, his dark blue eyes narrowing with precision, as he drove the left iron finger claws into the ground. In an instant, he released them upward in a controlled, razor-sharp arc. Sparks flew as the steel claws scraped against the arena floor, a metallic hiss slicing through the air. The force surged toward Ronald, and he let out a firm hmph, bracing himself. The impact traveled through his arms and shield, rattling him slightly—but he held his ground, his stance unwavering.
Percival didn't relent. He flowed seamlessly from one strike to another, a continuous, relentless barrage of claws that sliced the air with blinding speed. Each strike seemed designed to find the smallest gap, to test every inch of Ronald's defense. Dust and sparks danced around them as the sheer speed and ferocity threatened to overwhelm any ordinary opponent.
Ronald's mind remained calm, his focus razor-sharp. He shifted his weight, planting his feet solidly against the arena floor. His shield absorbed and redirected the kinetic energy of each strike, his body coiling like a spring ready to release. Every block, every parry was precise, anticipating Percival's rhythm. Yet, he did not merely endure—he studied. He noted the subtle tension in Percival's arms, the slight tilt of his torso before each strike, the way the claws twisted in his grip.
As the series of strikes continued, Ronald muttered under his breath, a faint whisper carrying a noble intent: "Guardian's Retort." Instantly, a wave of cerulean energy emanated from his shield, spreading across his body, reinforcing his muscles, stiffening his grip, and amplifying the force behind his counters. The technique absorbed the energy of Percival's attacks, subtly feeding his own strength, converting the enemy's relentless aggression into his own advantage.
Percival's eyes flickered with a hint of disbelief, recognizing that his relentless flurry, while powerful, had been anticipated. Ronald's shield now glowed faintly blue, a visible manifestation of the skill's defensive alchemy, and he readied himself for the perfect moment to strike back. Sparks still flew, dust still billowed, but Ronald's stance never wavered—unyielding, strategic, a noble sentinel standing against the storm.
Ronald planted his feet deeper into the arena floor, each step sinking as if he sought the very heart of the earth itself. His grip on the sword tightened until his knuckles whitened, and a surge of raw energy erupted from him, knocking Percival backward with the sheer force of it. This was Guardian's Retort, a defensive skill of unparalleled finesse—it not only enhanced the wielder's defenses but converted every blow endured into offensive energy, storing the accumulated attacks to be unleashed in a single, devastating strike.
Blue waves of mana surged along Ronald's blade, flowing through his arms and igniting his hair in an electric azure hue. The arena trembled as he activated the counter stance of Guardian's Retort, and in the blink of an eye, he appeared before Percival, closing the distance faster than thought could follow. Drawing back his arms with controlled precision, he raised his voice, sharp and resolute: "Guardian's Cataclysm!"
The sword descended like a falling star, the amassed energy of every strike he had absorbed channeling into the blow. Percival crossed his arms instinctively, bracing for impact, yet the skill directed all its force solely at him. A massive line of raw, radiant energy surged outward from the strike, arcing toward the spectators—but the protective mana shields shimmered and held, ensuring the nobles and guests beyond the arena walls remained untouched.
The sheer weight of the strike drove Percival to his limits, demonstrating that what had once been defensive endurance could transform into an unstoppable offensive onslaught, a testament to Ronald's skill, strategy, and noble resolve.
As Ronald successfully released Guardian's Retort, the brilliant blue aura around him faded, and his hair returned to its familiar golden hue. His chest heaved heavily from the exertion, each breath sharp yet controlled. With a slight rotation, he began to step back and said with measured pride, "How's that? A defensive skill honed to perfection… and yet, it can transform into a devastating offense as well."
Before he could move further, a voice emerged from the smoke, rough but laced with determination. It was Percival. He stood in a defensive stance, battered and weary. His iron finger claws lay shattered, clattering to the ground one by one. His clothes were torn and scorched, bruises darkened his skin, and smoke spiraled around him like a smoldering specter.
Then, with a quiet slide, his mask fell away. Ronald's eyes widened at the sight beneath. Percival's teeth were entirely metallic, gleaming iron fangs lining both sides of his mouth. Slowly, he ran his tongue along the edges of the fangs, a predatory smirk spreading across his face. "That…" he admitted, voice low but impressed, "was extraordinary. I thought I might truly have met my end there."