The roar of the crowd rose as the next round began. Sweat poured down Roderick's brow as he charged once more, putting the full weight of his body into every strike. His heavy steps shook the ground, and his blade fell like a hammer of molten steel.
But Gray was no longer the trembling boy who stumbled with every retreat. He had slipped into the rhythm of breath that Kin had drilled into him—steady inhalations, controlled exhalations, movements grounded in focus. His eyes gleamed with a sharpness that hadn't been there before. He no longer backed away in panic, but moved with deliberate precision, like a dancer balancing on the edge of disaster.
The announcer's voice rang across the arena:— "Roderick attacks without pause! But wait… something's changing! Gray isn't retreating in fear—he's standing firm with astounding focus!"
Another thunderous strike came down. Gray shifted aside at the very last instant, and Roderick's blade buried itself into the packed earth. The moment of imbalance was all Gray needed—his sword flashed forward in a counterstrike, scraping across the veteran's chest plate and leaving a visible mark.
The crowd erupted in chaos. Many burst out laughing, dismissing the strike as a fluke.— "A scratch! Pure chance!"Yet others shouted in awe:— "He landed a hit! The boy actually landed a hit!"
Roderick's face flushed red with fury. His grip tightened around his sword as he bellowed:— "You dare, whelp?!"
He doubled his strength, every swing heavier, every movement sharper, his blows carrying the raw intent to crush. Yet with each passing moment, Gray's composure deepened. His eyes stayed locked, his steps sure, his breathing aligned with the rhythm of his strikes. And while Roderick's muscles strained and his breaths grew ragged, Gray still stood firm, unyielding.
The announcer's voice cracked with excitement:— "Ladies and gentlemen! Are we witnessing a shift in this duel? The young challenger dares to turn the tide against the seasoned guard!"
The Royal Box
High above, eyes turned to the royal pavilion, where the king sat upon a temporary throne, his four sons and advisors gathered around him.
Adrian, the eldest, remained silent, chin raised, his cold gaze revealing nothing.
Leon, the second, let out a mocking laugh:— "Just a lucky novice. He won't last."
Darius, the third, folded his arms with a scowl:— "Coincidence. Roderick will finish this soon enough."
Kin, the fourth, smirked faintly, speaking with calm derision:— "Five years in the royal guard, yet he looks sluggish against a boy fighting with the hunger of the desperate. All that experience, wasted against unbroken resolve."
One of the elder advisors shook his head.— "The festival always reveals hidden talent. Perhaps this boy is one of them."
The king said nothing. His piercing eyes followed the match with unwavering focus, his face betraying no approval or disdain. His silence weighed heavier than any words.
Back in the Arena
Roderick's chest heaved, veins bulging at his neck as he snarled:— "Your resistance won't last much longer, boy!"
Gray lifted his head, his breath steady, his gaze hardened into steel. He gave no reply. Instead, he planted his feet firmly in the dirt, calm as stone, and readied himself for what was to come.
The tension reached its breaking point.The crowd screamed and whistled, the announcer nearly breathless as he shouted:— "The duel is blazing hotter than ever, ladies and gentlemen!"
The Decisive Moment
With a guttural roar, Roderick unleashed a final, crushing blow, pouring every ounce of strength into a single, finishing strike.
But Gray was already within his rhythm—breath deep, step precise, counter poised. At the exact moment the blade fell, he slipped aside and answered with a strike of his own.
Steel met steel, and Gray's sword tore through the weakened chestplate, biting deep.
A shocked cry tore from the stands as Roderick froze, eyes wide, before collapsing to the ground, blood staining his armor as consciousness slipped away.
The arena exploded—cheers, screams, disbelief all blending into a storm of sound.
Gray stood amidst it all, chest heaving, sweat dripping, his sword still in hand. He did not simply claim victory—he declared it. Staggering forward, he raised his blade high toward the royal box, voice thundering across the field:— "Victory is mine!"
The audience went wild—some roaring their approval, others crying out in outrage.
Above, Kin couldn't contain himself. A rare smile broke across his face, followed by a low, satisfied laugh as he watched his chosen fighter. At his side, Darius clenched his fists, jaw grinding in silent fury.
And the king… the king remained silent. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, stayed locked on Gray. Silent, unreadable, yet impossibly heavy.
And so the duel ended.In a single clash, Gray—the nameless boy—had become the talk of the kingdom.
End of Chapter