Luke studied the man before him. If he ignored the scar and added a bushy beard, the guy could have been Master Boyd, his instructor from the Academy in Clayton City.

  “I am Luke Drakon,” he said, his tone even. “May I ask your name in return?”

  “I am Riann Boyd, Master of Arms for Ralis,” the man replied, his deep voice steady. “The King has tasked me with overseeing your match against Michael Ring.” His expression remained unreadable.

  Luke nodded thoughtfully. If word of the match had already reached the King, it wasn’t surprising that he had sent someone to supervise it. Judging by Riann’s demeanor, the man had no intention of interfering.

  As expected, even the King was powerless against the traditions of single combat.

  “I assume the King wishes to see me after the match?” Luke asked casually.

  Riann gave a curt nod. Like Master Boyd, he seemed to treat words like precious commodities. Luke wouldn’t be surprised if they were related—they shared the same family name, after all.

  Meanwhile, the crowd continued to gather in the stone seating encircling the arena. The structure itself was massive, at least the length of a basketball court back on Earth. A raised stone platform stood at its center, with staircases at every cardinal direction.

  The design ensured that every spectator had an unobstructed view of the combatants. But that led Luke to question why such an arena existed in the first place. Single combat challenges weren’t common—certainly not outside the military. Did that mean it served another purpose?

  Before he could dwell on it further, a sudden cheer erupted from the crowd, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked up.

  Michael Ring had arrived.

  The young man strode up the stone steps, stepping onto the arena platform. He was dressed in tight-fitting, finely tailored robes that accentuated his athletic build. From his polished appearance and the crowd’s reaction, it was clear he held considerable influence within the academy.

  Luke exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He was confident—but was it misplaced? After all, he had barely wielded a sword before. And, as Kayson had pointed out earlier, the few times he had… left much to be desired.

  A firm hand landed on his shoulder.

  “Calm yourself, young master.” Sebastian’s voice was steady, reassuring. “Trust in your training and keep a level head. I have faith in you.”

  ‘Sebastian…’ Luke turned to his butler. He could always count on this man.

  “He’s right, brother,” Kayson added, placing a hand on Luke’s other shoulder. “That guy will probably try to humiliate you in the arena. As long as you don’t do anything reckless, you have a chance.”

  Luke wasn’t sure whether to laugh or punch his friend. The way Kayson phrased it made it sound like his chances of winning were slim at best. So much for confidence in his swordplay.

  Of course, he couldn’t blame Kayson. His friend had only ever seen him struggle during Master Boyd’s physical training lessons. If he knew about Luke’s system rewards, he might think differently.

  ‘I should probably figure out a way to explain my abilities to them,’ Luke mused inwardly.

  Just as he was about to step forward, he felt another hand—this time on his head. Judging by the size, it belonged to a woman.

  “You can do it, young master,” Victoria’s sweet voice reached his ears, sending a shudder down his spine.

  “V-Victoria… Is there a reason your hand is on my head?” Luke asked, slowly turning to face her.

  She tilted her head. “Your shoulders were taken… Did you wish for me to touch you elsewhere, young master? How very scandalous of you.” She giggled softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Luke’s shoulders trembled as he fought to maintain his composure. Behind him, Kayson and Sebastian were already laughing—no doubt enjoying his reaction.

  “It is time,” Riann announced, his deep voice cutting through the moment. He gestured toward the arena.

  Luke exhaled and nodded, shaking off the lingering effects of Victoria’s teasing. He turned to the others and smiled. “I’ll be back soon.” With that, he strode toward the arena.

  Despite his months of training with Kayson, Luke still looked small next to the towering Master of Arms. He had gained some muscle, but four months wasn’t enough to transform his physique. At seventeen, his body still had room to grow.

  But Luke saw things differently. The smaller he was, the harder he was to hit—whether in single combat or on the battlefield.

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  As he climbed the steps, jeers erupted from the crowd. By now, the entire Royal Academy likely knew he was a commoner. In their eyes, this match was nothing more than his execution.

  Luke paid them no mind. These noble scions weren’t worth a second thought. He had already faced the horrors of war—standing before a single opponent in a controlled setting was nothing in comparison.

  His gaze locked onto Michael Ring, standing fifty feet away. With his Eagle Eye, Luke could make out every detail—the sneer twisting the young man’s handsome face, the arrogance in his eyes.

  “Silence!” Riann Boyd’s deep voice sliced through the noise like a blade. The arena fell into a tense hush.

  “Michael Ring has challenged Luke Drakon to single combat,” Riann declared. “The match has been sanctioned by His Majesty, King Julius. The winner will be decided only upon the death of their opponent.”

  A ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd at the mention of death. Bloodshed was entertainment to them.

  Riann turned to Luke. “As the one challenged, you have the right to choose the weapon. Make your choice.”

  Luke didn’t hesitate. His voice rang out, steady and confident.

  “I choose the sword.”

  “So you’ve chosen death.” Michael sneered, his lips curling in amusement. He let out a long peal of laughter, echoed by a portion of the audience. “Don’t you know I’ve been the Academy’s fencing champion for the past two years?”

