The red dust descended gently, painting the world in an eerie redness.

Dunn stood in silence, observing the soldiers as they trained. The field remained a rugged expanse of jagged stone and uneven slopes. Truly a dreadful place to train, but perhaps the best for cultivating resilience and strength. Here, men could acquire the skills essential for navigating this cruel desolate domination. That would be essential for the future of the campaign.

These were his thoughts, though his gaze remained fixed on the trainer.

Having long forgotten the man’s name, Dunn referred to him as the others did: Worthless. A nickname derived from the word he often shouted.

"You're worthless!" Worthless bellowed, "How are you going to fight a giant with arms like that? Even the bugs have bigger muscles than you!"

He was yelling at a clearly thin guardsman, though not as frail as Worthless made him seem. The soldier in question was likely small due to the rationing of food going around the encampment.

Worthless was a tall man with a muscular build, small eyes resembling those of a tudorson but lacking their characteristic blueness and earrings. He wore a black coat lined with gold, paired with trousers, and carried a sharp chain-sword on his back.

Dunn knew little about the man, but he did know that Worthless had once been a freeblade aspiring to return to the Swordsmen Tower. However, he had been punished and assigned to train soldiers here before he could do so. The Swordsmen Tower did not take kindly to deserters.

I think it was three years, Dunn mused, leaning against one of the wooden pillars. The structure was part of a long wooden building—a stable for the horses. Naturally, high steeds were not kept with ordinary ones, as the latter would turn timid in the presence of their superior counterparts. Left that way for too long, they would become incapable of even moving.

Superiority often destroys motivation. Dunn frowned at the thought. Adolla was serious… He wants to fight me? Me, with my knight plate? Is he foolish? He believed the persistent shard-bearer likely was.

Closing his eyes, he felt the presence of the armor—deep within his soul or perhaps his spirit. Whatever it was, it was there, and he could summon it at will. But despite knowing he was far stronger than Adolla, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a reason behind the challenge.

Adolla was no fool. Yes, he was impulsive, but a fool he was not. So why take such a risk? If this were an ordinary duel, it would end after a certain number of injuries. But this was a warlock’s duel. They would fight until one of them lost, surrendered, or became incapacitated.

Dunn had no intention of taking an easy way out, nor would Adolla. Should he go easy on him? No. That would insult both his honor as a shard-bearer and the duel itself.

And without honor, what else did they have?

If the battle were to take place anywhere other than the arena, Dunn would have to hold back; his full might could cause catastrophic destruction enough to cause desolation. But the arena… Its walls were constructed from special materials, said to have been found in the Nightmare Plains. He had no idea what those materials were called, but he knew they could withstand damage from a desolation class. After all, the former archon once fought there and nothing happened.

Well, except for the trembling.

He extended his hand, catching a fleck of red dust as it fell like gentle rain. Some say the Eastern Dominion has white dust… he thought idly. That can’t be true, right?

It was likely just a folktale. Who knew what was true? Perhaps if the domination reappeared, the truth would come to light. But for now, there was no way to know. Stretching his limbs, he yawned. Damn pride! I can’t be tired before the duel, he thought with amusement. Not there was ever any chance of him losing.

"Hey, you!" an irritated voice called out. Dunn ignored it. There was no way someone would address him—a knight plate bearer—so casually. Unless it was the Golden Knight, whose voice alone would shake the entire training grounds.

"Hey, are you deaf?" the voice shouted again, louder and angrier. Seriously? Dunn groaned inwardly.

"Did you… Oh, my warrior!" The voice sounded confused and furious.

Frowning, Dunn raised his head abruptly, ready to confront whoever dared address him in such a manner. He froze. Standing before him was Worthless, his eyes wide, veins bulging on his face.

"What did you plan to do, boy?" Worthless demanded, gripping his sword. Was he planning to attack?

"Worth… Sir… Ah." Dunn faltered, almost lowering his head but stopping midway. For some reason, he felt unsure of what to do.

"What?" Worthless’s eyes widened. "You can’t greet?"

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Dunn grumbled internally. Though he wanted to greet the man, the words that came out of his mouth were, "I have knight plate."

Worthless seemed startled. "So you’re the one fighting Adolla."

"Yes." Did I become famous or something?

"You have knight plate, huh?" Worthless said, eyeing him critically.

"Yes," Dunn replied with a slight smile. "It makes me a desolation."

Worthless said nothing and turned to walk away. Dunn was startled for some reason. "Hey, what are you doing?"

The trainer paused briefly and said without turning, "I was going to punish you for yawning in my class, but it seems Adolla will do that for me."

Dunn frowned. "What in the shattered heavens are you saying?"

Worthless clicked his tongue and resumed walking. However, he threw one last remark over his shoulder: "You’re weak. That’s just it. So Adolla’s going to mop the floor with you."

Dunn watched the man leave, a smile curling on his lips. These people don’t seem to understand what desolation means. He sighed. He had planned to learn a few techniques from Worthless, but it turned out the man lived up to his nickname.

In the end, he simply observed the soldiers’ movements.

