Chapter 107: The White Blade Unleashed
The moment the officiator's hand fell, Vaelis vanished.
A shockwave rippled through the ballroom as displaced air sent gowns fluttering and rattled goblets on the noble tables. Some gasped, others widened their eyes, but none could deny the sheer ferocity of what they had just witnessed.
Steel screamed.
Thalron barely caught the first strike. His instincts, honed through years of discipline and sheer survival, reacted at the last possible moment. His sword met Vaelis’ in a desperate parry, but the impact was brutal—it sent him skidding three paces back, boots screeching against the polished marble.
He’s not just moving faster.
He’s accelerating.
Thalron barely had time to exhale before Vaelis was on him again.
A flash of silver—too fast.
Thalron ducked—just barely avoiding a slash meant for his ribs. He pivoted, swinging wide in a desperate counter—but Vaelis was already gone.
Then—pain.
A sharp sting lanced across his thigh. Another across his arm. A third nicked his ribs.
Thalron staggered back, chest rising and falling rapidly. His grip on his sword tightened. He needed to adjust. To react. To—
Vaelis hadn’t moved.
He stood just outside of striking range, his sword lazily resting at his side. His silver-blue eyes watched Thalron—not with anger, or even arrogance, but something colder. Analytical.
“You were adapting before,” Vaelis murmured, tilting his head. “Why have you stopped?”
Thalron gritted his teeth. He wasn’t stopping. He just—
He couldn’t keep up.
Vaelis exhaled slowly. “Disappointing.”
Then he moved again.
Marcus clenched his fists. This is bad.
He had watched Thalron fight countless times, had seen him go against impossible odds. But this?
Vaelis wasn’t just winning. He was dismantling him.
“He’s not even trying to end it,” Vira muttered beside him, her golden eyes narrowed. “He’s punishing him.”
Marcus forced himself to think. There had to be a way out of this.
His mind raced through everything he knew about Ki-users, dueling, power scaling—anything that could give Thalron a shot.
There had to be a flaw.
A weakness.
A—
Damn. I’ve got nothing. Normally, if I get overwhelmed by a speedster, I switch to Philly Shell... what the hell is Philly Shell for swords?
Another strike. Another desperate parry. Another second away from being completely overwhelmed.
Thalron’s legs burned. His arms ached. His lungs screamed.
Vaelis moved like a phantom—too fast, too precise.
Thalron needed something. Anything.
Then—
Marcus' voice cut through the chaos.
“You’re fighting like a noble!”
Thalron barely registered the words before Vaelis’ blade came for his throat.
No time.
So he did the only thing he could.
He leaned into it.
The crowd gasped.
Vaelis’ blade sliced across Thalron’s jaw—shallow, but enough to leave a red line trailing down his neck.
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But for the first time, Vaelis hesitated.
And in that hesitation—
Thalron moved.
A gust of wind magic propelled him forward. He slammed his shoulder into Vaelis hard, throwing all of his weight into it.
Vaelis’ footwork—once flawless—faltered.
It was barely a fraction of a second.
But it was enough.
Thalron didn’t hesitate. He struck—not with elegance, not with form, but with raw, unrelenting force.
Vaelis blocked on instinct.
The crowd erupted.
Marcus grinned. That’s it.
Vira blinked. “Did he just—?”
Vaelis had dictated every moment of the duel until now. But Thalron had just done something different.
He had broken the rhythm.
He had forced Vaelis to react.
Marcus exhaled, murmuring under his breath, “Smart. He didn’t expect this duel to get messy.”
Vaelis exhaled slowly.
Then—he smiled.
“A brawler, then?” His voice carried a note of amusement now. “Fine.”
But Thalron wasn’t going to let him reset.
He pressed forward.
Not like before—not as a duelist trying to match technique for technique.
He abandoned the idea of fighting cleanly.
Instead, he fought like a man trying to survive.
He stepped inside Vaelis’ range, throwing off his perfect spacing. He pressed against his blade mid-strike, forcing his weight onto his back foot. He disrupted every movement, every exchange.
Vaelis was still faster.
Still stronger.
But now—he was working for it.
The nobles were watching with rapt attention.
This wasn’t what they had expected.
This wasn’t a masterclass in elven swordplay.
This was a fight.
Vaelis’ movements, once effortless, became deliberate. He was still winning, but now?
Now he was fighting.
Thalron, panting, watched carefully.
And then—he saw it.
A brief hesitation.
A fraction of a second.
And he took it.
His blade whipped upward, infused with a sudden surge of mana.
Vaelis twisted—but not fast enough.
Steel met flesh.
A red line appeared across Vaelis’ arm.
Silence.
