Duke Phillips was on his daily walk through the streets of Ashford. He liked doing it each day to see the state of the town firsthand and help people whenever he could.

The sights, however, brought him great sadness. Beggars everywhere, most of them war veterans, many with missing limbs. Crime was rampant and the city was a breeding ground for violence and gang activity.

Though he wasn’t a particularly tall or broad man, his clothes, sword on the hilt—and one might even add his gut—were features that caught lots of eyes and attention directed to him each day. Guards offered to scout him but he refused.

“City guards should serve the people,” that’s what he would say most of the time.

As the duke of this land, it was his responsibility to deal with the problems of the city, but doing such was hard when your workforce went down by nearly 30% in the span of a two-year war.

Phillips sighed. “What have you done, sister, condemning 500,000 men to forced conscription,” he said, recalling how the orders of the Queen destroyed the economy of the North.

Draac was a powerful nation, known to the outside world as the Magic Kingdom, the place where people had the best opportunity to follow their talents and achieve greatness. Perhaps that was true in the richest cities in the south but it wasn’t the case in Ashford.

Here, children stealing and killing were becoming the norm. It terrified him.

Phillips had gathered the most intelligent people he knew to plan how to stabilize his domain and make it prosperous again. It would take around ten years for significant results though.

As the Duke walked through a particularly dangerous part of the town, a strange sight welcomed him. Several people were outside a large, seemingly abandoned building.

“I’ll go get the guards,” one man shouted, running in the opposite direction.

Phillips hurried his steps, reaching for a woman. “What’s happening?”

She looked at him, her eyes and mouth wide. She pointed to some open doors that led to the inside of the building. “There’s fighting in there. We heard an explosion—”

Phillips didn’t think twice and dashed towards the open doors before she could even finish. The sudden change from daylight to darkness was jarring, making him slow his pace and blink his eyes several times as they got used to the darkness.

“You better stop what you’re doing,” he said, brandishing his sword. His weapon glimmered in a faint blue light, illuminating his surroundings. The interior was murky and thick with the stale smell of damp wood and neglect.

It looked like some kind of warehouse as it had lots of shelves and crates all around. There were also a few broken ones though, the fight must have been going on for a while.

“Seriously?” someone said with an annoyed tone. “Who is it this time.”

The duke made his way through a stretch of shelves, following the voice until he saw it—a group of men, standing with clubs in their hands. Two people were on the ground, a seemingly young boy and an older man.

Both were extremely battered.

The kid had bruises all over his face and appeared unconscious. His dashing red hair was similar to Philips’ own hue, however the kid’s was considerably darker. The boy lay completely still, unconscious.

The man beside him looked burned. He let out painful groans, accompanied by blood spewing out of his mouth.

Phillips recognized the boy—this was the same child who had robbed his house not long ago, the same boy who had slipped through crowds with quick hands and clever steps. And there, standing with a knife in his hand, was the scrawny, short man who had accompanied the boy during the robbery.

The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place, but something still didn’t add up. Why was the old man, who looked on the brink of death, lying here? Were they killing a father and a son?

“Move, they need medical help right now,” the Duke of Frosthollow said in an imposing tone.

The men glanced at one another, then burst into laughter. One of them, a scrawny and short fellow with a knife in his hand, stepped forward. “Medical help?” he sneered. “You’ve got it all wrong, Duke. That old man you’re so worried about? He’s our leader. The kid betrayed us and did that to him. So why don’t you turn around and scram? We are dealing with it now.”

Phillips’ eyes narrowed as he looked at the unconscious boy again. Despite his small, vulnerable form, he went against these thugs.

Phillips could see himself in the boy as memories of his own youth flooded back. He remembered a past where although he had been born into great fortune, he was seen as a failure and was outcasted for the rest of his life. The duke was set on not letting other children fall short of their potential.

“No,” Phillips said, his voice steady as he stepped forward, his sword glowing brighter. “This boy might have made mistakes, but he’s still a child. And this man, your leader, he needs help too. I’m not letting anyone die here.”

The men exchanged glances for a few moments. Their faces were full of uncertainty upon the Duke’s unwavering gaze.

