"Mmm, truly a heroine among women, one who yields nothing to men!"
Duke raised an eyebrow at his remark. Lux, hearing it, quickly explained, "My aunt holds herself to very strict standards, so she tends to expect the same from those around her..."
"I get it. Someone in her position, with so many eyes watching her every move, has little choice but to act that way," Duke replied.
"I'm just a little curious though, what matter could possibly require a Marshal to step in personally?"
As Duke's gaze followed the departing carriage leaving the manor, his eyes flickered with curiosity. Yet instead of dwelling on Tiana's affairs, it seemed far more interesting to tag along with Dylon to the Laurent family's domain.
A duel where the Grandmaster at Arms would face challengers on the bridge, now that promised to be a spectacle worth watching.
"Forget it, no point thinking too much," Duke muttered.
He reached over and tousled Lux's golden hair, earning a grumble of protest. Duke chuckled, "You stay and rest. I'm going to watch the fun."
"Teacher!"
Lux fussed over her messy hair and glared at him in annoyance. Duke just laughed heartily, climbed back onto Ange's carriage, and said, "That's enough. You rest. I'll go with Dylon to see the show."
Ange set off at once, circling halfway around the courtyard statue before heading back the way they came, leaving the Crown Guard estate behind.
At the gates, Dylon Crown Guard was still waiting patiently, showing no sign of impatience.
"Sorry to keep you waiting!"
Duke had Ange halt by his side. Dylon gave Ange an approving glance. "You've trained this shadow wolf well."
"This isn't a shadow wolf, it's..."
Duke started to explain, but then thought better of it. Too much trouble. Better to let them keep their misunderstanding.
"If you say it's a shadow wolf, then a shadow wolf it is."
"Which way to the Laurent territory?"
Once Dylon climbed aboard, Duke asked the route. Dylon immediately pointed, "Their fief lies just beyond the capital's outskirts. If we head straight through the Argent Gate, we'll get there directly."
"Alright."
Duke gave a sharp whistle. Ange lifted his head, then trotted forward, pulling the carriage steadily toward the Argent Gate, retracing their earlier path.
On the way, Duke noticed an arena with warriors queued up outside to register. He asked curiously, "When do sign-ups for the Grand Tournament begin?"
"The preliminaries open in the next few days," Dylon replied. "Any arena will handle registration. First comes the prelims, then the qualifiers, and finally the main tournament."
"And the main tournament?"
"One hundred and twenty-eight fighters. Half are eliminated, then it's head-to-head until a champion is crowned."
"Any requirements for participants?"
Duke pointed at a heavily armored hammer-wielding warrior. "Even dressed like that, he can still join?"
"No problem. But if people treat you like a pack mule and run you ragged, you've no right to complain."
Dylon smirked knowingly.
Duke rubbed his chin. "And weapons?"
"No restrictions. But any wear and tear during combat is your own problem."
"Got it. I'll sign up later."
"You're competing?"
Dylon looked at him in surprise. Duke's scholarly demeanor hardly radiated combat prowess. Veteran warriors could usually size up an opponent at a glance, broad shoulders and arms like tree trunks, or lean bodies coiled with explosive power.
But Duke? With his easy smile, he looked more like a scholar than a fighter.
"I came to the capital intending to join the tournament. Since I'm already here, why back down now?"
Duke shrugged, unconcerned with Dylon's doubts. His plan was simple, fight seriously, win the championship, and shut the mouths of those who doubted his exoskeleton research.
If one scientist could topple the nation's fiercest warriors, then how laughable would their so-called warrior's spirit look?
Talk of perseverance? When cheats exist, effort alone doesn't cut it!
Opening cheats is pure bliss, once you start, you never stop.
This time, Duke would show all of Demacia the true joy of going "full cheat mode."
As they chatted, the bustle of the capital gave way to the calm of the countryside. Children chased one another with wooden swords, farmers toiled in the fields, and women tidied their doorsteps while watching their children play.
It was a living, breathing pastoral painting.
But just ahead, on a bridge spanning the river, sat a cloaked figure. The stranger's entire body was swathed in heavy cloth. Three fingers gripped a strange lamppost laid across his knees, while his other hand slowly peeled a hard-boiled egg. Below, a crowd glared up at him, some men seething with anger.
