Chapter 136: Enough is Enough
Leaning against the cold castle walls, Clarke and Berthold sat in silence, finishing their vials. The faint hum of healing magic filled the air as their wounds began to visibly mend. Even Berthold’s arm, twisted at an impossible angle moments ago, started to crack and shift back into place.
“Thank you.” Clarke’s voice broke the quiet, her breath still heavy from exertion. A flush of exhaustion and satisfaction colored her cheeks. “It’s been too long since I’ve moved like that.”
Berthold winced as the last bone in his arm snapped into place. He flexed his fingers experimentally before nodding. “The pleasure was all mine. My siblings surpassed me ages ago, so finding a decent sparring partner is rare treat.”
Clarke’s mood shifted as she glanced at him, her tone turning sharp. “Then why stay? It’s not uncommon for a son to leave and make his own way. Especially a bastard.”
He smirked at her bluntness, a sigh escaping him as he leaned his head back against the wall. “Truth be told, I’d love to.”
He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, his movements stiff but steady. With a quick touch to his pouch, his armor dissolved into faint wisps of mana, revealing his butler’s uniform. The fabric was somehow still pressed and immaculate, save for a few streaks of dirt from their clash. “But Father won’t allow it.”
“Then how did Judith leave? Don’t tell me he made it a rule just for you. Does he need a butler that badly? That shameless—”
“Please, don’t misunderstand,” he interrupted, brushing dirt from his uniform with a fine beast-hair brush. “It’s a rule for the entire family. Judith is a… special case.”
Clarke narrowed her eyes, confusion flickering across her face as she tried to piece it together.
Noticing her struggle, Berthold let out a small sigh. “When Judith was a child, her assessment stunned the family. Every one of Father’s children has always shown talent within the Knight’s system, but Judith was found to have none. With Father unable to bear the thought of her living a normal human lifespan, he had no choice but to send her away to train as a mage. He used every connection he had left and poured an immense amount of resources into hiding her true identity. But that’s when the trouble began.”
Clarke stood, touching her pouch to dismiss her armor. The mana-forged plates dissolving, leaving her in simple, practical clothing. She brushed a hand through her short brown hair, a thought striking her like lightning. “Marcus.”
“Precisely.” his tone was calm, but there was a trace of bitterness beneath it. He glanced around at the sparring field, now a wreck of craters and scorched earth, before walking to the metal plaque on the castle wall. “When she returned, Marcus was with her—and she was pregnant with Percy.”
His fingers brushed the plaque, and the ground began to hum softly as hidden arrays activated. The field shimmered, cracks and destruction mending themselves in moments, as if their fight had never happened.
Clarke watched the repairs, her brow lifting in admiration. As she turned back to him, he continued, his voice steady. “We were all shocked, of course. Father was beside himself with rage. Not only was she determined to leave again, but she threatened to kill herself if he tried to stop her. Judith can be… quite dramatic when she’s set on something.”
Clarke’s fists clenched, her knuckles white as the thought of the couple still suspended in that cold darkness gnawed at her.
“This is pathetic.”
Berthold raised a brow. “Pathetic?” He paused, considering her words. “That might be the most fitting way to describe our situation—bitter as it tastes.”
The pair fell into silence, watching as the sparring field completed its repairs. The hum of mana faded, leaving the ground pristine and untouched. Berthold clapped his hands lightly. “Shall we have something to eat? I wouldn’t be boasting to say I’m an excellent cook.”
He turned to lead her back toward the castle but stopped abruptly, his sharp eyes catching her stillness. “M’lady, is something the matter?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was steady but laced with steel as she turned to face him, her golden eyes blazing. “There is something very wrong. With all of this.”
Without warning, her aura flared to life, an eruption of raw earth mana that cracked the ground beneath her feet. 'I can't just sit here and hope. I need to force him into acting.' The air grew heavy, charged with her fiery determination.
“GILLIAN CROSS!” Her voice thundered, shaking the stillness of the castle grounds. “I, FILLIPINA CLARKE, CHALLENGE THE LAST WINTER TO A DUEL! YOU ARE HONOR-BOUND AS MY SENIOR TO ACCEPT!”
The ground trembled beneath her words, the air vibrating with raw power. Even Berthold, usually composed, faltered, blood trickling from his ears as he stood frozen. “Wh-what have you done, milady? Quickly! Take it back, you—”
“That’s enough, Berthold.”