Then—
Applause.
Real. Genuine.
Not just from House Veylan. From everywhere.
House Ulthar’s smirks had vanished.
Vaelis looked down at his wound.
Then—he laughed.
Not a mocking chuckle.
Not arrogance.
A real laugh.
The officiator raised a hand.
“Third round—Vaelis Il’Theron.”
Thalron exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from his brow.
He had lost.
But for the first time—
Vaelis had to work for it.
The applause didn’t stop.
Respect.
That’s what it was.
The nobles weren’t just watching a duel anymore.
They were watching a moment in history.
Marcus smirked. “You’re still in this, Thal. You gave him a run for his money that round.”
Thalron exhaled, still catching his breath. "Yeah... I've been preparing a little something for the next round.”
Vira grinned. “What is it?”
Thalron smirked.
Marcus glanced at Vaelis.
He stood ready.
Marcus groaned. “Well, whatever it is... I hope it's good.”
The officiator’s voice rang through the ballroom.
"Fourth round—begin!"
Vaelis moved.
A gust of Ki propelled him forward, his speed blurring the air as he closed in on Thalron.
And then—
His foot hit something.
A sigil flared beneath him.
A pulse of icy blue light spread outward in an instant. The trap activated immediately, and a sudden force yanked Vaelis off balance—not enough to throw him, but enough to break his rhythm.
He skidded forward uncontrollably.
Thalron was already waiting.
Steel flashed.
Vaelis barely managed to twist his body, but he wasn’t fast enough—Thalron’s sword cut a clean line across his shoulder.
The ballroom erupted.
House Ulthar tensed.
Vaelis landed smoothly, rolling to regain control. He looked down at his shoulder, silver-blue eyes narrowing.
“A trap,” he murmured.
Then—he smirked.
"Interesting."
Vaelis reset his stance, this time watching the ground.
He shifted his foot slightly—stepped on another sigil.
It flared, the ice magic surging up—
—but Vaelis was already gone. He moved before it could launch him, twisting to the side, dodging another sigil hidden just beneath the marble floor.
But Thalron wasn’t relying on the traps alone.
He stepped onto one himself.
Vaelis’ eyes widened.
In an instant, the ice flared and Thalron was propelled forward.
He turned his body with the momentum, sword already swinging as he shot across the ballroom like a missile.
Vaelis barely had time to raise his blade—
Another cut.
This one across his ribs.
A fraction of a second later, he regained his footing, frustration flickering behind his calm mask. He moved to retaliate—
But something held him back.
He glanced down.
His shadow was frozen in place.
A trap—no, not a trap.
A shadow bind.
His own shadow.
Thalron had grabbed it.
For just a moment—a fraction of a second—Vaelis was trapped.
But that was all Thalron needed.
His sword cut down.
A third line of red opened across Vaelis’ forearm.
The crowd gasped.
House Ulthar leaned forward, tense.
House Veylan smirked, delighted.
And for the first time—
Vaelis' breath hitched.
A flicker of urgency passed through his silver-blue eyes.
A crack in the armor.
Thalron had him.
Vaelis moved. Fast. Desperate. Trying to reset the fight.
But Thalron stalked him.
Like a predator.
No wasted movement. No hesitation. Every step he took was calculated.
Vaelis tried to outmaneuver him.
Thalron read him.
Vaelis tried to create distance.
Thalron closed in.
The White Blade was no longer in control.
He was being hunted.
Marcus grinned from the sidelines. “Oh, now this is good.”
Vira exhaled slowly. “He’s pushing him.”
Vaelis clenched his jaw. Enough.
He moved to counter, to break away—but Thalron was already in motion.
His sword swung—
A fourth strike was coming—
“Time!”
The officiator’s voice cut through the air.
Thalron’s blade halted an inch from Vaelis’ throat.
The entire ballroom froze.
A long, silent breath stretched between them.
Thalron stepped back.
Vaelis inhaled sharply, his grip tightening on his sword.
His arm was bleeding.
His shoulder was bleeding.
His ribs were bleeding.
The White Blade, untouchable for so long, stood wounded.
The officiator raised his hand.
"Fourth round—Thalron of House Kelcrest!"
The ballroom erupted.
House Veylan’s table stood, cheering.
House Ulthar was deathly silent.
Vaelis—stared at Thalron.
Not with anger.
Not with arrogance.
But something far more dangerous.
Realization.
Thalron could beat him.
Vaelis exhaled, rolling his shoulders, blood staining his pristine white sleeve.
And then—
He smiled.
Not a smirk.
Not amusement.
Something sharper.
Something hungry.
Marcus saw it and groaned.
"Ah, hell. Now he’s having fun."
