Unlike the previous match, where the fighter with the larger weapon had launched the first attack, this time it was Rudo who dashed in, leading with a powerful swing.
Ezekiel responded with surprising calm, effortlessly parrying the blow by simply lifting his oversized sword.
Rudo didn't let up. He unleashed a relentless flurry of strikes, each swing more aggressive than the last. Yet, Ezekiel didn't budge from his original position—each attack was met with a smooth, precise block, as if he'd done this a hundred times before.
Frustration began to show in Rudo's movements. He swung wider, faster—until finally, he overcommitted.
One wide arc missed its mark entirely.
Ezekiel stepped back at the perfect moment, letting the momentum carry Rudo off-balance and leave his side completely exposed.
With a quiet breath, Ezekiel stepped in and swung—not with the edge, but with the flat of his massive blade. The blow struck Rudo square in the ribs, sending him flying backward.
Despite the impact, Rudo managed to right himself mid-air, landing with a hard skid just before the boundary chalk line.
He let out a strained breath, coughed once, and wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. "I guess you're pretty strong."
Ezekiel didn't answer. His stance shifted slightly, weight centered, blade lowered but ready. He wasn't underestimating Rudo—he simply didn't need to speak when his sword did it for him.
Rudo growled and surged forward again, this time feinting left before pivoting into a tight spin, aiming a low slash at Ezekiel's legs.
It was a good move—quick, precise.
But it still wasn't enough.
Ezekiel took a single step back and raised his sword in a short, vertical arc. The massive blade knocked Rudo's strike aside with a clang, sending sparks flying. Before Rudo could recover, Ezekiel turned the motion into a follow-through, spinning and using the flat of his blade to hammer into Rudo's chest with punishing force.
WHAM!
Rudo flew backward and hit the ground hard, rolling twice before coming to a stop flat on his back, breath knocked clean out of him.
A tense silence fell over the crowd.
Still within bounds.
Rudo groaned and tried to push himself up on shaking arms. His knees trembled as he made it to one foot. But then he wobbled, staggered... and fell to one knee, panting heavily.
The invigilator stepped forward and raised his hand.
"Enough! The match is decided—Ezekiel wins!"
A smattering of applause echoed through the courtyard. Some of the crowd looked stunned. Others nodded with quiet respect.
Rudo gave a dry, almost sheepish laugh as he looked up at Ezekiel. "I really thought I had you with that last one."
Ezekiel offered a small shrug. "You lasted longer than most would've."
The two locked eyes for a brief moment—mutual respect forged in the clash of steel—before Rudo was helped off the field by one of the assistants.
Jordan, watching from the side, exhaled slowly. That was the second time Ezekiel had barely moved during a fight and still came out on top.
He was starting to realize something.
Ezekiel wasn't just strong.
He was terrifyingly efficient.
And Jordan's turn was coming up fast.
The next few matches passed in a blur of clashing steel, bruised egos, and impressive displays of strength. Some fights ended in seconds. Others dragged on with desperate swings and narrow dodges. The air in the courtyard was thick with adrenaline and dust.
Jordan watched carefully, mentally cataloging the strengths and weaknesses he saw. Some contestants relied entirely on brute force. Others had technique but lacked stamina. A few clearly had nerves rattled by the crowd or the pressure.
Then, finally, the burly invigilator raised his voice again, glancing down at the next names on his parchment.
"Jordan and Brynn Halder! Step into the ring!"
A ripple of curiosity moved through the crowd.
Jordan felt a dozen pairs of eyes land on him as he stepped forward, adjusting the dagger on his belt. He could hear whispers:
"Isn't that the guy with Miss Elysia yesterday?"
"Thought he was a noble…"
"No way, he's taking the test with us?"
His opponent, Brynn, was a stocky man with short black hair and a pair of curved short swords resting at his hips. His confident smirk suggested he'd noticed the murmurs too—and didn't care much for them.
