Chapter 31—Cold Steel

Steel screamed against steel.

The clash of blades filled the Auditorium, echoing against stone and banners alike. Garid’s strikes came quick, ruthless arcs of polished technique, each one forcing Raiden back another step. Raiden’s arms shook with the force of deflection, his heels grinding across the floor.

The spectators leaned forward as one, hundreds of eyes following the rhythm. Gasps rose when Garid’s blade scraped Raiden’s cheek, leaving a thin red line. Another slash tore across his sleeve, biting shallow into his arm. Blood welled, pattered to the polished stone.

And still Raiden stood.

He drew breath slow and deep, feeling the vessel of energy within him stir—the wellspring Liana had spoken of. Mana coursed through his veins like fire made liquid, filling every limb, flowing from his skull to the soles of his feet. He moved with it, not against it, his body sharper, quicker, more precise than it had been a month ago.

But Garid was sharper still.

The heir of Barowen pressed close, his blade weaving in perfect rhythm. His smirk widened as he wove mana into the air, and from frost he conjured a weapon—an icicle sword forming clean in his left hand. His stance shifted instantly, the rhythm changing.

Raiden hesitated for only a breath. That was enough.

The ice blade drove hard against his guard, and Garid’s right-hand steel slashed low. Raiden slipped the cut, but the icicle sword found him—slamming into his collarbone.

Cold pierced deep. It burned like fire turned inside out, biting through flesh to the bone. Raiden gasped, his grip faltering, but Garid gave no reprieve. The twin swords blurred, whirling in relentless cadence. Each strike was part of a dance, seamless and merciless.

From the gallery, Tadari surged half out of his seat. “That form—”

Ophelin’s eyes narrowed, knuckles white on her stick. “Olwen.”

Randall muttered under his breath, every syllable measured. “He’s learned their twin-blade style.”

Above them, Ledios’ jaw tightened, but it was Halia who whispered aloud, horrified: “That’s Lady Yuka’s technique.”

Tadari spat. “No—slower. Cruder. He’s overreaching. But the bones are there.”

And on the floor, Raiden knew it too. He had seen this dance before. He remembered Yuka’s blades weaving, the rhythm inhuman in its grace. Garid was a shadow of her, but even a shadow was enough to overwhelm him.

His guard faltered. Deflections turned into desperate blocks. His breath came ragged. Every strike drove him lower, smaller, until he felt like prey again, cornered beneath a predator’s fangs.

The memory returned, unbidden.

He was no longer in the Auditorium.

The world bent, blurred, and before him rose not Garid but another figure—inhuman, beastlike. A humanoid shape, fur upon its arms, strange ears pricked sharp, a tail swaying behind. Its eyes glowed pale, its blade raised high. It spoke words he could not understand, guttural and heavy, echoing like thunder.

Raiden’s knees buckled in the vision. He saw himself on the ground, the beast looming above, sword descending.

The vision shattered with steel.

Garid’s overhead slash screamed down with both hands. Raiden’s body moved on instinct—slipping aside just as the blades carved through air where his head had been. He staggered, breath tearing in his lungs, his heartbeat pounding a drum inside his skull.

Reality returned, but the beast’s image clung to him like shadow.

He stumbled backward, blood dripping from his collar, breath ragged. Garid did not rush. He stalked forward, careful, deliberate, the smirk curling back onto his lips. His eyes gleamed with excitement—the look of a hunter savoring the finish.

Raiden’s chest heaved. He forced himself to breathe, to focus, but the cuts across his body screamed louder than his thoughts. His collar burned cold. His vision swam.

Garid lunged again.

This time the blades struck lower, sweeping across Raiden’s thighs, his calves, forcing him to guard with his footing alone. His stance faltered, legs screaming under the weight. The ice sword darted in, seeking weakness, and Raiden parried high only to feel the sting of steel bite his ribs.

Desperation took him.

He swung harder, his blade cutting wide, raw strength over finesse. The parries landed heavier, some true, some too slow. It kept him alive, but left him open.

Garid saw it.

The icicle blade thrust low and up, straight into the hollow beneath Raiden’s arm. Flesh split. The cold spread instantly, freezing blood, numbing muscle. Raiden staggered, his sword-hand falling slack, his right arm limp and useless.

Pain exploded through him. His cry tore free, ragged and guttural.

The crowd erupted, half in horror, half in exhilaration.

In the gallery, Ophelin’s breath caught. “That’s it. That arm—”

“He’s finished,” Randall muttered grimly. His eyes tracked every angle, every line, already calculating paths of survival, and finding none.

“No!” Tadari snarled, gripping the rail so hard the wood groaned. Fury burned in his voice, helpless as it was.

Halia wept openly, her hands clasped white.

But Liana sat motionless, her gaze sharp. Her lips parted only to murmur, “He hasn’t shown his hand yet.”

On the floor, Garid laughed.

It was wild, unrestrained, a sound that echoed from the stone and banners alike. His blades gleamed, one steel, one ice, both stained with blood. His smirk widened into a grin.

“It’s over,” he said, voice triumphant. “All your training, all your whispers—wasted. You’ll die as you lived: nothing.”

Raiden staggered, vision blurred. His body trembled between collapse and something deeper, something darker. The image of the beast returned at the edges of sight, its sword and Garid’s blades indistinguishable, mingling into one storm.

He stood, swaying, every breath fire and ice together.

The duel was not done. Not yet. He was not done.