"Are both combatants ready?"
The Referee's voice boomed from the stands, amplified by an application of wind magic.
The Count's brat nodded with that same overfloated confidence.
I gave a small nod in return.
My family's presence pressed against my back. I could feel it without turning.
"Wands ready."
We followed the command in unison, drawing our wands.
"Fight!"
"O Fire!" the brat began, his voice quick and eager.
[Hacker 001: Trojan Packet Activated]
"Fire Bullet!"
Multiple spheres of orange flame ignited in the air, hurtling toward me with aggressive speed.
I slipped one hand into my pocket and stepped forward.
The fireballs streaked past. One after another. Each explosion bloomed harmlessly around me, heat brushing my skin but never touching.
"Huh?" The boy's face twisted in confusion as he saw his opening salvos miss their mark completely.
"O Fire!" He started the chant again, desperation creeping into his tone. I slid my wand back into its holder and continued walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps.
Again, the fireballs veered off course.
The brat looked increasingly frustrated, his movements becoming frantic as he continued to fire volley after volley into the nothingness.
I suppose [Trojan Packet] is only truly effective against those at the same crucible stage as me. It has completely flooded his mana veins with the signal I implanted during our "handshake," forcing his senses to lock onto empty space. It worked well enough on Aifa during practice, though she was clever enough to adjust after only two shots making every arrow hit its mark.
"Why… why isn't it hitting?" His voice broke as he clutched the wand with both hands, trying to steady it. His legs trembled, the earlier arrogance draining away his shallow reserves with every failed cast.
Seeing him reduced to such a pathetic state, a smile formed on my face.
I stepped forward and erased the distance between us with few steps. The boy flinched, a look of pure shock crossing his features as his wand jerked toward my chest.
My hand moved before the spell could form. A backhand sent the wand spinning out of his grip.
He scrambled away, turning his back on me to run toward the fallen wand.
Seriously? Showing your back to an opponent in the middle of a duel?
My foot lashed out, striking his leg. He crumpled forward with a pained cry, hitting the ground hard.
A groan slipped from him as he tried to push himself up.
I walked up slowly and placed my foot over his ankle, applying just enough pressure.
A scream tore out of him.
"H-how dare you… ARRHH!"
His voice cracked under the pain.
He shouted in agony as I increased the pressure slightly. My eyes moved away from the boy and locked onto Count Mustache in the stands. He was gritting his teeth so hard I thought they might shatter, his knuckles gripped the stone wall in front of him.
"Now, you should yield," I began, turning my attention back to the brat on the ground.
I saw him frantically scrambling, his small fingers digging into an inner pocket of his tunic.
"What are you—"
Something flashed.
A small circular object pointed straight at me.
Light burst out.
Not just light. It swelled. Expanded. Grew until it swallowed everything in front of me.
I felt a searing heat bloom across my vision, a sensation like liquid fire being poured into my eye.
"Ugh." My body recoiled on instinct, a step back as my hand shot up to cover my eye.
What is this…
I forced my eye open.
I… can't see…
"How is that, fake noble?" Brat's voice rang out, shaky but filled with spite.
"That's a magic tool!" Granny's voice cut through the noise.
"Oi, referee, that's a foul!" Uncle's anger followed right after, sharp and loud.
But before the referee could utter a single word.
"Did we agree on a rule stating magic tools were forbidden?" Mustache asked, and I could practically hear the crooked smile on his face. "The only rule I recall is that the fight is over when one side can no longer continue. Of course, if you believe your grandson is incapable of going any further, you are welcome to give up."
His low, mocking laughter grated against my nerves.
"O fire," the chant came from directly in front of me as I felt the hard tip poke at my chest. "Flamethrower!"
Heat struck before thought could catch up slamming into my chest, spreading.
My skin screamed as it seared, the smell bad and suffocating. The air in my lungs burned making every gasp for breath an agony.
A sound forced its way out of me.
"O-o water... Burst!"
The words barely held together, but mana answered.
A bubble exploded between us. Water collided with fire, steam hissing violently as the flames were snuffed out.
I pushed myself back, boots scraping against the ground as distance opened.
Air rushed in.
Then broke apart into coughing.
My chest tightened, each breath dragging against the heat still clinging inside.
My hand moved instinctively to my bare chest, feeling the raw, angry texture of the burns while a high-pitched ringing started to drown out the world.
It looks like [Trojan Packet] cannot misdirect spells at point-blank range.
Even through the pulsing waves of pain, a small, dry laugh escaped my throat.
This is a good lesson.
"Sieg!" Granny's voice was thick with a frantic worry that cut through the ringing in my ears. I raised my hand, stopping her movement before she could jump into the arena.
"Go on, son. Put him in their place." Moustache's voice carried easily, soaked in satisfaction.
I felt more fire explode in the air around me, the flames being pulled away at the last second by the [Trojan Packet] as the brat continued his blind assault.
I exhaled slowly, the blindness in my eyes and the burns clawing at my chest fueling a cold, quiet awareness.
[Ember Step: Battle Clarity ]
No rules, huh.
My senses spread outward.
No sight. No shapes.
Just presence.
