The dueling ring was a fairly decent size. Wall to wall it was eleven fathoms both ways. The diameter of the actual ring itself was closer to ten fathoms, there was space outside of it for some seats, weapons racks, and miscellaneous storage, but that was still enough surface area to contain any two fighters present at the camp.

  It was not enough surface area to contain ten two–tonne bulls though.

  Three laid dead, but four of the ‘Bulls of Baracath’ charged toward Dalric’s rear. They would appear to be merely staging, cutting the already cramped ring in half and limiting the space he had to maneuver around the two bulls to his front. It would also appear a foolish decision as Grey had tried two very similar tactics twice prior and the three lifeless bodies on the stone floor were his reward. Appearances were often deceiving, however.

  In truth, all of the bulls were a diversion arranged to distract him from the one rider in stealth.

  I see.

  Dalric dashed for the bull to his right. It only took a step for him to reach the edge of its massive horns. Each was about the length of his body and as sharp as a spear. Even though they were rather slow moving creatures, he had to observe some caution when close to their tips. Their heads moved much quicker than one would expect.

  Before he could impale himself, Dalric instantly reached out his hands and firmly gripped the two horns. It attempted to flick its neck, but he held it still. Then he empowered his arms, broke off both horns and stabbed them through its ears. It died instantly, but its partner to Dalric’s left arrived not a blink later to avenge it.

  Dalric adjusted and moved to repeat the same action, but a sudden quick twitch by the bull meant that his right hand missed its horn and allowed it to twist its neck and pierce his left shoulder. The pointed edge slipped right through his makeshift leather armor and well past the skin. It threatened to come out the other side.

  The bull drove forward immediately after, attempting to turn that threat into a reality and truly lodge its horn inside him. Dalric anticipated the drive and hastily stepped back a blink quicker. Of course, the timing of his step seemed to align perfectly with the wall of beef and horn behind him.

  Though it seemed a mere fortuitous happenstance, he had a strong suspicion that all of the bulls would have been quick enough to slip his grasp.

  Well done.

  Before the miniature stampede could run through him, purple lightning peeled off his left arm and struck each of them in the center of their forehead. Dalric tried to keep his use of spells to a minimum on the first day. He had promised each of them two spars and in the first he was more focused on assessing them than truly contesting them. Of course, the more competitive of the bunch used that opportunity to get their best shot at him.

  “Ughh.”

  Though his lighting was fatal on impact, the momentum of the charge didn’t immediately halt. Dalric feigned as if he’d been struck by one of the corpse’s flying horns. With the bulls dead and their connection to their summoner severed, Grey had no way of verifying if he’d actually been hit. He could only assume that his plan progressed as he designed it.

  Which meant he was completely unprepared for Dalric to swing his body and the two tonne bull’s

  The maneuver cost him a dagger wound in his midriff, but it rewarded him with the sight of Grey sailing across the ring and smacking into the wall. The formerly shadow–clothed man had managed to brace just before the rear of the bull made contact, saving him from debilitating damage. It didn’t save his bones from cracking, however.

  To his credit, while Dalric decapitated his sole valinoid summon, he quickly rose to his feet and called his last ‘living’ bull toward him to protect against a follow up. It was a wise move, but Dalric had no intention of continuing. Though his face showed no signs of dispiritedness, the unnatural way that his body leaned to the side spoke a bit more honestly about the current state of affairs.

  “I believe this is where we shall end.”

  Disagreement filled his eyes, “What? No! I can keep going.”

  Dalric felt for the two puncture wounds his torso now sported, “I do not disagree, but from what I understand the best healer available to you is Maim.” He did not have the benefit of a healer. All he could do for the moment was close the wounds, “Assuming she is not fit enough to attend to you, it would be wise to not sustain too much damage.”

  “Mmmgh.”

  Annoyed as he was, Grey was not a foolish man.

  Well.

  He was somewhat foolish. There could be no other way to describe knowingly impregnating a woman whilst living in slavery. If Dalric had never arrived the consequences of that decision could have been catastrophic for the man. Aside from that though, Dalric saw Grey as a rather intelligent decision maker. It particularly showed in how he fought.

  The man was a notably skilled coordinator. Many summoners were summoners either because of the fact that it leveraged a very particular knowledge base or because they were cowards who wanted the veneer of strength. While there was nothing wrong with the former, some would argue the latter as well, it meant that oftentimes summoners didn’t truly maximize the potential of summoning. It was the end, rather than the means.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Grey was a true summoner. Each movement that each summon made was precisely picked and carefully coordinated. He organized them to operate with the efficiency and synergy of a single organism. He was the mind and each summon was another arm and leg.

  For his fighting style and relative level of strength, he had no holes for Dalric to criticize. His weakness was simply his weakness. The bulls were just big bulls after all.

  “You are a rarity to me, a summoner who knows how to effectively use his summons. In that regard, I have no comments outside of well done. You are only the second to wound me.”

