From all the challengers, only this one wanted to fight me, so Riker, with all the genius of a game show host hyped up on liters of whiskey, spread his arms wide. “Let the duel begin! Witness, oh esteemed audience, the clash of strength and skill!” His voice echoed through the arena, triggering a roar from the crowd.

I didn’t wait for more dramatics.

With a quick dash, I leapt onto the nearest boulder, balancing effortlessly as I narrowed my eyes at my challenger.

He followed, not missing a beat, landing on the boulder opposite mine with an agility that didn’t quite match his sweatpants aesthetic. Standing tall, he clutched his wooden sword in both hands and announced, “I am Amogelang! Prepare yourself, Sword Queen, for my strength flows from the depths of my love!”

Oh, great. One of those.

My fingers tightened around my rapier, my jaw clenching. “Good to know, Amogelang,” I said, preparing my stance and dagger.

But he wasn’t listening. With a yell that rang across the hilly arena, he charged at me, sword raised high, coming down with a swing that could probably split Riker in half.

Because I was cocky, I raised my rapier to parry, but the sheer force of his strike jolted through my arm like a shockwave.

Damn, that’s strong!

The impact sent me sliding backward, forcing me to leap off the boulder to regain my footing before I got smacked into the audience.

He didn’t let up.

With another bellow, he launched himself after me, swinging his sword in a relentless barrage of fast, powerful strikes. Each one whistled through the air, the sound biting against my ears as I dodged and blocked where I could.

This wasn’t some amateur swinging wildly. No, his attacks were controlled, balanced, and annoyingly precise.

He wasn’t giving me any openings—no careless footwork, no hesitation, just pure strength and momentum. And, yeah, let’s not forget: he was a guy, which meant stronger arms, heavier blows, and more endurance. All things that made me grit my teeth harder with each strike I deflected.

Wanna be Charlie regardless.

“Still standing, Sword Queen?” he taunted between swings, his breath even, like this was some morning jog for him. “Love empowers me! My passion fuels my strength!”

“Awesome,” I muttered, dodging another heavy swing clumsily. “If you could channel a little less love and a little more chill, that’d be great.”

He didn’t respond—too busy charging at me again with that overzealous gleam in his eyes.

I had to admit; he was good. His style was fast and aggressive, but never reckless. He pressed forward without overextending, keeping a solid balance with every swing.

Okay, Charlie, think. If he will not hand you a win on a silver platter, you’ll just have to outmaneuver him.

I shifted my stance, keeping my movements light and quick, waiting for just the right moment to strike back. Amogelang’s weapon was longer, heavier, and annoyingly well-suited to keep me at bay.

Every time I tried to close the distance, he’d simply slide back with the ease of someone who clearly spent too many hours perfecting this dance of reach and retreat.

Great.

I just had to go for the style, didn’t I?

I bit my lip, silently cursing myself. I could’ve picked something practical—a sword and shield combo, maybe even a sturdy longsword. But no, I had to be dramatic, wielding a rapier and dagger like some fencing noble from a bad holo-novel.

I feinted left, trying to lure him into an over-commit, but he didn’t fall for it.

Instead, he pivoted smoothly, maintaining his perfect range advantage, his sword arcing in a wide, graceful sweep that forced me to backpedal once again. The crowd roared, clearly enjoying his relentless aggression and my mounting frustration.

Think, Charlie. Find an opening.

I scanned the terrain, weighing my options as I sidestepped another swing. That’s when it happened—I miscalculated.

One step too far to the right, and my foot landed on what I thought was a solid rock.

It wasn’t.

The damned thing was fake, part of Riker’s stupid damn set design, and it wobbled under my weight. I stumbled, arms flailing for a split second as I tried to regain my balance. That was all the opening Amogelang needed.

He moved.

Fast, faster than I expected, closing the gap with a swift, powerful strike aimed straight for my off-hand.

I barely brought my dagger up in time.

Crack.

The blade clashed against his wooden sword.

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But the force was too much. Even with the block, his weapon slammed against my wrist hard enough to sting like hell, sending a jolt of pain shooting up my arm.

“Damn it!” I hissed through gritted teeth, shaking out my hand as I leapt back to create some distance. The dull ache in my wrist was already setting in, but at least I hadn’t dropped the dagger.

Small victories, right?

Amogelang grinned, clearly enjoying the upper hand. “Feeling the love yet, Sword Queen?” he called out, his voice smug.

“Oh, I feel something alright,” I muttered, flexing my fingers to make sure nothing was broken. The crowd cheered louder, clearly thrilled by the sight of me struggling.

I glanced around quickly, trying to find a way out of this mess. Alright, Charlie. Time to get serious.

He’s stronger, has better reach, and you’re down a hand that now feels like it got hit by a truck.

Lovely.

What’s plan B?

Plan B: The flow technique.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I closed my eyes, casting out every stray thought.

The ache in my wrist faded into background noise. The crowd became a distant hum.

Nothing mattered but him and me.

I heard his footsteps shift, felt the air stir as he moved. My lips curled into a faint smile as I opened my eyes.

He lunged.

I leaned into his strike, parrying with my dagger just enough to redirect his blade. My rapier flicked toward him, a whisper away from landing before he leapt back, barely avoiding the hit. His retreat was quick, but I didn’t follow.

No wasted movement.

“You’re already falling for me, aren’t you?” he called, smug as ever.

Didn’t register.

Didn’t matter.

Focus.

He attacked again—fast, brutal, wide arcs meant to overwhelm. I stepped back, half a step to the side, just enough to evade.