“Stand aside,” Phillips ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I will not ask again.”

The tension in the room was palpable, Phillips stood his ground, his sword ready. He wasn’t just fighting for the unconscious boy and the old man—he was fighting for the chance to make things right, to do what no one had done for him all those years ago.

“You’re… really…” the short man said, stepping away from the boy. “Annoying,” he lunged at the Duke.

Phillips barely had time to react, bringing his sword up to parry the man’s wild thrust. The clash of metal against metal echoed through the warehouse. The Duke, focused entirely on defense, though he struggled to keep up with the relentless attacks. Each time he blocked a blow, another came from a different angle, faster and more vicious than the last.

Despite his superior weapon, Phillips was no match for his opponent’s speed and aggression. His sword couldn’t make up for his lack of recent experience. His movements were stiff, his defense awkward, and his movements slow.

The smaller man moved with a much higher speed and precision.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Dozens of blows were traded in rapid succession. Phillips managed to block most, but not all—small cuts began to appear on his arms and face, blood trickling down his skin. The pain was sharp, but it was the frustration that gnawed at him. He was being outmaneuvered, pushed to the brink by a mere thug wielding a dagger.

“You should have just walked away!” the man snarled, his voice a mixture of anger and desperation as he lunged forward again, his dagger aimed directly at Phillips’ face.

‘I only need one strike,’ Phillips internalized.

Phillips didn’t move to block this time, instead, he stepped forward, his eyes narrowing.

With a swift, precise motion, he thrust his sword forward, the blade slicing through the air. The tip of his sword found its target, plunging deep into the man’s belly.

The thug’s eyes widened in shock as blood spilled from the wound, his momentum driving the blade deeper.

The man’s dagger grazed Phillips’ cheek, drawing a thin line of blood, but it couldn’t reach further. The pain was inconsequential compared to the surge of resolve that coursed through Phillips.

“You should never bring a knife to a sword fight,” Phillips said, a mocking smirk forming on his face.

The words were barely out of his mouth when his sword began to glow with a brilliant blue light, the magical energy within it surging to life.

Before the thug could react, a powerful shockwave erupted from the blade, blasting the man off his feet. He flew backward, crashing into a nearby wall with a loud thud. The impact was so forceful that the wall cracked, sending dust and debris cascading to the floor.

Phillips stood there, breathing heavily, his sword still glowing faintly in the dim light of the warehouse. He hoped that this would be enough, that these men would drop their weapons and give up.

His vision blurred from the sweat and blood falling on his face.

He shook his head, ignoring the sharp, burning pain he felt, and got into a fighting stance again, looking at the remaining four thugs.

“Just give up unless you want that too,” Phillips growled, his voice was coarse and tired.

His sword trembled, however, both by the strain his muscles felt and by the explosion of hormones throughout his body. The bandits exchanged looks, perhaps noticing the Duke’s state and thinking it was hesitation or fear.

“Shit—” Phillips cursed as they rushed at him from the front and sides.

Phillips swung his sword in a desperate arc, the blade cut through the air, forcing the first man back, but the other three were already upon him.

A heavy club slammed into Phillips’ side, with a crack followed by pain in his ribs. The impact knocked the wind out of him, leaving him gasping for breath.

Before he could recover, another blow struck his knee, sending a jolt of pain up his leg. Phillips dropped to one knee.

He looked up just in time to see a third thug bringing a club down toward his head. Instinctively, Phillips raised his sword to block the attack. The force of the blow shook his entire body, but he managed to deflect it, the club splintering against the glowing blade.

“Ughhhh,” He roared, summoning every ounce of strength he had left. He surged to his feet, swinging his sword with all his might. The magical blade cleaved through the wooden club, cutting it in an instant. The thug gasped in horror, stumbling back as fear overtook him.

But Phillips wasn’t finished. He slashed his sword horizontally through the air. Though the blade itself didn’t reach the man, blue energy shot from the weapon, a thin line of light that cut through the darkness. The energy sliced deeply into the thug’s chest, leaving a searing wound that bled profusely.