Jordan stepped into the circle, heart steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest. He wasn't as strong as Ezekiel. He didn't have years of training like the others.
But he had survived more than a few close calls lately—and he wasn't about to fold under pressure.
The invigilator gave the signal.
"Begin!"
Brynn wasted no time. He rushed in with both blades, crossing them for a sweeping slash aimed at Jordan's chest.
Jordan ducked low, his body reacting on instinct, and rolled to the side. He drew his dagger in one swift motion and backed away, trying to get a read on his opponent's rhythm.
Brynn pressed the attack—fast, aggressive. One blade came for Jordan's side, the other for his thigh. Jordan parried one, twisted away from the second, and barely avoided a third that sliced through the air near his face.
He wasn't winning yet.
But he wasn't losing either.
And sometimes, that was enough to start turning the tide.
Brynn's blades were like twin streaks of silver, dancing through the air with relentless precision. He came at Jordan with a swift spin, slashing one blade at neck level while the other cut low for the legs.
Jordan jumped back—barely—and felt the rush of wind graze his throat.
The crowd murmured at the close call.
Brynn grinned, clearly enjoying himself.
"Fast," he said. "But not fast enough."
Jordan didn't answer. He had no witty retort. He was too focused on breathing, on moving, on staying alive.
Brynn came in again, slashing high and low, switching angles in erratic patterns. Jordan blocked what he could, dodged what he couldn't, and quickly realized he was being tested—toyed with.
Brynn wasn't trying to win quickly. He wanted to wear him down.
But that was a mistake.
Jordan had run twenty laps that morning. He'd been training with Sir Cedric's brutal routines for weeks. His lungs were burning, yes, but they still had fuel. His legs ached, but they could go further.
Brynn swung again. Jordan stepped in—not out.
He let the blade scrape across his shoulder guard as he ducked under the second strike, coming up with a sharp elbow that caught Brynn in the ribs.
The crowd gasped.
Brynn staggered back, more surprised than hurt. "You're reckless."
Jordan spun the dagger in his hand. "I'm tired of running backward."
Brynn's smile returned, but it was tighter now. He lunged—harder this time, aiming to end it with a clean double thrust.
Jordan blocked the first strike, stepped sideways to avoid the second, and slammed his shoulder into Brynn's chest. It wasn't clean, but it threw the man off balance.
Jordan pressed the advantage.
He started circling, moving faster now—ducking low, jabbing with the dagger, always forcing Brynn to pivot and adjust. His smaller blade meant less reach, but it also meant more control, quicker angles.
The pace shifted.
Brynn's attacks lost rhythm. His slashes grew wider, his footwork sloppier.
From the sidelines, Ezekiel folded his arms, his expression unreadable—but his eyes had narrowed slightly, watching Jordan more closely now.
Brynn tried another flurry, but Jordan had already slipped past his guard. He caught Brynn's arm mid-swing and dragged it down, twisting his body into a clean shoulder throw.
Brynn hit the ground with a heavy thud, the breath knocked from his lungs.
Jordan didn't go in for a strike—he backed up, dagger ready.
Brynn pushed himself to his feet, slower now, a bit dazed. His stance faltered.
The invigilator stepped forward, watching closely.
Brynn rushed again, desperation creeping in. He went for a final strike—both blades coming in a scissor motion.
Jordan ducked low and swept his leg out.
Brynn's feet left the ground. He crashed down again—this time, just a foot short of the chalk line.
He groaned, tried to rise—
"Stop!" the invigilator barked.
Brynn froze mid-motion. The large man walked into the ring, glancing at the scuffed chalk line and Brynn's trembling arm just barely out of bounds.
"Match over. Jordan Carver wins."
A wave of surprised murmurs washed over the crowd.
Brynn blinked, then let out a breathless laugh. "Damn… I thought you were just some pampered noble."
Jordan offered him a hand. "You and everyone else."
Brynn accepted it, chuckling through the pain.