Everyone as ball of Lights and the one directly in front of me was brimming with a reckless overconfidence.
I stepped in.
Distance between us vanished.
Something pointy came at me, a frantic attempt to defend. I caught it mid-motion, fingers closing around the shaft, crushing it with a dray snap.
"M-my wand!"
I ignored his pathetic cry, clenching my right fist and driving it straight into his face.
The ball of light went flying backward, slamming into what looked like stone of the arena wall with a satisfying thud.
"Miken!" the Count shouted, his voice finally cracking with real panic.
"O unseen threads of the world... Attraction."
I channeled the spell, and the ball of light was yanked toward me at a blurring speed.
My fist met him again.
Before he could be sent reeling back, I pulled the threads again, bringing him right back into the path of my knuckles.
[Iron Fist: Impact]
Another strike.
Pull and punch.
Pull and kick.
Pull and headbutt.
Pull and punch.
Again.
Again.
Each hit landed heavier than the last, my body acting as a conduit for the frustration and pain going through me. I felt my fists grow warm and wet, the metallic scent of blood reaching my nose.
I didn't stop.
His presence flickered, the bright arrogance collapsing into something weaker, smaller.
"S-stop!" The count's voice cracked.
Now you care?
Another pull.
Another hit.
"I-it's over! Fight is over!!!"
At the referee's shout, my fist halted just short of impact, trembling with the leftover momentum of my rage.
The pull unraveled.
A dull thud followed as his body hit the ground in front of me.
For a brief moment, everything felt distant.
"O Aethelhum, O green tide of ever-growing life." I whispered the chants, channeling a flower healing spell directly into my scorched chest while simultaneously weaving an Athel magic spell to soothe the fire in my eyes.
I slowly opened my eyelids. The world was a mess of blurred shapes and shifting colors, but I could make it out.
The brat sprawled in the dust before me.
Covered in blood.
Not moving.
"Grr." A low growl escaped my throat as a fresh wave of agony radiated from my abdomen. The healing spell was working, but the cooling sensation only made the raw nerves scream louder.
It is starting to hurt more and more now that the adrenaline is wearing off. I don't even have my pouch.
"How dare you!!"
The shout cut through everything.
"Huh!" My head snapped toward the sound, my gaze locking onto the source without hiding a shred of the anger boiling inside me.
The blurry figure of the Count stopped dead in his tracks. He shook in place, his bravado vanishing the moment our eyes met, as he took a step back.
"What are you looking at?" His voice snapped. "Get him."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you,"
A genuine warning left my lips. I felt a strange sense of pity. Before I could even finish my words, the knights pulled their swords from their sheaths and rushed toward me. "He doesn't like it when people are mean to me."
Everything collapsed into motion.
Blades met.
A clash rang out, then another, then too many to follow. The air tore with movement, with impact. Something wet struck the ground. A scream cut through, then another, then silence where voices had been.
As the blurriness in my vision finally cleared, I saw a broad figure standing directly in front of me, his back covered in a light sheen of sweat. I peeked around his side and saw a gruesome scene. A pool of blood was already soaking into the ground, surrounding two pairs of severed arms. Two of the Count's knights lay collapsed on the floor, howling, while the remaining two scrambled backward in pure terror.
"... Good work," I said quietly.
Blake offered a short nod and glanced back at me, but his eyes suddenly widened, and I felt his aura explode with a powerful intensity.
"Who do you think you are? Don't you know who I—"
Count Mustache's rant was cut short as Blake raised his sword.
"You are dead."
The words came out low, heavy, filled with something far beyond anger.
"W-what?" The Count stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his remaining knights desperately moved to form a shield in front of him.
Then something splashed across my chest.
A sharp scream left me as the liquid hit the raw burns, the sensation of needles and ice biting into the wound.
Before I could react, a bottle was forced against my lips. Liquid poured in, bitter and thick, sliding down my throat.
I coughed against it, swallowing reflexively.
I looked up to see Granny holding the bottle, her face a mask of cold fury. "Drink."
Her voice left no room for argument.
"Sieg, Does it hurt bad?" Grandpa asked, his large hands resting on my shoulders with a trembling worry that betrayed his calm exterior.
I nodded slightly, the bottle still at my mouth.
Unc stood next to Blake cracking his knuckles.
"W-wait!"
Mustache's voice cracked again, the arrogance replaced by a frantic, realization-filled stutter. "You look like Count Ravenscar... Ah, you must be the rumored second son who killed his instructor and chopped his brother's– N-no, it doesn't matter. Listen to me."
Those words snapped all our attention toward Blake.
Count Ravenscar? I had doubts, but Blake is a noble.
"Me and Count Ravenscar are good friends, we can talk—"
"Like I said, you are dead." Blake didn't even flinch. His voice remained a flat, terrifying line of intent.
"Count, we need to lea–" Before the knight could even finish his plea, a massive wall of wind surged upward, encircling the entire arena. I could see the shining forms of wind spirits dancing within the gale, their ethereal instruments humming a dirge as they conducted the storm.
Three other powerful, familiar mana signatures ignited in the stands like beacons of wrath.