“Ahhhhh!” the man screamed, collapsing to the ground. He clutched at his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it was hopeless. The cut had been precise, the blue line etched across his torso from one side to the other. It was a fatal wound – within minutes, he would be dead without medical help.

Phillips breathed heavily, focusing his gaze on the others, however he could only see two thugs. Where was the last one?

At that moment, he felt a chill behind him. His instinct screamed at him.

Before he could turn around, a sudden force struck the back of his head. His vision got blurred and stars appeared everywhere as pain radiated from his skull. Phillips stumbled forward, barely managing to stay on his feet, but the world around him spun wildly.

He tried to regain his balance, swinging his sword in a desperate attempt to ward off his unseen attackers.

But it was too late.

He felt blow after blow breaking his body. He groaned in pain as his bones cracked one by one. The Duke coughed blood before receiving a blow in his lips. The shock sent him to the ground, cutting his lips and bruising his back.

At this point, he couldn’t see anymore. His eyes were covered by blood and were so bruised that it felt like being stabbed when he tried to open them. He felt his sword moving, being taken from him. He tried to fight back, grabbing it with all his might and bashing his fist into the legs in the direction the sword was being pulled to, but after having his arms bashed he let go.

His body had achieved its limit.

,“You should’ve walked away when you had the chance,” the thug growled, his voice thick with malice. The others, emboldened by their comrade’s success, advanced on Phillips, clubs raised high.

Pain shot through Phillips’ body as the blows rained down on him. He tried to protect himself, raising his arms to shield his head, but the strikes were unrelenting. By the end of it all, he could barely feel his body, his breathing shallow and interrupted by coughs due to the blood in his throat and mouth.

The thugs’ laughed.

But even as his body had given up, something deep within Phillips refused to surrender.

“I’m a Duke of Frosthollow… as a member of the Royal Family, I swore… to protect my domain from dogs like you,” he recounted his vows, his voice low and rough, filled with strained pauses.

“Huh, what nonsense are you spouting old man?” one of them said, getting closer to the Duke and kicking him on the side.

Phillips gasped weakly for air, gaining laughs from the spectators, however this was his opportunity.

He knew where they were now.

Gritting his teeth, he reached out blindly, his fingers closing around the ankle of one of the thugs. With a desperate burst of strength, he pulled the man by the ankle, yanking him off balance, causing him to crash to the ground.

The thug let out a surprised yelp, but Phillips didn’t stop. He lunged at the man’s leg and sank his teeth into it, biting down through muscle and flesh, feeling the hardness of the bone. The thug screamed in pain, kicking wildly to free himself, but Phillips held on, his tongue tasting the metallic taste of blood.

“Get off him!” one of the other thugs yelled, rushing forward. A heavy boot slammed into Phillips’ back, the force of the blow nearly making him stop the attack but he refused to let go.

Another stomp followed, and then another, each one driving him deeper into the ground. The pain was excruciating, but Phillips clung to the man’s leg, his resolve stronger than the blows raining down on him. Finally, he drew his mouth back, ripping flesh out of the leg in a desperate act of survival.

The warehouse was filled with the excruciating screams of the thug and the sounds of bones being broken. No one could stop the Duke however and that’s when—

“Drop your weapons!” a voice commanded. The sound of boots pounding on the floor filled the space, and the thugs froze, their heads snapping toward the entrance as a squad of guards stormed in, swords drawn and shields ready.

The thugs did as commanded, their bravado evaporating as the guards closed in.

One of the guards, a magic caster, hurried to Phillips’ side, his hands glowing with a soft, healing light. He knelt beside the Duke, whispering incantations.

As the warm magic began to ease Phillips’ pain, knitting his wounds closed. The Duke, who was closer to death than life, could finally open his eyes

“They need… help,” Phillips gasped, his voice hoarse from the struggle. He gestured weakly toward the wounded—both the unconscious boy and the battered thugs. “Save them… they deserve justice.”

The caster nodded, signaling for others to tend to the injured.

The guards moved swiftly, lifting the wounded over their shoulders. Phillips watched through half-closed eyes as they worked.

He was exhausted but it was worth it. There were many gangs in the town but Phillips hoped that this event would bring hope to the citizens.

He sat on the ground.

He could finally rest.