----------------------------------------

Dunn stood within the waiting hall, several soldiers adjusting and enhancing his armor. They meticulously worked on it, painting it a deeper shade of crimson and inscribing intricate symbols across its surface. He would have preferred the banner symbol of the legion—as the warlocks did not possess a regiment banner—but given the dishonorable nature of the current battle, such a gesture would be deemed an insult to the clan.

The diminutive soldiers scurried around him, their stature making them appear almost like dwarves as they moved up and about. It felt strange seeing them this way... so small. So insignificant.

Dunn checked himself.

Warrior, cleanse my pride, he prayed silently, watching as another soldier approached from the oval stone corridor. The man carried a small cup filled with liquor and ice stones. Drinking it was required—an odd tradition, yes, but an ingrained part of his regiment's customs.

I bet this started because of the legion’s master and his drinking habits, Dunn thought wryly, though he dared not utter such words aloud. The legion master was notoriously sensitive about such topics, and with so many soldiers nearby, any one of them might seize the opportunity to curry favor by reporting his remarks.

His gaze shifted to the iron-barred gate to his left. The gate’s top arched slightly, and several worn rods bore marks of some great force. He knew what had caused it. Over the years, the arena had served myriad purposes. Sometimes it was a venue for punishing deserters, granting them one final bout to redeem themselves. Others, less fortunate, met their end here. The arena had housed giants, monstrous insects, and other abominations from the Western domination, used to execute or torture soldiers guilty of grievous crimes.

Seeing a shard-bearer in such a situation, however, was rare. For the most part, it was the mundane soldiers who met their fate here. Some, deep in despair, tried to escape the arena by any means—all in vain. In the end, the scratches on the iron bares were of his humans.

Dunn turned to a soldier beside him. “Is there an execution after my duel?”

The soldier started, his head slowly lifting to meet Dunn’s gaze. Impressive, Dunn thought. Few dared to meet his eyes, intimidated by the imposing presence of knight plate.

The soldier took a moment to gather himself before responding hastily, “Uh, yes. Yes. During the last battle, two soldiers tried to desert but were caught by shard-bearer Auro.”

Ah, I hadn’t even noticed, Dunn mused. He didn’t bother learning the names of every shard-bearer—it wasn’t his concern. Or perhaps this one simply lacked distinction. But does such a thing even exist—an unimpressive shard-bearer? he wondered idly.

Not that there was anything he could do for the soldiers. They were to be executed for their crime, and that was plain and simple.

The bustling guardsman finally reached him, bowing and offering the cup of liquor. They treated him as though he were royalty. What was he, the sovereign ruler? Dunn smirked to himself.

He suddenly slapped his gauntleted hand against his mouth, the iron clanging loudly. The sound echoed through the corridor like a muted cannon, startling the guardsmen. Many staggered back with wide eyes, a few even leveling their spears. What good would that do?

The liquor-bearer fumbled, his hands now damp with spilled liquid. If it were anyone else, they’d punish him for this, Dunn thought, forcing a reassuring smile he hoped would ease the man’s nerves. Taking the cup in his armored hand, Dunn examined the drink. Ice stones floated within, their surfaces gleaming against the translucent white and faint brown liquor. The drink’s name escaped him—it had been so long.

He stared at the ice for several silent moments, his gaze fixed on its stillness. It rested there, sunken and inert. Hmm.

“Sir,” a guardsman’s voice broke his trance. Dunn glanced down at the speaker—a soldier with maw-like features stood nervously before him.

“What?” Dunn’s voice carried an unintentional weight.

The guardsman flinched, his grip tightening on his spear. Dunn half-expected it to shatter under the strain. Like the storm, he thought, recalling something a maw had once said to him.

His mind wandered. The Strongman festival is approaching. I wonder who will win this year. Maybe if this mission ends in time, I can watch. Not that I can participate—Legionnaires are forbidden.

However, I doubt this mission will end easily. We’re dealing with a god. Dunn tensed, his eyes darting around. He exhaled slowly. Thinking it isn’t revealing it, right?

He would much prefer not to suddenly have his soul burned.

He tried to recapture his earlier thoughts but they slipped away. Hmm.

“Sir!” The voice came again, sharper this time. Who dared raise their voice at him? He looked down to see the same maw-faced soldier. Ah.

“What?” he asked.

“The battle starts in three minutes… well, now it’s one minute.”

“Taa!” Dunn blurted, “Why didn’t you speak up?” He quickly brought the cup to his lips and drained the liquor. A jolt coursed through him as he accidentally bit into an ice stone, the chill sending a shiver down his spine. The liquor itself was underwhelming, barely warming his throat.

Taking a steadying breath, Dunn turned his focus to the barred door. At some point, the soldiers had departed, leaving him alone with the maw-faced guard. Not that Dunn cared.

He allowed his thoughts to settle, considering which stance, style, and form he would employ in the upcoming duel. Though he didn’t know all their names, years of observing training soldiers and swordsmen had enriched his knowledge.

Gradually, the roar of the crowd beyond the gate grew louder. Cheers and cries of excitement surged like a trumpet blast. Cold sweat beaded on his back, his forehead damp. Yet, he felt calm. This was battle—no place for hesitation.

He closed his eyes.

The duel was soon to begin. A duel he had every intention of winning.