Ludger watched through the haze of heat and sand, eyes narrowing as the two figures blurred and reappeared in flashes of steel and flame.

Each time Kharnek’s club came down, Arslan met it dead-on—timed, deliberate, confident. The swordsmanship was raw, but efficient, refined in real fights instead of drills. He wasn’t the same man Ludger had sparred with half a year ago.

He’s faster. Reads the flow better. Even when he’s bleeding, he keeps his center.

Ludger exhaled through his nose, his usual calm giving way to something that felt uncomfortably like pride.

He’d always assumed that after their last spar, he would surpass his father for good before long. The duel six months ago had made that clear. But now…

Watching him go head-to-head with Kharnek, holding ground against that monster, made Ludger reassess.

When it came to combat—the real thing, not clean duels or controlled tests—Arslan wasn’t a relic. He was a damn warhorse. A man who’d lived long enough to know how to win ugly.

Guess I underestimated you, old man.

The thought made the corner of his mouth twitch, but any trace of quiet reflection was instantly shattered by the ear-splitting voice beside him.

“GET HIM, FATHER!” Viola yelled, both hands cupped around her mouth. “Smash that club right out of his filthy hands!”

She was practically bouncing on her heels, eyes bright with excitement, completely oblivious to the deadly weight of the moment.

A few nearby soldiers flinched at her volume; others just exchanged nervous looks, unsure whether to cheer with her or pray quietly instead.

Ludger sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know this isn’t a tournament, right?”

“Of course not,” she shot back, never looking away from the fight. “But you can’t not cheer! Look at him! He’s on fire—literally!”

Her voice carried across the crowd like a stadium chant. “Don’t you dare lose, Dad! Make him regret picking that ugly stick over a real weapon!”

Arslan, locked in a bind with Kharnek, actually glanced over his shoulder just long enough to scowl in her direction—before ducking under a swing that would’ve crushed his ribs.

Ludger couldn’t help it—he smirked. “She’s going to give him a heart attack before the barbarian does.”

Still, the sound of her voice cut through the tension, raw and unfiltered. It reminded everyone on their side that they weren’t watching some hopeless fight; they were watching their own.

And as sparks flared and shockwaves rolled again, Ludger found himself watching more closely—not just as a tactician or son of a noble house, but as someone genuinely impressed.

If he keeps this up, Ludger thought, maybe I wasn’t wrong picking him as Guildmaster after all.

The next collision didn’t end with a spark—it ended with a blast.

Both weapons met mid-swing, mana and muscle clashing so violently that the air itself ruptured. A shockwave rippled outward, kicking up dirt and gravel, sending the nearest soldiers stumbling back.

Arslan and Kharnek were thrown apart, boots digging trenches into the scorched earth as they slid back several paces.

Both men stopped almost at the same time, chests heaving, steam rising from their bodies like mist over hot stone. Their weapons were trembling in their grips—not from fear, but from the sheer strain of what they’d just endured.

The mana around Arslan had dulled to a deep red glow, licking his armor like dying embers. Across from him, Kharnek’s aura flared erratically, blood seeping down his arms in rivulets that hissed when they hit the ground.

The battlefield stayed dead silent. Every eye was on them.

Ludger could feel it through the ground—the pulse of mana fading, the rhythm of exhaustion setting in. They’re near their limits.

And then, at the same moment, both men raised their weapons again.

Arslan inhaled sharply and shifted his stance, centering his blade before him. His Overdrive flame flickered once—and then roared back to life, wrapping him in a torrent of heat. The sword began to hum, drawing the aura inward, the mana in his body concentrating toward the edge like a river forced through a single point.

His voice was low, steady. “Let’s finish this.”

Ludger recognized that tone instantly. He’d heard it once before, six months ago, when Arslan used that same technique on him. A strike that could split through armor, flesh, and even mana barriers if timed right.

The Lion’s Fang. That was the name that Ludger heard after a while, he chuckled at the name making his father surprised since he thought that it was a cool name.

Across from him, Kharnek planted his club into the ground for just a moment, steadying himself. Then he wrenched it free and swung it to the side, muscles tensing until his veins bulged dark beneath his skin. His aura condensed, twisting around his body like a red storm.

His teeth ground together with a sharp crack. The veins at his temple pulsed as his eyes burned with pure rage—and yet, there was no loss of control. His fury was cold, disciplined, weaponized.

“What in the—” one soldier muttered under his breath. “He’s not even human anymore.”

Ludger’s fingers twitched. The pressure pouring from Kharnek was heavy enough to make his mana sense flicker. It wasn’t magic in the usual sense—it was something primal, ancient. Bloodline power, perhaps. A technique born from generations of surviving by strength alone.