The voice was calm, cold, and absolute. Frost erupted across the field in an instant, the sound of ice cracking filling the air like thunder. A chill swept over everything, freezing the remnants of Clarke’s earlier fury in its tracks.
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Gillian Cross had arrived.
The Legend Knight stood at the center of the field as if he had always been there. His black trousers and pristine white shirt seemed untouched by the frost swirling around him. One hand stroked his long white beard, while the other rested casually nehind him. His aura twisted and churned, a blizzard in human form, its edges cutting through the field like icy knives.
Clarke’s stance didn’t waver. Her golden eyes burned as she met his. “Do you accept?” Her voice rang out, defiant and unwavering. “Duel me. Suppress your strength to my level. Whoever wins can make any request they want from the defeated.”
Berthold stepped forward, placing himself firmly between Clarke and his father. His usually calm voice trembled. “Father, you cannot accept this! She is a guest in our home. Our honor demands—”
“Yes, son, you are correct. Honor does demand.”
Gillian’s aura receded, shrinking to match Clarke’s. The frost dissipated slightly, though the chill in the air remained. He stepped forward with an eerie calmness, his movements deliberate and measured. “But you just sparred with my son. Wouldn’t you prefer to rest before we begin this?”
Clarke didn’t flinch. Stepping around the flustered butler, her gaze locked on Gillian’s, she repeated, “Do you accept?”
A deep, echoing laugh rumbled from the knight, shaking the frost around him as his glowing eyes burned with light. “I will show you a kindness, a reward for your bravery! Know this, Mountain of Floeur d'Alene—my request will be your body. You will remain here, serving as my concubine until I tire of you!” His laughter echoed, fading into an eerie stillness as his smile vanished. “Do you still wish to proceed?”
Clarke’s sneer deepened, her stomach twisting with rage. Her voice cut through the cold air, firm and unyielding. “Since coming here, your conduct has shown me that power does not prove character. A man like you, once stripped of his advantage, will always resort to words. Stop stalling. Do you accept or not?”
Berthold sighed, his shoulders slumping as he turned away from the field. “That does it."
Gillian’s expression hardened as he reached for his pouch. Mana surged around him, a cold, crystalline energy enveloping his body. His armor began to manifest piece by piece, each section glistening like frost-coated steel. The jagged edges of his plate glowed with an otherworldly blue light, the intricate runes etched into the metal radiated power, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The breastplate was a masterpiece of frozen artistry, the centerpiece glowing with a frost-blue sigil resembling a snowflake, radiating a chilling light. Layers of jagged, ice-like plating covered his shoulders, arms, and legs, the edges sharp enough to cut. Frost clung to every crevice, and thin trails of icy mist swirled from him, adding to his towering, menacing presence.
In his hand, an immense longsword materialized, its blade sharp, with frostbite-like cracks etched into the steel. The weapon exuded a cold so intense it seemed to freeze the very air around it.
“I accept,” he said, his tone calm, but the weight of his words carried a finality that sent shivers through the field.
“Give me your word. Swear a knight’s oath that you will honor this duel, no matter—"
The atmosphere shifted violently. Clarke’s knees buckled as she was forced to kneel, her heart pounding. Gillian’s aura erupted like a storm, suffocating and unrelenting. His icy glare bore into her as his voice boomed, sharp and wrathful. “You dare doubt me?! A lowly Steel Knight demands the oath of a Legend?!”
Clarke gritted her teeth, her body trembling under the crushing weight of his rage. “Your oath!” she shouted back, her defiance cutting through the suffocating frost.
Berthold stood frozen, his head in his hands, his face pale as he watched. A deep ache settled in his chest. “Did she bring me out here to watch her die?”
The ground trembled, cracks splintering outward as Gillian’s aura continued to press down like an avalanche. His eyes remained locked on Clarke, her unwavering resolve reflected in her burning gaze. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, his expression hardening.
“I swear on my soul, I will honor the result of this duel.”
The pressure vanished in an instant, leaving Clarke gasping for air. Her lungs burned as she took in deep, ragged breaths. The tension in the air shifted, replaced by the tangible hum of mana gathering, swirling and crackling around them as Gillian’s oath solidified.
Pushing herself to her feet, a wicked smile tugged at her lips, 'this is my chance.' Hovering her hand over her pouch, a single thought echoed in her mind as her instincts focused, 'It's the only way.'
