Reinhard stepped onto the arena, feeling the faint vibration of the stone platform beneath his feet. The air carried the scent of sweat, dust, and iron—the unmistakable smell of a training ground where the knights of the Deira duchy honed their skills day after day.
Opposite him stood his opponent—a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair tied back in a low ponytail. A lazy smirk played on his lips, and his eyes gleamed with calm arrogance.
"Reinhard von Deira, heir of House Deira."
Reinhard's voice was steady, confident, but beneath its calmness lay a hidden steel.
His opponent raised an eyebrow slightly, as if mocking the young man's self-assurance. Crossing his arms, he replied:
— "Gerasim de Lincoln, sixth-rank knight of the Deira duchy."
Reinhard's eyes narrowed slightly. Gerasim? The system had registered his name as Silivan. And his class… Knight-Assassin.
That changed things.
If his opponent wasn't just a warrior but a trained killer, skilled in underhanded techniques and deceptive strikes, this fight would be far more dangerous than Reinhard had anticipated.
But retreating was never his style.
Both men stood still, every muscle tense in anticipation of the first move.
Then, as if responding to an invisible signal, they lunged at each other.
A sudden dash forward, a lightning-fast thrust—the clash of blades rang out, sparks flying from the force of impact. Their swords blurred through the air in rapid, precise movements. Feints, dodges, and counterattacks followed one after another in a relentless storm of steel. Their swords whistled through the air, moving so fast that the untrained eye could barely follow the duel.
The spectators around them stood frozen, mesmerized by the battle unfolding before them.
Gerasim was faster than Reinhard had expected. His swordplay was flawless, mixing calculated strikes with deceptive feints, constantly shifting the rhythm of the fight, forcing Reinhard into high alert. Every attack aimed for a vital point—the neck, joints, or unarmored sides.
At one point, Gerasim's sword, coated in battle aura, sliced close, leaving a deep cut on Reinhard's cheek. A thin trickle of blood ran down his face, but he paid it no mind. He immediately countered, his sword flashing forward and tearing through his opponent's armor, leaving a shallow but painful wound on his side.
Gerasim growled, shifting into a more aggressive stance. His attacks became heavier, faster, deadlier.
Then, one strike landed.
Pain flared as the knight's sword cut into Reinhard's side, slicing through fabric and skin. Blood seeped through his clothes.
But Reinhard clenched his teeth and refused to slow down. Hesitation meant defeat.
Taking a deep breath, he adjusted his approach, gradually shifting the fight in his favor. Now, he set the tempo, pressing forward, forcing Gerasim to defend. Slowly but surely, he maneuvered the battle toward its inevitable conclusion.
Gerasim, realizing he was losing control, made one last gamble. He leaped, raising his sword high, preparing a finishing strike.
Reinhard calculated his trajectory in an instant.
One moment.
One chance.
He pivoted sharply, swinging his sword in a powerful arc, pouring all his remaining strength into the attack.
The blade sliced through the air, moving so fast that the very atmosphere shuddered. Then—**with a sickening crunch—**the sword pierced Gerasim's chest, cutting through muscle and bone.
The crowd gasped.
Gerasim froze. His face twisted in a mix of pain and disbelief. His eyes widened, his lips parted as if to speak—but no words came.
His sword slipped from his fingers, clattering against the stone. His body swayed, his knees buckled.
And then he fell.
Reinhard stood over him, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His hands, still gripping his bloodstained sword, trembled slightly. His side burned with pain, but he refused to show weakness.
He had won.