Kharnek’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. “You fight well, swordsman… but I was born from war.”

I thought he would say that Dad just adopted the war while he was born in it.

Arslan tilted his head slightly, sweat rolling down his cheek. “Good. Then you’ll understand this.”

They moved— and most eyes couldn’t follow.

One instant, Arslan and Kharnek stood twenty paces apart, both crouched low, the next, they vanished in a blur of motion. The air cracked from the sheer speed, a thunderclap born not from sound but pressure.

BOOM.

Steel and iron collided with a force that defied reason. The explosion of impact tore through the field, hurling dirt, smoke, and bodies backward. Hundreds of soldiers—Imperial and barbarian alike—were thrown off their feet, shields rattling, helmets torn away by the shockwave.

Those who stayed standing did so barely, arms raised against the blast of wind and sand. The banners lining the ridge snapped violently, poles breaking under the pressure.

For a second, the whole world went white from the dust and force.

Then—silence.

Every soldier blinked against the haze, struggling to focus on the two dark shapes at the center of the crater.

Kharnek and Arslan stood frozen in place, weapons locked midair. The echo of their clash still hummed in the ground beneath everyone’s feet, a deep, trembling vibration that refused to fade.

Then came the sound— a crack, sharp and final.

The barbarian’s iron club split cleanly down the middle. One half spun upward, turning end over end through the smoky air before clattering to the ground with a heavy, hollow ring.

Gasps rippled through both armies.

When the dust cleared, they saw Arslan’s blade—still glowing faintly red from weapon reinforcement—stopped just a few centimeters from Kharnek’s shoulder.

The warlord hadn’t moved. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He simply stood there, chest rising and falling slowly, his one remaining hand gripping the broken haft of his weapon.

Sweat and blood rolled down his face, but his expression stayed steady—almost calm.

Arslan’s arm trembled faintly, the edge of his sword humming from residual energy, flames dying out around him. The effort had burned through everything he had left.

Ludger exhaled slowly, his pulse pounding in his ears. It’s over.

The field was dead quiet now. Even the wind seemed afraid to make a sound.

Kharnek looked down at the shattered remnants of his weapon, then back up at Arslan. For a moment, neither man spoke.

Then the barbarian gave a low, rough laugh—deep and tired, but not bitter. “Heh. You’ve got fangs after all.”

And with that, he released his grip, letting the broken half of his club fall to the ground.

Kharnek stood motionless for a moment, head lowered, staring at the broken remains of his club. The red haze around him began to fade, his breath slowing from furious bellows to heavy, ragged draws.

Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to Arslan. The faintest grin tugged at his cracked lips. “Go on,” he rasped, voice hoarse but steady. “Do it while I still have a weapon in my hand.”

Arslan blinked, still catching his breath, the edge of his sword wavering slightly from the sheer exhaustion burning through his limbs. “No,” he said flatly.

Kharnek frowned. “You won. You take the head of your enemy—that’s how this ends.”

“You lost,” Arslan replied, lowering his blade until its tip touched the dirt. “That’s already the end.”

Kharnek’s jaw clenched. “You think mercy means anything to us?” His voice cracked, booming across the field again. “You think my people will live with this? Driven off again, humiliated in front of the ones who stole our home once already?” His chest heaved, veins still pulsing under his skin. “We’ll take it back or die trying. That’s the only choice left.”

For a moment, Arslan said nothing. His sword trembled once, then he stabbed it into the ground and stood tall, wiping blood and sweat from his face. “Maybe that’s what you used to believe,” he said quietly. “But you don’t have to keep losing everything just to prove you can still fight.”

The field went utterly silent again.

Ludger’s boots scraped over the dirt as he approached, flanked by Viola and the others. His expression was unreadable, his tone calm but firm as he spoke.

“All right then, you’ll listen to our terms.”

Kharnek turned toward him, eyes narrowing. “You?”

Ludger didn’t flinch. “The battle’s over. You’ve proven your strength—no one here doubts it. So here’s how this ends without another drop of blood.”

He gestured toward the cracked horizon—the direction of the labyrinth that had caused this entire war. “You and your people will retreat there. The land until the labyrinth becomes your new territory for now. You’ll guard it, live there, use it—but not alone.”

The warlord’s brows furrowed, confusion cutting through the fury. “Not alone?”

Ludger nodded once. “The Lionsguard will share it. Equal rights, equal risk. Whatever lies in there, you’ll protect it together. You’ll stop being our enemies and start being something else.”

