Word spread like wildfire.
The siege plan Alaric proposed had shattered House Delvane's encroaching forces. His strategies, though dismissed at first, had turned the tide of battle in mere days. And just like that, the boy the nobility called a soft pet became a threat.
Threats in the Thorneveil Dominion were never left unanswered.
Damon Elric, son of Lord Elric and a rising duelist, challenged Alaric to single combat. It was tradition, they claimed. A rite of strength. But everyone knew what it was—a warning. A staged humiliation. A reminder that no matter how clever Alaric might be, power came from strength.
Alaric stood in the center of the inner courtyard, dressed in a simple black sparring robe. A wooden sword in hand. No armor. No enchanted rings. No flames carved into his blade.
Across from him, Damon loomed.
Fourteen. Already a third-tier flame knight. His training was elite, his confidence absolute. He wielded a rune-marked training sword, one that shimmered faintly with suppressed heat.
The courtyard overflowed. Nobles, knights, guards, and servants all stood in tense silence. Empress Lysandra watched from the balcony, face unreadable. Duke Caelan remained seated beside her, arms folded, giving no indication of support.
Lord Elric's smile was venomous.
"You may forfeit now," Damon called, stretching. "I promise not to mock you afterward. Too much."
Alaric tilted his head.
"I'd rather win. But thanks."
Laughter rippled from the crowd. Then the steward raised his hand.
"Begin!"
Damon charged with a roar. His blade ignited as he swung—a flaming arc screaming for Alaric's throat.
Alaric stepped sideways.
Not dodged.
Predicted.
His foot shifted in perfect rhythm, shoulder rotating, wooden sword brushing Damon's strike aside with a whisper.
The crowd murmured.
Damon snarled and launched a flurry—slashes that would've overwhelmed any normal opponent. But Alaric moved like flowing water. Smooth. Calculated. Each step denied Damon momentum. Each block stole time.
Then—
A counter.
Alaric struck low, tapping Damon's thigh.
The hit wasn't hard. But it was clean.
And deliberate.
The crowd went silent.
Damon's eyes widened, then darkened. Flame exploded around him, heat warping the air.
"You want to die?!" he bellowed.
Alaric's voice was calm. "You're not even making me try yet."
Damon charged again, blade screaming, flames licking up his arm. He swung—a vertical cleave meant to crush Alaric's shoulder.
Alaric ducked. Pivoted. And jabbed Damon in the ribs.
The older boy stumbled.
Alaric didn't stop.
One. Two. Three rapid strikes—wrists, collar, shin.
Each one perfectly placed.
By the time Damon raised his sword again, he was bleeding from a shallow cut above his eyebrow where a glancing blow had landed.
His eyes were frantic now. Desperate.
He screamed and lunged with wild strength.
Alaric spun past him and tapped the back of Damon's head with his sword.
"Yield."
Damon crumpled to the ground, panting. Smoke hissed from his sword as its enchantments fizzled.
The courtyard erupted.
Not in cheers—but shocked silence. Nobles stared. Knights exchanged glances. Even Lysandra leaned forward.
Caelan's eyes glinted.
Elric's face was pale.
"That—That wasn't natural," he stammered. "Your Grace, he—he used some forbidden method—!"
Alaric bowed.
"I used footwork, timing, and observation. If Lord Elric believes those are unnatural, I understand his son's performance."
Chuckles rippled.
Caelan stood.
"Enough. The duel is decided. My son has won."
Then, without fanfare, he turned and left.
But before Alaric could follow, the system's interface shimmered before his eyes.
[Binding Opportunity Detected: Damon Elric – Flame Reflex, Duelist's Temperament]
Alaric focused.
"Bind."
A rush of heat. Pressure behind his eyes. Like being submerged in boiling water—and then clarity.
[Skill Acquired: Flame Reflex (Awakened) – Enhanced senses and reaction speed in high-stress combat]
[Trait Acquired: Duelist's Temperament – Sharpened focus in one-on-one combat; mental resilience boosted]
More than strength flowed into him.
He felt Damon's instinctive patterns. How he read heat and adjusted strikes. How pressure sharpened his senses instead of dulling them.
It was… exhilarating.
He turned to the crowd and bowed again.
From above, Lysandra's gaze lingered.
In the shadows beyond the courtyard, several cloaked figures slipped away. One whispered into a communication crystal.
"He's not ordinary. Move the timeline forward."
And just like that, Alaric's victory became the spark that lit darker fires.
More were watching now.
Some with interest.
Others with knives.
[End of Chapter 4]