Chapter 43: All In. No Guard.

The space opened around them.

Knights stepped back instinctively, boots scraping hard against the stone as a rough circle formed.

The sound echoed, sharp and hollow, sealing them in.

The air thickened—charged with expectation, with the kind of hunger that only came from men who wanted blood without consequences.

Steel whispered as Guy unsheathed his sword.

He lifted it high, slow and deliberate, letting the metal catch the light. A flourish followed.

It was showy, practiced, and the reaction was immediate.

“Show him!”

“Don’t hold back, Guy!”

“That’s our captain!”

“Drag him back to the streets!”

The cheers crashed over Ezra like a wave.

He didn’t flinch.

Ezra raised his blade and leveled it at Guy, arm steady, stance loose, weight balanced on the balls of his feet.

He didn’t pose. Didn’t perform.

He looked… bored.

’He’s enjoying this far too much,’ Ezra thought, unimpressed. ’As if he wasn’t just pissing himself earlier when I challenged him.’

Guy rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck with a sharp twist, then flexed his grip around the hilt as though making sure everyone saw how strong he was.

His grin spread wider, fed by the noise, by the attention. His eyes never left Ezra.

He wanted fear.

Ezra sighed softly and rolled his eyes. ’He really is doing too much.’

The crowd grew louder, more restless. They leaned in, boots inching forward before remembering themselves. Someone laughed. Someone spat.

Guy took a step forward.

Then another.

Each step was heavy, deliberate—meant to intimidate.

Ezra stayed where he was.

He could feel it building. The tension locked in Guy’s shoulders. The way his grip tightened just a second too long.

The impatience twitching beneath all that swagger. Men like Guy never waited. Waiting meant doubt.

They needed the first strike.

The loud one.

’Any second now,’ Ezra thought.

Guy lunged.

The charge was sudden and violent, all brute force and ego. He came in fast, sword raised high, pouring his weight into the strike—meant to overwhelm, to end it in one decisive blow.

Steel met steel with a violent crack.

The impact tore up Ezra’s arm, the shock ringing through bone and muscle. His boots skidded back half a step, heels scraping sparks from the stone.

The crowd roared.

“Yeah!”

“Go, Guy!”

Ezra absorbed it, jaw tightening—not from pain, but calculation.

’Strong,’ he noted calmly, eyes sharpening. ’Stronger than I expected.’

Guy didn’t stop.

He pressed in immediately, trying to capitalize, driving his blade down again with a snarl—convinced this was the moment Ezra would break.

Ezra adjusted his footing.

And smiled.

Just a little.

Guy grinned when he felt Ezra shift, teeth flashing like he’d just been handed proof.

“There it is!” Guy barked, pressing forward. “Still got it, Captain?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Guy swung—then swung again—each strike heavy, brutal, powered by raw strength rather than finesse.

Ezra met them head-on. Parry. Redirect. Absorb. Steel screamed with every collision, the sound sharp enough to set teeth on edge.

A blow came down harder than the rest.

Ezra flinched.

Just once.

The crowd exploded.

“Did you see that?”

“He made him move!”

Ezra clicked his tongue quietly. ’Annoying.’

Guy saw it and took it for what he wanted it to be.

Weakness.

He surged forward, emboldened, attacks growing wider and faster—reckless. His swings were big, dramatic, meant to impress. Meant to be seen.

Ezra stopped meeting force with force.

Instead, he let his blade slide along Guy’s, redirecting the path of each strike.

He stepped aside at the last second, pivoted smoothly, forced Guy to turn with him. Stone scraped under boots. Momentum pulled Guy just a little too far.

Guy overextended.

Ezra saw it.

And let it go.

’Too early,’ he told himself calmly.

This wasn’t about winning fast. Ezra wanted to feel his body again—to loosen old stiffness, test old instincts. Five years was a long time away from the blade.

Guy snarled and came at him again, unleashing a flurry of blows that finally forced Ezra back another step.

Strength met strength.

Speed met control.

Ezra breathed evenly.

Block.

Step.

Turn.

Guy’s breathing grew harsh, uneven, audible even over the noise of the crowd.

Ezra’s never changed.

Guy swung wide—too wide.

