The silence that followed lasted a heartbeat, then broke in a wave.

Shouting. Cheering. Disbelieving laughter.

Spectators stood from their seats. Some pointed. Some swore. Northerners howled. A handful of judges exchanged baffled looks, unable to decide whether that counted as legal technique or sacrilege.

Renalt stared, expression tightening.

He expected to see strain, or bruising, or uncertainty in the boy’s stance. Instead, all he saw was someone making minor field repairs like the duel was a warm-up session.

And worse, what he’d just witnessed carried an implication Renalt did not like. The boy wasn’t just a martial prodigy. He wasn’t just a high-mana mage. He was a blacksmith.  A real one.

Someone who could mend his own gear mid-combat, sealing damage before it became weakness. In a long duel, that ability alone tilted the fight into absurdity. Renalt’s shoulders stiffened.

Was he truly about to lose to someone who wasn’t even specializing? Someone spreading himself across disciplines that took other people entire lives to master? A fighter, a mage, and a craftsman fused into a single twelve-year-old who had just walked out of an explosion brushing dust off his sleeves?

Renalt’s jaw clenched. His knuckles whitened on the sword. He felt something sour build in his chest, not fear, not hate, but the kind of disbelief that struck deeper than either:

Am I losing to a boy who isn’t even a pure fighter?

Ludger lifted his gaze from his gauntlet. Their eyes met across the arena floor. And the duel, in that instant, felt like it had only just begun.

The crowd noise faded to a dull pressure behind Ludger’s ears. Renalt stood there, rigid, sword raised, breathing a fraction too sharp. The hesitation was microscopic, just a stutter in the rhythm of his stance, but Ludger didn’t wait for a second invitation.

He stepped.

The shift was small, almost lazy, one clean line of motion across the sand. Mana snapped down his frame, clinging like static to muscle and bone. The sun lights slashed across the polished froststeel as he lowered his weight and drove forward.

Renalt barely twitched before Ludger’s fist hammered toward his ribs.

Steel rang out. Sparks skittered. Renalt caught the blow on the flat of his blade, boots dragging across the arena floor, pushed half a step back. He managed to reset his guard, just in time to block the second punch.

Then the third.

Then the fourth.

Each impact landed like a piston firing, clean, measured, brutally efficient. Ludger didn’t wind up or pause to breathe; he simply shifted

momentum from foot to hip to shoulder, knuckles smashing into steel again and again with rising tempo.

Renalt gritted his teeth, arms shaking under the strain as the force drove him backward inch by inch. He tried to counter, blade sliding out to cut, but Ludger was already moving, head slipping aside, shoulder rolling under the swing, fist blasting against the guard a heartbeat later.

The crowd reacted in a wave, laughter, shock, wild cheering, fuel sloshing into the arena’s fire. The nobles stared, offended by how unrefined the assault looked. Northerners roared approval like storm beasts.

Renalt managed to plant his heel against the sand, stopping his slide for a breath. He shoved back hard, blade scraping down Ludger’s knuckles, angling to catch an opening for a riposte… Ludger didn’t allow it.

A surge of sand rippled underfoot, subtle but decisive, shifting the terrain beneath Renalt’s balance. The man blinked, weight slipping, barely, just enough.

Ludger’s next punch hit center-mass, knuckles colliding with plating. Renalt staggered.

Ludger followed. Faster now. A rhythm forming, hit, shift, hit, step, hit, drive…

Mana gathered around his fists, thickening, condensing, no longer just reinforcing but shaping with purpose. Not glowing, not flashy, dense, efficient force. Renalt blocked the next blow, but the blade wavered. The next, his arm dipped. The next, his stance buckled.

Pressure, not pain, flooded his expression. Like the realization that this wasn’t a tempo he could stop. And Ludger, calm as still water, never said a word. He simply moved. Renalt sucked in breath, finally tore open his stance and swung, desperate to seize momentum… Ludger slid inside the arc and drove a punch straight into the flat of Renalt’s second blade.

Steel screeched. The sword bent. The arena gasped. Renalt’s eyes went wide. Then his knee came up like a hammer.

It slammed into Renalt’s gut, folding him. The man hit the ground hard, sliding on his back across the sand, air ripped clean out of his lungs.

The crowd detonated into chaos. Northerners stood, cheering like berserkers. Nobles jolted upright. Guild captains leaned forward in disbelief.

Renalt rolled to his side, coughing, blade scraping grooves through the grit as he forced himself up.

He rose halfway, saw Ludger already closing distance, and panic finally cracked through the man’s composure. He threw himself backward, sword-tip digging trenches in sand, trying to buy seconds he did not have.

Ludger didn’t chase wildly, he simply walked, unhurried, letting momentum rule the arena. His shadow fell over Renalt like a verdict.

Renalt dragged air into his lungs in sharp gulps, forcing his legs beneath him. His dominant sword hung half-loose in his grip, the other lying a stride away in the sand. He stared at it, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused, then reached.

Ludger didn’t move.

