Moraxus Soul Fragment.

  I knew this item well—too well.

  It was one of the most sought-after Soul Fragments for anyone playing as a barbarian. Both its active and passive skills were invaluable, especially in the early stages of the game. I had memorized every detail about it—the exact boost in strength it provided, the activation conditions for its Frenzy skill, and, most importantly, its weaknesses—It increased the damage taken from wind-element attacks by 80%.

  That single piece of information was why I had accepted this duel without hesitation.

  But it wasn’t just that.

  I also knew the weapon Guz wielded. And, more importantly, I had inside knowledge about Guz himself. Thanks to his loud-mouthed team, I had learned that he only possessed a single Soul Fragment—the very one they had stolen from me when they ambushed me days ago.

  The thought made my blood boil, but I pushed it aside.

  I had already planned my revenge.

  ***

  The real problem was Storm Bolt.

  That skill was a nightmare.

  It had an insanely short cooldown, and worst of all—it was unavoidable. Once it connected, the stun effect left its victim completely vulnerable, allowing Guz to chain together devastating attacks.

  A direct hit meant certain defeat.

  Or at least, that’s what Guz believed. But I had a way to counter it.

  Thanks to the passive I received earlier—Ooborosk’s Mantle—I had a hidden advantage.

  This skill reduced the duration of all negative status effects including stun by 15%. On paper, it didn’t seem like much. But in a fight like this—where a single second could mean life or death—it was the difference between being helpless and turning the tables.

  And so, I had played my role perfectly.

  Every time I got targeted by Storm Bolt, I retreated—not to avoid Guz’s follow-up combo, but to conceal the real impact of the stun. By keeping my distance, I made sure he never realized how short my stun duration actually was. He still believed he had me completely under control.

  And that was why, in the final moments of our duel, I chose not to run when he struck me with Storm Bolt one last time.

  To him, it must have seemed like I had finally made a mistake—like I was about to suffer the full force of his combo.

  I let it hit.

  I let him think he had me.

  “Heh. That’s it. You’re done,” I heard him sneer.

  But the moment the stun wore off, I moved.

  Not to dodge. Not to cast a spell. But to strike back. With raw, unrelenting force.

  The very same strength I had used to slay Ooborosk, the monstrous guardian I had faced before this duel.

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  And in his Frenzied state, with his health already dangerously low, there was no way Guz could withstand a full-powered physical blow from me.

  My fist crashed into him with brutal finality. He flew back, weapon spinning from his grasp, body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

  Silence hung in the air for a heartbeat—then, all at once, a deafening roar erupted from the crowd. The audience burst into thunderous cheers, celebrating the unexpected victory of the underdog who had just pulled off an unbelievable win.

  I could see the druids jumping with joy, laughing heartily as they pointed toward Guz, unable to contain their excitement. Their jubilation echoed through the arena, in stark contrast to the figure of Guz himself.

  His team, once standing proudly behind him, now slipped quietly into the crowd. Their heads hung low in shame, too embarrassed to stand by their disgraced leader. One by one, they vanished into the sea of onlookers, unwilling to acknowledge him any longer.

  I had known this from the start.

  That was why I had gone after this weapon.

  Why I had accepted this duel.

  Why I didn’t hesitate.

  And that… was why I won.

  For Guz, this loss was more than just defeat—it was an insult.

  To be taken down by a druid, a class known for being frail and weak—and not with magic…

  But with a physical strike. Strike that shattered his pride,

  This wasn’t just a loss. This was humiliation. That left a permanent mark on his reputation.

  And no matter how much he raged—no matter how many times he replayed this moment in his mind—he would never erase the memory of being crushed by someone he considered beneath him.

  And that was a lesson he would never forget.

  ***

  The druids swarmed toward me just as I bent down to claim my reward—the StormBreaker. Its polished surface gleamed under the sunlight, crackling faintly with residual energy, as if it, too, was catching its breath after the duel.

  Out of the crowd, Orin was the first to break through, waving both arms wildly in the air like an excited child.

  “There he is!” she shouted with a beaming grin. “Our champion!”

  Behind her, more familiar faces appeared—Riven, Sable, and a handful of other druids I recognized from training sessions.

  And then, from the far back of the crowd, I saw her. Instructor Vallen.

  She walked with deliberate, measured steps—her arms folded, her expression unreadable as always. Her face was calm, too calm. And that usually meant trouble.

  “Erynd, that was incredible!” Sable exclaimed as she reached me, giving my shoulder a hearty slap. “You had me on edge the whole time!”

  Orin rushed up next, her lips pressed into a pout as she crossed her arms dramatically. “You really scared me, you know,” she scolded. Then she broke into laughter and added, “But that was awesome.”

  Before I could reply, Alton threw his arm around my back.

  “Here he is—our hero!” he roared, grinning from ear to ear. Without warning, he nodded at Riven and Fenric.

  “Wait—what are you—?!”

  Too late.

  The three of them hoisted me into the air and tossed me upward like a sack of flour.

  “MIGHTY DRUID!” they shouted in unison as I flailed midair, half-laughing, half-panicking.

  I felt my cheeks burn from the attention, but deep down, I couldn’t deny the surge of happiness swelling in my chest. The crowd around us erupted in cheers, and more people began to gather, calling out my name, patting my back, throwing congratulations from every direction.

  For a moment, I let myself bask in it. The thrill of victory. The joy of being seen. The warmth of belonging.

  But, of course, it didn’t last long.

  “Enough,” came a firm voice that cut through the excitement like a blade.

  Instructor Vallen had stepped forward, arms still crossed, her gaze fixed on me with steely precision.

  “Put him down.”

  The celebration died immediately. My friends obeyed without hesitation, gently lowering me to the ground. A hush fell over the crowd like a sudden gust of wind.

  Vallen shook her head slowly.

  “Erynd,” she said, her voice low but sharp, “you never listen, do you?”

  Her eyes locked onto mine—intense, unwavering.

  “There’s something important I need to tell you,” she continued. Then she turned her gaze outward, sweeping across the gathered druids. “Something all of you need to hear.”