Ch. 66 – Proving Duel
Fenrir stood in the open arena at the Marquis's residence. Every eye—nobles, generals, and soldiers alike—was fixed on him. Across from him stood the Viscount's subordinate general, a towering, muscular man with a cold gaze. This was General Kael Draven, notorious for his raw strength and fearsome reputation.
Fenrir inhaled deeply, feeling every shift of the wind. The crimson lava aura along his body began to flicker, concentrated tightly around him, emanating the intensity of a predator ready to strike. This time, the aura didn't flood the battlefield—it focused solely on him, emphasizing the tension of the duel.
Kael stepped forward, sword raised. "Don't think your youth can win against me," he snarled. Fenrir remained calm, locking eyes with his opponent.
Their swords clashed with a deafening clang. Sparks flew, metal ringing like the echo of two titans colliding. Fenrir moved fluidly, redirecting Kael's powerful swings while exploiting the smallest opening he could find.
Kael's attacks came in a relentless torrent, each strike a test of endurance. Fenrir danced between them, pivoting, sliding, spinning his sword with precision. His crimson lava aura pulsed in rhythm with every motion, a psychological weight pressing on Kael.
Drawing upon the strategies of his previous life, Fenrir implemented layered attacks, baiting Kael to overcommit. He absorbed one of Kael's massive strikes, then pivoted, delivering a swift thrust toward Kael's neck. Kael deflected, eyes widening at the speed and cunning displayed.
The crowd fell silent. Every move Fenrir made resembled a war dance, every clash of steel a symphony of combat. His aura only heightened the intensity, never over bearing, letting the duel speak for itself.
Kael attempted to change the tempo, swinging with full strength. Fenrir sidestepped, parried, then countered with a precise strike that struck Kael's shoulder.
Sweat dripped, breaths came heavy. Both warriors knew this was more than a duel—it was a testament to Fenrir's skill and leadership. Strike after strike, blade against blade, the sound of metal rang like battle itself.
Finally, Fenrir absorbed Kael's final attempt and unleashed a rapid, decisive strike. Kael's sword halted just against the edge of his armor. With a simple, lethal motion, Fenrir forced Kael to retreat several steps.
Kael's gaze met Fenrir's, face flushed not just with exhaustion but with newfound respect. Fenrir lowered his sword slowly; the crimson aura faded, leaving a residual tension lingering in the arena.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Soldiers who had doubted now bowed in respect. Fenrir had proven that despite a small army, his skill and leadership were undeniable.
From a distance, the Marquis observed with a calculating nod. Fenrir was not just a young baron—he was the Crimson Wolf, poised for the greater battles ahead.
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