Konrad had no illusions about winning.
Or, well, he had illusions—but using them would have been cheating.
He didn't feel like revealing his tricks to the crowd, either.
So he rolled his stiff shoulders to warm up, and—
Helena beat him in only five moves. It was so embarrassing that he couldn't help but grumble.
"Yeah, still can't wrap my head around these Knight's Rules thing," he said, poking at the new bruise he earned. "And the only time I ever used a hatchet was when chopping wood."
That one was heavier, though.
It didn't make sense to him. When he fought Welf, Konrad was always faster, but against the princess? He couldn't match her speed, and Helena couldn't catch up with the redhead.
As if they were in a rock-paper-scissors situation. But that—
He had to test it—if only to save face—in a real bout.
"Mind a round against me, Welf?" he asked, shaking off the loss and unsheathing his adamantite blade. The crowd started murmuring right away.
It has been some time since they were training in Eytjangard.
"Oh? With pleasure," the redhead smirked, reclaiming his greatsword, too. No blunt weapons, no strange rules that restricted them. No excuses, although— "Will you use magic?"
That got him thinking. It had to be a trick question.
Tempting as it was—to make his blade invisible and strike from the blacksmith's blind spot. But since he already pointed it out, he would expect it, and even a victory would be worth less.
"Nah, let's do a good 'ol melee," he replied, calculating the risks. "Until one of us yields."
The militia must have already known that Welf was a tough guy.
Losing to him wouldn't harm his public image as much as winning with cheap tricks.
And he had hope. He was more familiar with straight blades than with strange rules. He knew the blacksmith's fighting style, too. Konrad was still fresh after that quick loss, but Welf?
"Whenever you're ready," Bor said, stepping between them, and the crowd got excited.
"No way bossman would lose," one muttered.
"But he's the bossman's boss," another pointed out.
"He's a wizard, the Prodigy of Haiten," a third whispered.
The pressure was real to prove himself.
"Indeed, I'm a wizard, but I won't use magic to make it fair play," he reiterated, nodding at Bor.
The tribesman raised his arm, then dropped it, and Welf kicked himself off the ground.
Again, he was faster than Konrad remembered, but not fast enough.
It took too much time for his blade to gather momentum.
He could work with that, calculate his movements, use the trajectory against him, and duck.
His sword was slower than the hatchet, but the adamantite made it light enough to use one-handed. He had the other to give the tribesman a left hook before following up with a knee.
Welf grunted, his momentum broken, but he recovered fast.
His blade came down from above next, making it even easier to sidestep.
Konrad knew his strengths and weaknesses.
The blacksmith must have been training for a while, even before his bout with the princess.
Showing it or not, he had to be at least a little tired.
The problem was—Konrad still couldn't swing his sword fast enough to make it matter.
He could jab, strike with the pommel, and parry, but not land a hit.
Konrad danced and annoyed him, but a decisive blow was out of reach if he wanted to keep his head on his neck. Welf was swinging wide and hard, his attacks keeping him at a distance.
A draw, as he had expected it—but the blacksmith wouldn't get any more tired than this.
Konrad was out of breath after two minutes, and he couldn't even give Welf a proper bruise.
"Interesting style," Helena noted, her voice almost lost in the cheering around them.
At least his men enjoyed the bout, but he had no idea how they might have seen him. The blacksmith was indomitable but slow, while he must have looked weak in their eyes.
He had to change that—without getting injured, but his options were rather limited.
Welf was already trying to take over the pacing.
When Konrad took a step back, the greatsword launched into another wide swing. It refused to ever stop after that, spinning like a whirlwind made of metal.
His opportunity to get close slipped away.
The redhead was in full control now, and if Welf took a step forward, he had to back off.
That unstoppable blade would've chopped him in half, and it didn't matter if he blocked it.
Adamantite sword or not, it would have broken his bones.
Now, the blacksmith's movements became slow and deliberate. He had no reason to rush.
But if Konrad tried to learn his timing, he'd change it.
Step away? He'd slow down. Approach? He'd speed up. Try to flank? He'd change directions.
And then—right as he concluded that there were no openings—the tribesman attacked.
One swing at the head, and as soon as he ducked, the next one came for his legs.
Jump, and he'd aim for his torso.
The adamantite blade threw sparks as he blocked in the last moment, but the momentum carried on. He flew out of their little circle in the middle of the town square.
But he did not yield.
"Fuck, I'll never get used to this," he groaned, already back on his feet. The recruits made him some space—they had to if they didn't want to get in the blacksmith's wide swings' way.
Defending or stalling weren't an option. He promised no magic, so what he could do was—
He had a backup dagger on his belt. Losing his sword wouldn't have meant a loss.
If he timed it right—
Welf struck, and Konrad lunged forward, too, trying to block the attack.
It was futile, as he had expected it, and his grip wasn't strong enough, either.
The expensive blade flew out of his hand, landing at the recruits' feet.
But his momentum did not break. He was under the greatsword now, in close quarters. He reached for his dagger, and Welf realized too late what he was trying to do.
He must have surprised Helena when he'd let go of his weapon on his own.
But he grabbed Konrad's fist right before the short blade could graze his throat.
"Foiled, again," he gritted out, pushing as hard as he could. The tribesman had to take a few steps back, but didn't trip or bump into anything, no matter how hard Konrad tried.
"Always nice to carry a backup weapon," Konrad groaned, holding on for dear life. "See, princess—losing one's blade doesn't mean the end. We ended up in a draw again."
But he was wrong. Welf—the one unarmed—shifted his weight.
Rather than pushing him back, he'd start to pull, and Konrad lost his balance, falling face-first.
"We're duelling, kid, focus," the redhead warned, rolling him over and stepping on his stomach.
Konrad didn't wear his armor, so he almost spat out his lungs right away.
But he recovered fast.
"And you let go of me," he noted, grabbing his leg and touching the blade to his Achilles tendon.
"Fuck," Welf grumbled, realizing his mistake. "Yield."
And it was over. The recruits cheered; Konrad was victorious—
But that didn't stop the blacksmith from driving a heel deeper into his guts before stepping off.