  Grey had taken a sullen seat, but his face instantly lit up at Dalric’s last few words, “Really?”

  “Yes. Discounting a few times I was wounded of my own volition.”

  “Nice!” He slapped his left hand with his right and then instantly winced.

  Dalric shook his head. Maybe he was just foolish.

  “Who was the first?”

  Dalric raised an eyebrow at that.

  “Oh right.” He waved away his question, “Nevermind, nevermind.”

  “I’m more intrigued that they didn’t announce the fact themselves. Ask around.”

  From there, Dalric spoke a bit more on what he liked about Grey’s approach, gave a few critiques on the timing of the final ambush, warned about his potential overeagerness to get his own hands dirty, and then finally sent the man off to go get healed.

  His usual break between rounds lasted a bit longer than the typical time that he allotted himself. In part, that was because Grey couldn’t de-summon the bulls so they had to be manually relocated. In part, it was also because Dalric was tired. His energy levels had rapidly improved since the first day he awoke, when he could not for the life of him stop sleep from overtaking him. He had overestimated that improvement though. Forty-nine straight fights, even if fairly quick and decidedly one–sided, was draining. He had to take a moment.

  Thankfully, Erasma was his next sparring partner and she was a very straightforward fighter. She used no spells outside of empowering herself and her weapon and employed little by way of trickery and deception. Her style was as blunt as it was brutal.

  Dalric remained untouched for the duration of their spar. So did she, however.

  “Let us stop for now.”

  She immediately dropped to a knee. Though they both would leave the bout without a scratch on them, discounting the scratches Dalric had previously acquired, Erasma worked much harder for her unsullied skin.

  “Your ability to read the flow of an engagement, your reaction time, and your foot speed are all exceptional. I truly tried to strike you… and failed. You are phenomenally trained. So it completely boggles my mind that you do not know how to parry or deflect. How?”

  Between the heavy breaths, she smiled at the praise, “I—am self taught. My sword—was an heirloom—from my grandmother. I could not afford to damage it.”

  “So you learned to dodge rather than deflect? I’m not sure I understand how that could be. How did you train?”

  “I did not—train exactly. I um…” Her second pause didn’t seem to be motivated by air.

  “If you can not say, that is fine.”

  “I… not now.”

  Dalric nodded, “Well. You have some other oversights—If every move is meant to be lethal, you can become predictable—but I would say the only thing you truly need to focus on at the moment is that. For a sword…woman such as yourself, you must learn to use your weapon for protection. From what I can tell, drakken are not suited for endurance. I can understand how that led to you developing the style that you have, but the stronger you get the longer battles get as well. That is simply unavoidable.”

  She nodded. As with Maim, she was likely already aware of what her style lacked. Unlike Maim, he had a good feeling it wouldn’t be a weakness for too long. Once she’d caught her breath, she gave him some sort of salute and left. Dalric took a few deep breaths of his own once he was alone.

  His fiftieth opponent for the day was a man he did not know the name of, but did viscerally remember. He was the one who had joined him and Erasma in the charge toward the Baron’s ahjerists. The human with a quite powerful barrier.

  He looked around, “Look much bigger on outside.”

  Not Salian? He definitely isn’t Surunese though.

  “It was not designed for grand bouts, only intimate duels.” Dalric eyed him for a moment, but quickly gave up trying to identify where he’d come from, “I believe this is the first time we’ve spoken since our charge together. You go by?”

  “It is. I Hayit.”

  That’s… did they…?

  Dalric switched to what he believed the man’s native language was, “Wall? Can I presume that was a title given to you?”

  Shock filled his eyes, “How do you know?!”

  He was correct.

  Dalric didn’t care for barriers or the like in his last life. He did a few bare bones studies into them, but only ever as far as learning how to break them. His body had been his own barrier. In those studies, however, there was a race that popped up constantly, katims.

  They were desert dwellers. Not just any desert dwellers either, they were the fools that settled in the Quiet Dunes. Named as such because no life resided there, only sand, bone splitting wind, and heat strong enough to boil blood. It was not a death sentence. Death arrived before the first letter.

  Yet. They managed to not only survive, but settle and thrive in those conditions. How? Barriers.

  “I once lived among the katims. As I understood, they did not teach other races?”

  The shock did not leave his pupils, “There are… exceptions. Are you…?”

  Dalric resumed eyeing the man up and down, now trying to gauge what about him would lead the planet’s most isolated isolationists to open their arms to him. If Hayit had said they no longer barred their spells from outsiders, then he would put it down as Skybreak causing yet another shift, but he hadn’t. Instead, it seemed that Skybreak had left them unchanged in their outlook. Even in Dalric’s time, there were exceptions, but those exceptions were more… talented.

  I’m assuming.

  Dalric prepped himself, “I am not an exception. But. I’m quite intrigued how you are. Protect yourself as if your life is on the line.”

  Thanks for reading and see you in the next chapter!

  Discord