Clang!
Benson, blinded by rage, charged without thought or form. Henry's eyes remained calm, his sword meeting Benson's with a deft twist. Using the force rushing down his opponent's blade, Henry pushed away and opened distance.
Benson's sword, driven with too much force, plunged deep into the stone floor.
"Now."
Henry's eyes flashed cold. In the blink of an eye, he slid to Benson's side. Benson, still struggling to wrench free his buried sword, had no time to react.
Swish!
Henry's blade gleamed like winter lightning, cutting sideways.
Rip!
Leather tore. Blood spattered. Henry's strike scored across Benson's waist, and though the academy's armor absorbed the worst of it, crimson still welled forth. Without that leather barrier, Benson would have been hewn in two.
"Ahh!"
Pain lanced through Benson's side, and he stumbled back in shock, bewildered that he had once again been wounded.
But Henry gave him no time to breathe.
Swish. Swish. Swish!
Blade after blade came down in a relentless storm. Benson lifted his weapon in desperation to block, but each clash forced him further backward, his defense faltering.
Then, with a sudden twist—
Slash!
Henry's sword licked across Benson's right hand, blood spraying. Benson shrieked, his grip failed, and his weapon clattered to the ground.
"Fool."
From below, Titus Kirk shook his head. To a knight, the sword was an extension of the body. To lose it was to cut one's own strength in half. Without his blade, Benson's defeat was inevitable.
"No!"
Realizing his peril, Benson lunged to reclaim the fallen sword. But Henry's eyes were already upon him. His blade rose high, ready to fall and cleave his foe before he could even touch the hilt.
Clang!
At the last instant, Benson abandoned the attempt, stumbling back in terror. He barely escaped Henry's merciless stroke.
"Benson has lost!"
The verdict rippled through the crowd. All could see the outcome was decided—Henry had triumphed.
"Useless trash."
Wallace's face darkened to thunder. This was not the result he had schemed for. Instead of shaming Henry, Benson had been beaten down, disarmed, and bloodied. Wallace could feel the sidelong glances of his peers, those who knew the truth of his interference. His ploy had become a joke.
Henry pressed his advantage, sword flashing again and again. With no weapon to defend himself, Benson collected fresh wounds, stumbling in disarray.
The teacher, serving as referee, grew uneasy. Wallace had told him to turn a blind eye should Benson use excessive force, but the script had reversed. Now Benson was the one cornered and helpless. How could he act?
"Enough. Stop."
The baron's voice cracked like a whip.
Henry's sword, already descending, jolted as an overwhelming force intercepted it.
Clang!
A crushing power surged down his blade, hurling him backward. Henry staggered ten steps before he could steady himself, his sword-hand numb, barely holding onto the hilt.
"I told you to stop. Did you not hear me?"
The teacher stood where Henry had been, his own sword drawn, eyes hard upon him.
"Why strike at me?" Henry demanded through clenched teeth, anger boiling within. He had felt it—the vast gulf of strength between himself and a true knight.
"Did you not see? Your opponent has no sword. The fight was finished."
The teacher's tone was cold.
"There is no rule that a duel must end when one loses his weapon," Henry retorted, fury rising.
"The academy grants referees authority to prevent crippling or fatal harm. I judged this the time to intervene."
The teacher's words dripped with impatience.
"Shameless bias," Titus muttered, brow furrowed. Though the teacher claimed to act in mercy, it was plain to see—he shielded Benson.
Whispers rose among the crowd.
"This teacher… he's protecting Benson."
"He must be bought by Wallace. Benson is his lackey."
The murmur grew into open speculation, faces turning with disdain. The teacher's jaw tightened. If the matter dragged further, his position would sour. With a heavy breath, he declared:
"This duel is ended!"
"Yes!"
Benson seized the lifeline instantly, answering with relief. Disarmed and battered, he knew further fighting would have humiliated him utterly.
Henry said nothing. He only cast the teacher a long, cold look before turning away. For now, he had no power to resist a baron, no strength to defy a knight. His anger he buried deep, to be repaid when his strength was greater.
"Henry, are you alright?"
Charles hurried to his side, patting his shoulder with concern.
"I'm fine."
Henry shook his head. It was not as satisfying as he had wished, but enough. Benson was beaten, bloodied, and broken of his arrogance. That alone was victory.
Benson, wounded and pale, stumbled before Wallace. Before he could speak, Wallace's attendant barked in fury:
"You've disgraced Lord Wallace completely. Do you still dare show your face?"
"Lord Wallace…"
The words caught in Benson's throat. His blood chilled. Wallace had been his precious patron, for whose favor his family had poured resources. If he lost that support, the punishment awaiting him at home would be merciless.
"Worthless trash."
Wallace spared him only a single cold glance before turning away. Were it not that Benson still had some use, he would have cast him off that instant.