He simply waited, posture neutral, chin lowered, breathing even. There was no hurry, no tension in his shoulders, no predatory coil. Just patience.

Renalt’s fingers closed around the hilt of the smaller blade. The crowd surged again, a rumble of speculation and disbelief. Everyone could see how this was going to play out. That sword was built for finesse, speed, technique, none of which could give structural support against raw force. If Ludger punched into that guard again, the metal would fold, or Renalt’s arm would. Maybe both.

But a vice guildmaster couldn’t just kneel, not here, not in front of a roaring capital, rival guilds, and nobles with long memories. Even if it was stupid. Even if his body was screaming. Even if his stance was already broken.

He raised the blade. Ludger stepped in.

No sprint. No windup. Just pure acceleration, faster than before, a blur of mana and motion. Renalt barely had his guard halfway up when Ludger pivoted and drove his foot into the side of Renalt’s knee.

The crack echoed across the arena like a snapped branch.

Renalt’s leg buckled inward. A raw, shocked grunt tore from his throat. He tried to wrench himself back, to brace on his other leg… Ludger crushed that one too.

Another sharp impact. Another ugly crack. The swordsman collapsed, both knees folding beneath him, blades digging furrows into the sand as he slid forward on instinct alone. His breath hitched. His balance vanished. Then he dropped. On his knees. Broken. Silence hit the arena like a slammed door. A thousand voices strangled mid-breath.

The referee, already moving, hurried between them with one hand raised high. His voice wavered, but it carried:

“The duel is over! Winner—Ludger!”

The declaration barely left the referee’s mouth before the arena erupted.

A shockwave of noise rolled outward, cheering, shouting, slamming fists on railings. The northerners turned the stands into a storm, voices booming in rhythmic chants, tankards smashing together and spilling ale down the marble steps. Some stood on their seats, bellowing Ludger’s name like they’d just won a personal war. Others shouted wordless sounds of triumph, raw and animal, carried on adrenaline.

From the noble balconies came a different sound entirely, sharp gasps, confused murmurs, a few clipped exclamations. Many hadn’t seen the exact sequence of events; Ludger had moved too fast, Renalt had collapsed too suddenly. But any spectator, even the ones who missed every detail, could read the aftermath: a seasoned vice guildmaster on his knees, legs ruined, swords limp in his hands, staring at a twelve-year-old boy who stood unmarked and unshaken.

Rumors rippled instantly…

What did he do? A spell?

No, the angle was wrong, was it some kind of pressure technique?

Is that legal?

What’s wrong with Renalt’s knees?

He broke them? No… he must have slipped.

Does that kid even have limits?

Half the crowd didn’t believe what they were seeing. The other half did, and that terrified them more.

On the upper platform, Torvares exhaled through his nose, arms folded against his chest. Shock really didn’t suit him, yet there it was: the faint lift of brows, the line of his mouth pulled tight with surprise.

After a long moment, he nodded once.

“He’s stronger than I thought,” Torvares murmured, voice low enough that only those beside him could hear. “Far stronger. Not just winning… dominating. I expected a victory. I did not expect this.”

There was no concern in his tone… only recalculation. Possibilities shifting. Timelines restructuring. The future twisting into new shape around the boy below.

Beside him, Viola stood rigid, nails digging into her own knuckles as she watched Ludger. She’d seen every strike, every movement… her eyes trained enough to follow where most couldn’t… and that only made it worse.

Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. Ludger looked so calm walking away from Renalt. So steady. So unreal. Despite the years she had on him, despite the training, despite the effort she poured into catching up, he kept growing. Faster. Farther. Every time she blinked, he seemed to take another step away.

Not just stronger than her. Not just stronger than the capital expected. Something else. Something rising. She bit harder into her nail, swallowing the mix of pride and dread.

Her younger brother, was on a path she couldn’t follow. And everyone in the arena, whether they understood the details or not, could feel it: This duel wasn’t just a win. It was a warning.

The referee’s voice cut through the noise like a bell struck underwater—clear enough to command attention, shaky enough to betray the chaos beneath it.

“The arena will prepare for the next duel! Will the next participants make ready!”

Assistants rushed onto the sand. Two of them knelt beside Renalt, lifting him by the shoulders, careful with the legs twisted at brutal angles beneath torn trousers. His swords clattered aside as he was guided off the field, face blank, eyes hollow, spirit crushed under the weight of humiliation more than pain.

But while movement swirled around him, Ludger did not leave.

He stood exactly where he had ended the fight, center of the arena, arms crossed over his chest, breathing steady, gaze fixed on some distant point the crowd couldn’t see.

At first, the spectators assumed he hadn’t heard the announcement. That he was simply stunned or waiting for someone to retrieve him. But the seconds stretched, five, ten, fifteen, and confusion rippled outward like a widening ring in water.

Whispers. Pointing fingers. Raised voices. Then, realization hit.

Ludger wasn’t walking away. He wasn’t stepping out for celebration. He was staying. Waiting. For the next opponent.

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