Both Gillian and Berthold reacted immediately, their expressions vastly different. Gillian’s icy aura rippled in response, his glowing eyes narrowing as he watched the scene unfold. Berthold, however, stiffened, his eyes widening briefly before he let out a bitter sigh.
“She was holding back,” he murmured, shaking his head with a faint, rueful smile. “How embarrassing.”
Clarke stood tall, her yellow earth aura churning violently around her. She stood adorned in a new set of armor, forged from a pitch-black magical ore that seemed to drink in the surrounding light. The armor covered her entire body, from the sharp edges of her pauldrons to the sleek, segmented greaves that encased her legs.
It was form-fitting yet fierce, every line and contour gave the impression of speed and precision. The dark metal hugged her figure, but its jagged edges and angular design gave it an aggressive, predatory appearance. Without a helm, her face was exposed, her eyes blazing beneath her short, disheveled hair. The aura pulsing from her made the armor appear alive, as if it were an extension of her wrath.
With a calm yet deliberate motion, she reached to her side. In a flash of golden light, her Primordial Artifact, Mountain Crusher, materialized in her hand.
“Considering I’m still facing a Legend Knight, I figured it’s only right to honor this duel with everything I have. This is something I rarely use, even though it’s a Primordial Artifact." Rolling her shoulders to settle into it, her armor gave off a pressure that even Berthold could feel. "Forged from the feathers of a humanoid Dusk-Iron Raven, it pushes my body past its limits. So forgive me if I make this quick.”
As she touched her pouch, Berthold’s breath caught, a spark of excitement igniting in his chest. “Maybe she’ll let Titan fight this time,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. Then his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. “Wait… that’s different.”
In Clarke’s other hand, a massive amber crystal materialized, its surface smooth. At its center swirled an unnatural blackness, like a fragment of void trapped within its core. She tightened her grip, her thoughts focused and sharp.
The crystal responded. Darkness erupted from its core, a living shadow that coiled around her arm like tendrils of smoke. The energy radiating from it was cold, oppressive, and raw, filling the air with a weight of an overlord. Clarke’s expression remained calm, her resolve unwavering as the shadows danced around her.
A piercing caw erupted from the smoke, shattering the air like glass. The ground quaked as an immense pair of black metallic wings flapped with force, sending shockwaves through the field. From the swirling shadows emerged a towering mana-beast, its wingspan stretching ten meters, the metallic feathers glinting like forged steel in the dim light.
The raven’s body radiated an ominous, otherworldly presence, its sharp talons like freshly sharpened blades. Its eyes burned with a deep amber glow, scanning the battlefield with predatory precision. The creature hovered above Clarke, its massive wings stirring the smoke and frost below.
Gillian’s eyes narrowed, his focus fixed on the beast. “A Third Stage Dusk-Iron Raven…” he muttered, his voice laced with mockery. “Impressive pet.”
“You flatter me. And his name is Shade.”
Clarke slammed the shaft of Mountain Crusher into the earth, the impact shaking the ground as her aura exploded. “Merge!”
Shade responded instantly. With a powerful flap of his massive wings, the earth cracked beneath them. His form funneled downward, dissolving into a torrent of dark energy that spiraled into the hammer. The raven’s piercing caw echoed one last time before fading completely, his essence consumed by the weapon.
As Shade disappeared, Mountain Crusher sank deeper into the ground, its massive head glowing with a dark, ominous light. Clarke’s eyes burned as she slipped the now-empty crystal back into her pouch. With a thought, she materialized her sleek black helm, its edges sharp and angular, perfectly complementing her form-fitting armor.
“Sky Monarch's Flight!”
Black wings erupted from her back, tearing through the air with the sound of shredding metal. The immense, metallic feathers spread wide as she flapped once, the force launching her into the sky. Her mana-forged gauntlets, sabatons, and vambraces shimmered into existence, the blackness of her Primordial Artifact twisting their ethereal glow into a dark, muted yellow.
Hovering above the battlefield, her wings cast a long, oppressive shadow. Her voice boomed from above. “Gillian Cross! Prepare yourself!”
The Last Winter stared up at her, the faintest flicker of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. For the first time in years, his battle intent surged, an old feeling stirring in his chest. He exhaled slowly, suppressing it as he raised his sword.
“Show me what my future pet can do,” he said coldly.
Frost crept across his face, solidifying into a ornate helm that encased his head. His icy blue eyes stared through the slits, unblinking and focused, as his aura swirled and the blade of his sword began to hum with freezing power.