  Luke remained unfazed. At most, Michael was nineteen. Just what kind of accomplishments could he possibly have in the art of the sword?

  “Enough,” Riann’s voice cut through the laughter like a blade, low and dangerous. “The time for talking is over. From this moment on, your weapons will do the speaking.”

  He turned and gestured to the figures standing at the foot of the stairs. At his signal, they ascended the steps, each carrying a different sword.

  The four attendants stopped in front of Luke first, presenting their weapons. Luke studied them carefully. He wasn’t sure which would be best.

  To his untrained eye, the only noticeable differences were length and design. There was undoubtedly more to it, but for now, that was all he had to go on.

  ‘I should probably go for the lightest one,’ he thought, scanning the options. Eventually, his gaze settled on a plain-looking short sword. Unlike the others, it lacked any unnecessary embellishments or adornments.

  The moment he took hold of it, he was surprised. The weight was balanced—far superior to the training weapons he had used before. Even compared to the crude blades he had wielded on the battlefield, this one was expertly crafted.

  ‘This is a good blade…’ he mused.

  On the other side, Michael selected his weapon. As expected, he reached for the most ornate blade. Gold inlaid into the guard shimmered under the afternoon sun, making it as much a statement piece as a weapon.

  With both combatants armed, the attendants withdrew, returning to their posts at the foot of the stairs. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd, the tension thick in the air.

  “The single combat between Michael Ring and Luke Drakon will begin on my mark,” Riann announced, his voice carrying over the arena.

  He raised his hand, his gaze shifting between the two fighters. The moment stretched, heightening the crowd’s anticipation.

  Then—

  “Begin!”

  Yet neither Luke nor Michael rushed forward.

  Luke tightened his grip on the sword, his right hand steady as he circled, slowly inching toward his opponent. He had confidence, but this was still a battle to the death.

  A single mistake could cost him his life.

  The sword in his hand felt… familiar. As though it were an old friend, returned after years apart. Its weight, its balance—it felt like an extension of his own arm.

  Across from him, Michael sneered. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you going to attack?” He flourished his blade, the movements smooth and practiced. It was clear—he had real experience with the sword.

  The crowd jeered, laughing at Luke’s hesitation.

  Yet even with the provocation, Luke remained still. He wasn’t about to rush in recklessly.

  He needed to gauge his own ability first.

  This was not a fight he could afford to lose.

  “How boring.” Michael sighed, his voice laced with disappointment. “I was hoping you’d either charge in like a fool and die or drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness. I guess I’ll have to make the first move.”

  The moment he spoke, Michael lunged forward, aiming to skewer Luke’s stomach in a single decisive thrust.

  Instinct took over. Luke sidestepped to his right, narrowly dodging the strike with effortless precision.

  ‘Holy crap…’ His eyes widened in surprise. Even he hadn’t expected to evade the attack so smoothly. But what shocked him even more was his positioning—his sword was already in place, the perfect angle for a counterattack.

  But, he hesitated. Not expecting to be in such a position, Luke was unable to capitalize on his advantage.

  That brief moment of hesitation cost him. Sensing danger, Michael quickly retreated, putting distance between them. A flicker of confusion crossed his face before his sneer returned.

  “So, you do have some skill,” he mused, amusement creeping into his tone. “Let’s see if you can keep up with real speed.”

  Michael lunged again, this time aiming directly for Luke’s heart.

  Luke raised his blade to parry—but it was a feint.

  By the time he realized it, Michael had already spun his body, redirecting his strike into a backhanded slash toward Luke’s shoulder.

  Luke ducked, his heart pounding. The sword whistled through the air just inches above his head.

  His mind raced. This was nothing like his duel in Valand City. Back then, he had relied purely on instinct, but Michael’s swordplay was something else entirely—precise, ruthless, deadly. His feints were almost indistinguishable from real strikes.

  And he wasn’t letting up.

  Michael pressed forward with relentless aggression, every swing carrying the promise of death.

  The sharp clang of metal rang out across the arena as they moved in a lethal dance. Luke barely managed to keep up, dodging and deflecting where he could, but the pressure was suffocating.

  Then—pain.

  A sharp sting erupted in his upper arm as Michael’s sword sliced through his defenses. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was enough.

  Michael grinned, taking a few steps back as laughter spilled from his lips. “Looks like I underestimated you, commoner. But it’s clear you’re at your limit. I’ll put you out of your misery, you dog.”

  Luke didn’t respond. He was too busy steadying his breathing, trying to form a plan.

  There was no way he could match Michael’s stamina. His arm was already burning from exertion, despite having fought for only a few minutes.

  Yet, even amidst the chaos, he noticed something.

  Apart from the feints, he could see the trajectory of Michael’s strikes as they came. The problem was… his body wasn’t fast enough to react in time.

  Without further training, he could only rely on instinct. But the longer this fight dragged on, the more exhausted he would become. And the moment his body failed him—

  He would die.

  ‘This is tough…’

  His earlier confidence had all but vanished.

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