A few gasps broke from the soldiers standing nearby, whispers spreading fast, but Ludger’s voice didn’t waver.

“And as for you,” he continued, meeting Kharnek’s gaze directly, “and five of your warriors—you’ll stay here. In this border town. You’ll join the Lionsguard.”

The words hit the battlefield like a thunderclap.

Even Viola blinked in surprise, though her grin quickly followed. Arslan just exhaled through his nose and gave a faint nod.

Kharnek stared at Ludger for a long time, silent, as if weighing the truth behind his words.

Finally, his voice came out low. “You’d have me fight alongside the people who killed my kin?”

Ludger’s tone stayed cold. “You’d have us keep fighting until we burn the rest.”

The wind picked up again, scattering ash and dust between them.

Slowly, Kharnek looked down at his broken weapon, then back to Arslan and Ludger. The fury in his expression didn’t fade—but beneath it, something else flickered.

Kharnek’s laugh was a low, bitter thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You ask me to bury my hatred?” he snapped, voice like gravel. “You ask me to live under the same sky as those who hunted my people, who drove them out and starved them? I would sooner gouge my own eyes out.” He spat into the dirt. “You made us animals. We were butchered and chased for five hundred years. You think I can shake that off because a boy with a wall and a promise says so? No. I will make the Imperials pay. One way or another.”

Around them, a ripple of uneasy murmurs ran through the ranks. Old wounds don’t go quiet just because someone raises a sword—especially not those salted with generations of grief.

Ludger looked at Kharnek for a long, level moment. The dust clung to the warlord’s hair. Blood still streaked his arms. He smelled of iron and smoke and an old animal anger that had fed itself for centuries.

He shrugged, slow and deliberate. “Then you’ll die trying,” Ludger said without heat. “You can make the dead pay until your throat gives out, but what will that change? The men in armor who took your fields are dust in the earth already. The merchants who grew fat off war—dead. The nobles who signed the laws—dead. You can kill their children and their children’s children, and the ledger still reads the same.” He tapped the ground with one finger, like a man making a ledger entry. “Death doesn’t settle accounts. It just makes more debt.”

Kharnek’s jaw worked. “So you say we should—what—forget?”

“No,” Ludger replied. “Remember. Teach. Use what you have now to make sure you don’t lose again. You’ve bled a long time, and you’ve bled bravely. But bleeding alone didn’t win you your land before, and it won’t now. You keep doing the same thing—the raids, the revenge—then five hundred years from now you’ll be telling your children the same story you tell now. You’ll have honored the dead with more dead, and nothing will be different.”

Arms crossed, Viola didn’t hide her contempt, but even she listened. Arslan’s face was unreadable; he’d seen enough history’s teeth to accept pain as a teacher. Around them the Torvares troops shifted, not out of agreement so much as the need to hear the last word.

Kharnek spat again. “You speak like a merchant, boy. You want deals and walls. What is honor then? What is dignity if not blood?”

“Dignity,” Arslan said quietly, stepping forward so his voice carried, “is not only how you die. It’s how you live afterward. If you make war every season, you will always live like the hunted. If you make peace on terms you can enforce—if you take a place and hold it and fill it with your children and your laws—then you aren’t living in the shadow of their sieges anymore. That’s power. That’s dignity.”

Kharnek’s eyes hardened. He looked to his men—scarred faces, a few nods, a few clenched fists. He thought of the labyrinth at the border: dark, dangerous, a prize that no one had learned to share. He thought of fires he’d set and bodies he’d buried and of the taste of victory that always slipped through his fingers.

“You speak of living,” he finally said, voice low. “And I hear reason. Not mercy. Not surrender.” He stared back at Ludger. “If we stay with the labyrinth and guard it, we will be at your side when the next lord comes to covet it. We will be your hand, not your dog. We will make our own laws there. We will not beg for scraps.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed. “Then stop acting like you’re owed the world for what your grandfathers suffered. Act like you’re owed it because you can take care of it now. Teach your young to fight smarter, not just harder. Train them to hold ground, to build, to bargain. Five hundred years of killing didn’t give you home. Learning how to hold one might.”

Silence stretched. The barbarians looked at their commander. The Imperials looked at their generals. Only the dirt muttered as the wind shifted.

Kharnek spat one last time, then nodded a fraction—small, begrudging. “We will guard the labyrinth. We will share it, but not be your servants.” His tone left no doubt: the agreement was a war-weary truce, not friendship.

Viola barked a short laugh, half relief, half triumph. “Fair enough,” she said, loud enough for both camps. “You get a place to be savage in peace. We get fewer people trying to burn down our market. Everybody wins.”

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