A pillar of flame erupted from the right, devouring the wind, merging with it. Fire wrapped around the storm, turning it into a burning prison.
Ashar.
Sharp whistles tore through the air, followed by the dull thud of arrows finding their marks. The protected arms of the two remaining knights were pierced withl precision, forcing them to cry out and drop their swords into the dirt.
Aifa.
Then came the last.
A presence descended from above, landing with quiet weight upon the arena stands.
Tavian.
"Count Hansen." His voice carried, low and worn, yet filled with something unyielding. "The crime you and your kin have committed cannot be atoned for in a single lifetime."
He turned his gaze toward me, and for a second, I saw the true depth of his loyalty. "The only way you can hope for forgiveness is through death."
He pulled his sword from its sheath, the ring of the steel sounding like the closing of a tomb.
"DON'T YOU PEOPLE KNOW WHOM MY SISTER IS MARRIED TO!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking as his legs trembled violently beneath him. "YOU THINK YOU WILL BE LEFT TO LIVE IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME!"
"Don't worry," Ashar said. His voice and face were completely devoid of the emotions I was used to seeing. He looked like a statue carved from ice. "No one will even know you came here."
"W-what?"
Ashar continued, his eyes fixed on the terrified man. "You and your carriage will be found far away from this barony, ravaged by beasts. A tragic accident on a lonely road."
I gulped slowly at his tone. A chill ran down my spine… I never knew they could be like… this.
Moustache looked around in a frantic search for an escape, then suddenly his eyes stopped on Tavian again. His jaw dropped. "Y-you... I saw you with the head of the Aegis–"
He suddenly turned and looked at me, his eyes wide with a realization that seemed to drain the very blood from his face.
Why is looking at me like that again?
"N-no, I-I didn't know..." he stammered, his voice losing its volume.
"It looks like you have finally realized the depth of your sin," Tavian said, his shadow stretching across the arena floor. "Welcome your deaths."
Blake moved forward, his sword becoming enveloped in a shimmering, lethal sword aura that hummed with power.
"All of you, stop! This is enough already!" Grandpa said, stepping forward with his hand raised to command the room.
But Blake didn't skip a beat, and none of them showed the slightest sign of slowing their advance. They were focused entirely on the kill.
They are ignoring him?
I felt a sharp tinge of annoyance flare up in my chest. I couldn't stand seeing Grandpa's authority dismissed like that.
That's my grandfather.
"Everyone. Grandpa told you to stop," I said. My voice was low, but I didn't bother hiding the deep disappointment cutting through it.
The towering wall of wind vanished as if it had never existed. All three of them stopped mid-motion and turned in my direction. Without a word, they dropped to their knees, bowing their heads low.
"Forgive us, my lord."
The Count stood there, gasping for air, looking back and forth between me and the knights now kneeling.
I stepped forward.
My chest still hummed with the fading heat of the healing potion, but my gaze stayed fixed on him.
"Count Hansen," I said, my voice sounding older than I felt. "If you want to leave this place alive, you will sign that contract."
I shifted my gaze to the witnesses from the Guild. They were quivering in the corner of the stands, clutching their recording crystal as if it were a shield. They knew they had seen things today that could get them buried in a shallow grave.
"And you, your son, and your knights will make a Geas to never tell a soul about what happened here after the duel in any way, not by word, not by writing, not by any means.
My gaze returned to him.
"Because if you do,"
I looked him straight in the eyes, stripping away any hint of childhood innocence.
"We will burn your County down to its last living thing."
The Count opened his mouth, a desperate, pathetic noise catching in his throat.
"And don't even think of hiding behind your sister's name." My voice lowered, sharper now. "Even if your sister and the Duke learn of this… even if they come for us…"
I took another step closer.
"You and your bloodline will already be dead… So, do you embrace death right now, or will you take this lease on life? Personally, I wish you would choose death."
I could feel my lips stretching wide.
"As this way, I will have nothing on my conscience."
A look of pure, unadulterated terror crossed his face, his skin turning a sickly shade of grey. He looked at his broken son, then at the kneeling knights around us, and finally looking back into my eye.
"... I-I will sign it. We will make the vow–I mean G–geas."
"A boring choice, but I guess... a good one for you."
"Wait. There is another condition I would like to add to the Geas," Granny said, stepping up to my side.
"W-what is it?" The count's voice came out weak.
She glanced at me for a brief moment, her expression unreadable, before turning back to the broken noble.
"I will tell you in private."
Her tone left no room for argument.
"Erik, Tavian, Ashar. Come along."
She snapped at the Count's remaining knights, her voice cracking like a whip. "What are you gawking at? Wake those two up and take them to the church along with that child."
The two knights pulled Aifa's arrows out and ran to follow orders.
She turned to Grandpa, her tone softening just a fraction. "Take Sieg to his room. Ask Silvyr to fetch Ridge immediately."
Then, toward Aifa, a simple gesture. "You go with them."
Orders fell one after another.
The knights scrambled, fear still clinging to their limbs. The witnesses hurried away, eager to disappear. The air that had once been thick with killing intent thinned into something quieter, but I felt an unsatisfactory taste in my mouth.