Jordan glanced toward the sidelines. Ezekiel gave him a single nod before turning away, just as the next names were called.
And as Jordan stepped off the dueling ring, the adrenaline faded—replaced by the ache in his shoulder and the weight of what tomorrow would bring.
By the end of the day, only forty-seven of the original group remained. Both Jordan and Ezekiel had passed—each winning their second duel against different opponents. It was a grueling set of matches, but necessary.
As the burly invigilator had reminded them, "You have to adapt to different opponents. It's not always about strength. It's about how you think on your feet."
Jordan took those words to heart.
His second match had pushed him in a different way than the first—facing a defensive fighter who forced him to control the tempo and wait for small openings rather than rely on stamina alone. It wasn't easy, but he adapted—and that was enough.
Ezekiel, ever composed, had made his win look effortless. Still, when their eyes met briefly after the matches, there was mutual respect in the shared glance—acknowledgment between two fighters who had earned their place.
Now, all that remained was the field test tomorrow.
And Jordan was more determined than ever not to waste the chance he'd been given.
-------
The group of successful candidates—forty-seven in all—were abuzz with energy, some already bragging about their victories while others just looked relieved it was over. When someone suggested heading to the nearby inn to unwind, most of them jumped at the chance.
Jordan hesitated.
He didn't have a single coin to his name, and he still wasn't entirely sure how money even worked in this world. But when Ezekiel approached, casually inviting him along, Jordan decided to follow. Even if he couldn't buy anything, he didn't feel like going straight back to the estate just yet.
The inn was warm and lively, filled with clinking mugs, laughter, and the occasional shout from the bartender. Jordan stuck to the edge of the crowd with Ezekiel, who ordered two drinks without even asking if Jordan had money.
When the mug was pushed into his hand, Jordan blinked. "I, uh… thanks."
Ezekiel shrugged. "You're with me. Don't worry about it."
They found a quieter spot near the window, away from the louder adventurers who were already well into their cups.
After a few sips, Ezekiel leaned back and pointed to Jordan's arm. "That tattoo. It's magical, isn't it?"
Jordan looked down at the patterns still faintly glowing under his sleeve. "Something like that. It showed up after a… weapon burned itself into me. A dagger and a stone. I guess it was part of the deal."
Ezekiel raised a brow but didn't press. "Looks like it suits you."
Jordan chuckled, echoing Elysia's words from the night before. "Thanks. Still getting used to it, honestly."
There was a pause, then Jordan leaned in slightly. "How do you fight like that? I mean, no offense, but I wasn't expecting someone your size to swing a sword like it's part of you."
Ezekiel smirked, not taking offense at all. "Elves start training early. My father made sure I could lift that sword before I could even read. After a while, it just becomes natural. You learn to use its weight, not fight it."
Jordan nodded, taking it in. "You ever lose a duel?"
"Once," Ezekiel said, eyes growing distant. "Didn't make the same mistake twice."
The mug clinked as Jordan took another drink. "You're calm when you fight. It's like you already know what the other person's gonna do."
"I watch their eyes. Feet, too. People telegraph more than they think. You just have to listen with more than your ears."
Jordan leaned back, smiling. "That… sounds like something Cedric would say."
"Smart man, then," Ezekiel said with a chuckle.
As the evening wore on, the two sat there talking about weapons, strange creatures, and the differences between their upbringings. For the first time in a while, Jordan felt a little more grounded. Less like a stranger, and more like someone who belonged—even just a little.
---
It was well into the night when Jordan left the inn, the faint scent of ale and roasted meat still lingering on his clothes. The streets were quieter now, lit by the dim orange glow of lanterns swaying gently in the evening breeze. The stone path beneath his feet echoed faintly with each step as he made his way back toward the mansion.
He was halfway through the merchant's quarter when a voice rang out behind him, sharp and pompous.
"You! Stop right there!"