His sword whistled past.

Close.

But not close enough.

Minimal effort, maximum effect.

He swung harder, faster.

Another sidestep.

A faint rustle of fabric as his blade missed by mere centimeters. My rapier darted out, grazing the edge of his sleeve before he recoiled again.

Frustration rippled across his face.

“Stop dodging and fight me properly!” he barked, voice edged with irritation.

I remained silent, my eyes locked on his.

His movements were getting sloppier. More forceful, but less controlled.

He was trying too hard to break my rhythm, but he couldn’t. Every time he overreached, I punished with a quick flick of my blade, never fully connecting but close enough to make him hesitate.

He tried another wide swing. I didn’t even bother to parry, just shifted my weight slightly, letting the blade pass harmlessly by as I countered with a rapid thrust. He almost twisted in time, but my rapier pinched his side.

We’re even.

“Damn it!” he spat, backing off. “Why won’t you stop dancing around?!”

His frustration deepened, his stance faltering just slightly.

Not yet.

I could feel it—the opening was coming soon. One more mistake, and it would be over.

Time to finish this.

He started swinging wildly, each strike more reckless than the last. His breathing was heavy, and the smooth rhythm of his earlier attacks had devolved into sheer force. All muscle, no finesse.

Perfect.

I left out an opening—just enough to bait him—and allowed myself a small, knowing smile.

“You’re cheating on me with Riker, aren’t you?!” he yelled, voice echoing through the arena.

I didn’t respond.

No need.

His words were meant to distract me, but I wasn’t the one losing control. He lunged, aiming for the opening. I dodged, feeling the air hiss past my side.

Close.

He saw how near his blade had been and pressed harder, thinking he had me on the ropes.

Mistake.

His next strike was wild, over-committed. I parried with my dagger, forcing his blade down in one smooth motion. Before he could recover, I snapped my rapier up, its point stopping just at his throat.

His eyes widened.

The crowd erupted into cheers, but before I could fully enjoy the moment, he burst into laughter. “You’re the best, Sword Queen! Forgive me—I just love taunting during a fight!”

Of course he does.

At that moment, Riker’s voice boomed across the arena, grandiose as always. “And behold! Our radiant champion stands victorious once more! What a dazzling display of skill and poise!”

As the cheers grew louder, my opponent turned toward the crowd, raising his arms and shouting, “I fought like this every match!”

The laughter from the audience confirmed it. Apparently, they knew exactly what to expect from him. Internally, I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in the back of my skull.

Of course, he’s everyone’s favorite love-sick sword idiot.

Outwardly, I gave a regal nod, because why not play up the role while I had the audience?

“Thank you, dear suitor,” I said with exaggerated grace. The crowd roared with laughter as I gave a theatrical flourish of my rapier, spun on my heel, and dramatically stalked toward the backstage area. “Maybe try poetry next time—might hurt less.”

Once I was out of sight, I let out a long, tired sigh. Honestly, if every fight was going to be like this, I would need a drink—

Bad Charlie! No drink!

My inner voice sounded annoyingly like Adam, and I had to mentally slap myself. No whiskey. Just soda. It’s fizzy, it’s harmless, it won’t start a lecture from my brother.

See?

Good Charlie!

I plopped down onto the nearest sofa and took a deep breath. Sure, I wasn’t completely wiped like I would be after battling a boss, but my muscles still ached, and my mind was buzzing from the effort.

Women are weaker. Can’t cheat nature here, I guess. A smirk played on my lips. But I could cheat with a strategy and a lot of elegance—worked well enough so far.

“Lady Charlie, here’s your towel,” Lola said as she approached, offering a neatly folded towel and—oh, blessed soda. She only mentioned the towel, but my attention zeroed in on that cold drink like it was the Spear of Destiny.

Without thinking twice, I grabbed it and gulped it down in record time, the cool fizz easing the dryness in my throat. “Thanks, Lola,” I said, grinning at her. “It was a win after all. But holy Nathan, that was hard.”

“Holy Nathan?” Lola raised an eyebrow, clearly confused.

And, of course, Jerry had to chime in. “You do say that sometimes.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez, then!” I laughed, wiping sweat from my brow with the towel. “Can’t even have my weird exclamations without getting called out, huh?”

I tried to relax a bit more, sinking deeper into the couch, but that plan was doomed the moment Riker’s voice echoed through the room, blabbering some nonsense I couldn’t even be bothered to decipher.

Ten minutes of calm? Too much to ask. Groaning, I got up and walked toward the door, ready this time to avoid the awkward where’s Charlie? moments.

Just in time, too.

“Sword Queeeeeen!” Riker’s exaggerated yell practically shook the walls. “The Chosen One stands ready to face you!”

I gave myself a quick check, smoothing out the fabric of my dress and trudged toward the stage, my steps deliberately slow.

As I approached, I spotted the so-called “Chosen One” standing next to Riker. He was the man I’d noticed earlier—the one with the quiet confidence and slightly too polished appearance. He had that whole mysterious, stoic warrior vibe going on, like he was auditioning for a dramatic martial arts flick.

This’ll be fun.

“Rapier and dagger versus dao and chains!” Riker announced with way too much enthusiasm, his grin so wide it threatened to split his face. I took my position across from Kai, eyeing his weapon setup.

A dao and chains? Really?

Riker, clearly loving every second of this, raised his arms dramatically. “Will Kai seize the throne? Let the clash of champions begin! Witness the… battle!”