"Looks like this is the place," Duke remarked.
Ange quickened his pace, pushing through the gathered onlookers beneath the bridge. Though people bristled at the two-headed wolf's presence, the beast's fierce eyes and the Crown Guard crest hanging at its chest quickly silenced them.
No one wanted to provoke such a dangerous creature carrying that emblem.
Dylon dismounted and began questioning the townsfolk, while Duke remained seated, lighting a cigar and observing the cloaked man, Jax.
Beneath his strange mask, Jax nibbled his egg in silence. The heavy cloak concealed his form entirely. Across his lap, the lamppost glowed faintly with gentle firelight.
The Eternal Flame, the very source of his unnaturally long life, burning for over a thousand years.
…
"Mmm..."
After finishing the egg, Jax drew in a long breath. He tasted the scent of sun-warmed crops, the fragrance of freshly turned earth carried on the breeze, the farmland stretching endlessly toward the horizon.
"Ah..."
A sigh slipped from him. Such peace reminded him of a homeland long gone, a nation erased from history.
But memory was of no use. Jax shook off the chill of remembrance. Longing for Icathia only weakened him.
The sun could not warm the scarred, discolored skin hidden beneath his cloak. Perhaps it was better that no one, not even he himself, remembered what his body truly looked like.
A cold wind swept down from the snow-capped mountains. Storms gathered in the distance, spilling rain over unfamiliar fields and homes.
His homeland had almost no clouds, let alone rain.
Maybe the storm would drift south, drenching the bridge's stones. If so, this fight might be more interesting.
For only a warrior who could endure any hardship was worthy to stand at his side against monsters from beyond the world.
"Stand up, creature!"
A soldier in gleaming armor stepped onto the bridge, his sword raised. His voice thundered with authority. "This is no place for you. Leave at once!"
Jax didn't answer. He simply raised one finger, bidding him wait. After finishing his egg, he lowered his mask and rose to his feet.
Now, he took a proper look at his challenger.
The warrior was massive, broad-shouldered, clad head to toe in polished steel. He wielded a one-and-a-half-handed sword, his stern face twisted in disgust.
Jax had seen that expression countless times. It no longer fazed him.
"You look strong," Jax said casually. "Maybe strong enough to chop ironwood all day and still have energy for a bar brawl."
"Don't try to rattle me with words, monster!" The knight raised his blade, taking the standard dueling stance.
Jax sighed. Just another man cut from the same mold.
But a true warrior should break the mold, carve out his own style.
"Monster?" Jax shook his head. Stretching slightly, he regarded the man with a cryptic gaze from behind his mask.
"I could show you a real monster. But I fear your life won't be long enough to tell anyone what you saw."
He spun the lamppost a few times, loosening his shoulders. It wasn't necessary, but after hours of nonstop fighting, it might at least give his opponent the illusion of a chance.
"For Demacia!" the knight roared, lunging forward. His sword cut at a cunning angle, swift and precise.
Jax's eyes lit with interest. A slight shift of his shoulder carried him out of harm's way.
But after that first flash of skill, the knight's strikes became clumsy, predictable, dull.
Jax sidestepped one slash, ducked another, blocked a third. Then he pivoted inside the knight's guard and drove his elbow into the helmet's side.
The steel dented inward with a crunch. The knight dropped to one knee, groaning.
Jax waited, letting him recover from the ringing in his skull. Helm or no, such a blow was never pleasant.
Soon the knight tore off his helmet and flung it aside. Blood streaked his face, but what impressed Jax was the discipline with which he swallowed his anger.
Demacians were people of rules and order. It was good to see some traditions still intact.
For if even that had changed, Jax would see no reason to return here at all.
The knight drew a steady breath, then charged again. Blades flashed like lightning, sweeping and stabbing from every direction.
Jax's lamppost spun and whirled, parrying each strike, turning aside every thrust, hammering back at the knight's arms and legs.
A swift hook swept his foe's legs from under him, slamming him flat. Jax jabbed his lamppost into the man's gut, forcing him to curl up in pain, gasping for air.
"Go down yourself, boy," Jax said calmly, leaning on his weapon. "I've left you your dignity."
His voice was steady, his eyes unshaken, as tranquil as ever.