Jordan turned slowly to see a young noble stepping out from the shadow of a narrow alley. Cloaked in deep blue velvet lined with gold trim, the man had a sneer carved into his face and a short rapier strapped to his hip. Two guards flanked him, standing rigid.
Jordan raised a brow. "Can I help you?"
The noble walked forward, chest puffed. "You've been getting quite comfortable lately. I heard you've been walking around with Lady Elysia—laughing, eating, sitting at her table like you belong."
Jordan's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything.
The noble pointed a finger at him. "Don't get any ideas. She might be polite, but don't mistake that for affection. You're nothing more than a passing stray."
Jordan sighed, already turning away. "I don't have time for this."
That was when the noble snapped his fingers.
"Teach him a lesson."
One of the guards stepped forward—a broad-shouldered man with iron-plated gauntlets and a short sword. He cracked his neck, clearly eager.
Jordan didn't flinch. He shifted slightly, his hand brushing the hilt of the dagger strapped at his waist—the one he'd chosen earlier from the armory. He could already feel the subtle surge of energy returning to his limbs, that familiar hum through his veins.
"Last chance," Jordan said calmly, "Walk away."
The guard scoffed and lunged.
Jordan sidestepped smoothly, ducking under the swing of the sword. He pivoted on his heel and drove his elbow into the man's ribs, forcing a grunt from him. The guard recovered fast and swung again, this time forcing Jordan back. The narrow alley limited movement, but Jordan was quicker—his stamina unshaken despite the day's tests.
He parried with his dagger, sparks flying from the clash of metal. With practiced fluidity, he twisted his wrist, disarming the guard, and landed a precise kick that sent the man sprawling back.
The noble took a step back, startled. "You—! You'll regret this!"
Jordan pointed his dagger toward him. "No. You will. If you ever send someone after me again, noble or not—I won't just disarm them."
The noble's expression twisted with a mix of fear and rage, but he said nothing more as he hurried off with his bruised pride and limping guard in tow.
Jordan exhaled, letting the tension leave his shoulders. He slid the dagger back into its sheath and turned toward the mansion once more, disappearing into the night.
---
Jordan passed through the tall gates of the mansion, his steps lighter than when he'd left that morning. Two guards on night duty spotted him and called out.
"Hey! You're back!"
"How'd the exam go?" the other asked, standing up from where he'd been leaning on a spear.
Jordan offered a tired smile. "Passed."
A brief silence, then both guards erupted in cheer.
"Hah! I knew it!"
"That's our guy!"
One of them even gave him a light thump on the back as he passed. "Don't forget us when you're famous!"
Jordan chuckled, shaking his head as he made his way inside. The halls were quiet, cloaked in a calm darkness broken only by the flicker of lanterns on the walls.
When he reached the hallway near his room, he was surprised to see Stacy standing there—carrying folded linens, her hair tied back, and her eyes a little sleepy but alert.
"You're still up?" Jordan asked.
"I could ask the same," she replied, setting the linens down. Her expression softened as she stepped closer. "How did it go?"
He smiled—genuinely this time. "I passed."
Stacy blinked, then broke into a grin. "Really?"
Without overthinking it, Jordan stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. She stiffened for just a second before relaxing, the warmth of the moment settling over them both.
"Thank you," he said softly. "You really saved me."
Her voice was a bit quieter when she replied. "I didn't do much. You did the hard part."
He stepped back, and she gave a little shrug. "Lady Elysia's asleep already. She asked about you earlier, though. Said to let you rest when you got in. Sir Cedric is still out, probably attending to some business."
Jordan nodded. "Alright. Thanks."
Stacy smiled again, more reserved now. "You should get some sleep too. Tomorrow might be even harder."
As he pushed open the door to his room, he looked back at her once more. "Stacy?"
"Yeah?"
He gave her a small, sincere smile. "I'm really glad I met you."
She looked surprised for a moment, then lowered her gaze slightly, her smile still lingering. "Me too."
And with that, Jordan stepped into his room, letting the door click shut behind him. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel proud.