Mordhun, the Unstoppable

Piercers clashed with high-pitched rings. The second trial proceeded. It was cutthroat, a competitor would claw out a victory, only to be eliminated by their very next opponent. That was, until…

“Another victory for Mordhun Rustes!” The loser’s piercer clattered to the ground. A drop of blood fell from their lips and froze before it even touched the ground.

From the sidelines, Eralia studied Mordhun’s matches. As much as she despised the young noble, he was undoubtedly skilled. Every single movement felt intentional, as though he had practiced it a thousand times over, and he very well might have. The instructors of House Rustes had likely drilled those same techniques into him since he could walk.

“Next, Eralia Adeus!” Instructor Pruatt raised his piercer.

Of course. Eralia stuffed down a sigh. I had hoped another disciple could eliminate him first.

She approached the dueling arena. The pit’s frozen gravel crunched under her feet. Mordhun already waited in the centre, perfectly poised. His breath came out in steady clouds. The next trial… It comes down to this.

“Adeus.” He gave his piercer a twirl. “To an honourable match.”

She accepted her own weapon from their instructor, and the alloy weighed more like lead than stena in her hand. Its hilt was cold to the touch.

She settled and raised the blade to her waist. “We’ll see.”

“Begin!” Pruatt’s arm shot up.

Mordhun advanced with steady footsteps. First, a probe at her right arm. It was fast. Unbelievably so. His blade disappeared and became just a blur. A crackling shield of manra flared to meet it. Before it had even dissipated, he’d already struck again.

In a straight-on duel, I lose. This isn’t pessimism, it’s a mathematical certainty. She deflected a high blow with another instantaneous barrier. He prodded the edges of her defense like a sheet of ice, searching for a weak point.

She squinted against the low sun. Her footwork was nimble and unpredictable, kicking up gravel as she danced one end of the pit to the other. Mordhun’s probes quickened into a barrage of strikes. He attacked high, and she immediately parried. He attacked low. Her barriers appeared a fraction of a second later, just for him to flow right into another swing. He’s denied my distance with constant pressure, He’s paying attention.

Mordhun was no fool, he wouldn’t be lulled into a battle of attrition so easily. Not that I was trying to, though.

He feinted low, a swift jab at her legs. Eralia sidestepped, letting the attack whistle past. Her piercing sword swayed ever-so-slightly, and Mordhun’s eyes flashed. Perfect.

I’ll bait the low strike… He lunged, tossing dust as he dropped his body to the ground. There.

She channeled manra down her leg, forming a small barrier directly in his path. Not to defend, but to trip him. Her sword arm tensed for the finishing blow. His boot met the trap, just as she’d planned.

But his momentum continued forward. His left hand slammed into the gravel, skittering pebbles as his right foot pivoted against her barrier. He’d turned her trap into a foothold, swinging his entire body around to land behind her side.

“Clever.” His sword’s pommel flew towards her stomach.

Damn it. She twisted her torso, only narrowly catching the blow. The pommel crashed into her guard. Metal clanged on metal with a jolt that shot straight up her arm, sending her staggering back. Her entire arm was left buzzing, the grip on her weapon loosened as her fingers turned numb. This isn’t about skill, it’s just a contest of strength.

Before her balance could even recover, he swung again. His piercer hissed past her ear, the icy steel slicing into her cheek. Her free hand found her face and traced the cut as blood smeared her fingertips.

She lowered her blade, still pristine, with not a single scratch on it. “I yield.”

Across the pit, Mordhun panted, his piercer still raised. The crowd’s roars trailed off into confused murmurs.

“Eralia Adeus, eliminated!” Pruatt’s voice rang out.

She met Mordhun’s gaze as he lowered his sword. His chest heaved, sweat glued dark hair to his forehead.

“Why!?” Mordhun’s brow furrowed. “You’d yield so soon?”

“The fight was over,” Eralia gave a thin smile. “I’d rather save my strength for the next trial.”

“That’s—” His jaw tightened. “Hmph. A charming excuse.”

“A practical decision, Rustes.” She turned away. “Enjoy your victory.”

Eralia half-expected a retort, but none came. She felt his eyes burning into her back, alongside the eyes of the entire audience. She stepped from the arena and into the crowd of disciples.

“...Without a single attack?”

Their whispers sounded as if they were indistinct murmurs. Wool brushed against her sleeve as they parted, some faces pitiful, and others satisfied. She flexed her sword hand. Her shoulder still ached from the impact. Mordhun… You’re anything but a slouch.

Her gaze climbed the stands, towards the noble spectators. The College’s Grand Master, Ochist Vellen, studied the dueling arena. And beside him, decorated in half-plate armour and heavy furs, sat the Warden of the Marches, Mordhun’s father. His attention was fixed on his son.

A stout captain beside Warden Rustes chuckled. “An Adeus through and through.”

The Warden shook his head slowly. “Lady Adeus was a respectable woman,” his voice was deep and proud. “Though her mother’s talents were in the market squares and assembly halls, not the arena. A pity.”

Vellen breathed on his signet, polishing it with the corner of his cape. “A pity,” he murmured. “I’m not sure.”

Her eyes returned to Mordhun in the arena, who was now conversing with Pruatt. His gaze darted towards the disciples before the two separated, and she didn’t have to follow it to know who he’d been looking for. The same disciple had become the object of her attention, too. She shoved through the crowd towards a flash of auburn.

* * *

Laufa clutched the stena in her freezing palm. Her eyes dropped to the scuffed leather of her boots. The disciple next to her shivered. On second thought, maybe that was her. Eralia had seemed so graceful out there, and she still lost. Laufa would get completely demolished. No chance.

Mordhun whispered to their instructor from the dueling pit. It felt like it was miles away. For a second, she thought he’d glanced at her. But she’d probably imagined it. Instructor Pruatt turned, leaning on a piercer braced against the ground, and scanned the disciples from across the amphitheatre.

His eyes locked onto hers. “Laufa, to the arena!”

Damn it. Okay, so I hadn’t imagined it. The air felt thin. Laufa’s numb fingers tightened around the gemstone, and her feet refused to move. Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s going to see me lose. Is he going to hurt me!? I can’t—

Laufa’s body trembled as a hand pressed down on her shoulder.

“Ack!” She jumped.

“Follow me.” It was Eralia.

She seized Laufa’s hand and dragged her aside to a weapon rack. Dozens of swords lined the shelves, some rusted, and others spotless. Eralia’s grip felt tight, her fingers were ice-cold. It should’ve felt threatening… Why doesn’t it?

Laufa’s boots scraped against stone as she stumbled after her. “Wh—What are you doing!?”

“Do you believe you can win?” Eralia finally released her.

She tore her hand free. “Huh!?”

Eralia took a half-step forward, pinning her against the rack. “I said, do you believe you can win?”

The row of swords rattled behind her. “No, No way!” Laufa shook her head violently. “He’s way stronger, he’s better trained, he’s—“ The chill of the blades bit into her back.

Eralia brought her face an inch from hers, her eyes creepily still. “I agree.”

Laufa felt Eralia’s warm breath against her cheek. “—He’s… What!?” Metal clanged as she shoved herself from the rack. “Then why’d you drag me here!?”

“I agree he’s stronger,” The corners of Eralia’s mouth lifted. “But there are other ways for you to win.”