Ezra ducked beneath it, felt the rush of displaced air skim over his head, then drove his pommel into Guy’s forearm with precise force.

Guy hissed, grip faltering as he staggered back a step.

“What?” Guy snapped, shaking his arm, anger flaring hot and sudden. “That’s all you got?”

Ezra didn’t answer.

He adjusted his stance, weight shifting forward this time.

His blade lifted.

This time—

He moved first.

Ezra closed the distance in a blink.

Steel snapped up to meet Guy’s guard, then twisted sharply, redirecting the force instead of stopping it.

Ezra struck low, then high, fast enough that Guy had no time to pose, no time to think.

Only react.

Guy barely blocked the second strike.

“Fuck—”

Their swords locked, hilts grinding together, faces close enough for Ezra to feel Guy’s breath hitched and hot. Panic flickered behind the glare Guy tried so hard to maintain.

Ezra met it with calm eyes. Almost bored.

’Sloppy,’ Ezra thought. ’I knew you’d be sloppy.’

Guy snarled and shoved forward, pouring brute force into the bind, trying to overpower him the only way he knew how.

Ezra let himself give ground.

Half a step.

Then he slid sideways.

Guy lurched forward, momentum dragging him where Ezra was no longer standing. His balance broke for just a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

Ezra’s blade kissed Guy’s shoulder guard, hard enough to jolt his frame, metal ringing sharply without breaking skin.

A sharp breath rippled through the circle.

Guy growled and spun, swinging wildly, anger overtaking sense. Ezra leaned back, the edge missing him by inches, then stepped in and drove a precise strike into Guy’s ribs.

Guy grunted, air punched from his lungs.

The cheers wavered. Voices stumbled into silence.

Ezra advanced.

Not fast.

Not flashy.

Just relentless.

Strike.

Block.

Turn.

He chipped away at Guy’s rhythm piece by piece, forcing corrections, punishing every excess movement.

Every time Guy tried to show off, Ezra answered with steel. Clean. Controlled.

Guy’s breathing turned ragged.

Sweat traced a line down his temple, jaw clenched tight.

Ezra wasn’t even winded.

Desperation crept in.

Guy roared and charged again, movements rough now, uneven, driven by panic instead of pride.

Ezra met him head-on.

Their swords clashed, sparks flaring as Ezra twisted his wrist and knocked Guy’s blade wide. He stepped in close, close enough that Guy froze without realizing why.

Ezra’s sword hovered at Guy’s throat.

Not touching.

Just there.

Silence crashed down around them.

Ezra’s voice was low and steady, meant only for the man in front of him.

“Calm down,” he said quietly. “Or you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Guy stared at him, chest heaving, eyes wide, disbelief cracking through the bravado.

“Think of yourself.”

Ezra straightened just slightly, blade still raised.

He could feel it now.

The hitch in Guy’s breathing. The tremor started to creep into his grip. Fatigue was setting in, slow and ugly, eating away at whatever control he had left.

Ezra could end it.

One clean motion. One decisive strike. He had the angle. He had the reach.

But exhaustion never made men like Guy cautious.

It made them dangerous.

’He’s tired,’ Ezra thought, eyes never leaving him. ’And that means he’s about to do something stupid.’

Guy swallowed hard, chest rising and falling too fast. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the stone. Then he grinned, sharp and desperate, eyes burning with something close to frenzy.

“What’s wrong?” Guy sneered hoarsely. “You slowing down, Captain?”

Ezra didn’t answer.

Guy laughed, the sound cracked and breathless. “That’s it, right? You’re waiting for me to fall over? Hoping I’ll just hand it to you?”

He lifted his sword again, grip tightening until his knuckles went white.

“I’m not done,” Guy growled. “Not even close.”

Ezra adjusted his stance, shifting his weight, blade angling just slightly. His pulse stayed steady, even as tension coiled tight in his spine.

’He’s going to charge,’ he thought. ’All in. No guard.’

Guy’s shoulders dipped.

Ezra inhaled.

They moved at the same time.

Steel flashed. The crowd gasped as both men lunged forward, blades cutting through the air in a blur.

And for a heartbeat, no one could tell who struck first.

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