The scarred man sneers and steps forward, casually swinging his blade with one hand. I immediately retreat, stepping out of range as the blade cuts nothing but empty air. After all, there’s no real force behind the attack—it’s a probe, an attempt to take my measure.
He makes several moves, each one wider and sloppier than the last, deliberately leaving openings for me to take. However, I refuse to take the bait. This too plays into my hand, as it buys me time to catch my breath from the earlier fight.
The bandit pauses, then raises an eyebrow. “Were you trained to fence with words or swords? For all your talk, you’ve done nothing but run away. This isn’t a game for children to play.”
“Your taunts are as sloppy as your swordplay,” I counter. “Crossing blades with you is an insult.”
With a frown, he begins to take things seriously, lunging forward with real attacks. From there, we dance back and forth, blades clashing and disengaging. To my surprise, his technique is awkward and clumsy. Despite his ease with a sword, he does not seem to have been trained to duel at any sword school in Korsa. For all his bravado, he is no better than an untrained amateur. His defeat is only a matter of time.
Not long after, he overextends and I capitalize on his mistake, batting his blade to one side with a parry and lunging forward to stab at his chest. He stumbles backward and narrowly avoids being skewered by a hair’s breadth by twisting to the side. From there, he’s on the back foot, ducking and twisting to avoid a rapid flurry of slashes and thrusts as he retreats.
As my momentum builds, I finally transition into the classic Tempest Blade forms, whirling through the air with powerful, unpredictable slashes of the blade and sweeps of the leg. As the pressure builds, he stumbles, steadily giving ground.
All of a sudden, I pause my assault, stepping back and taking a moment to stare at him with narrowed eyes. Something’s wrong. There is no panic on his face. His gaze is unusually sharp—focused not on the tip of my blade, but instead on my hands and feet.
Taking advantage of the momentary respite, he breaks the silence. “With skills like that, you call yourself a noble?”
I clench my jaw and glare at him. “What’s wrong with my skills, bandit? All you’ve done is scurry away, and you think to insult me?”
“Oh, no,” he denies with a smirk, “your form is excellent. You haven’t been wallowing in excess—I’ll give you that. And you’re what? Fourteen? Fifteen? What style is that?”
“The Tempest Blade Style,” I answer proudly. “Fourth-generation, from the lineage of Master Fenis.”
He laughs derisively, lip upturned. “That must be one of the famed Cinnabarn Sword Styles. Of course. I should have expected it.”
“A style you’ll never learn,” I mock. “It’s not taught to bandits.”
“A style I’ll never want to learn,” he counters. “Rigid and impractical … it doesn’t work. What use is elegance on the battlefield?”
“And what would you know about the blade arts?” I challenge. A common bandit has no right to criticize what is beyond him—a generational legacy built from the blood and sweat of masters prior.
“What would I know?” he asks slowly. “Tell me, have you ever seen your teacher ever fight on the battlefield? Or only in sparring?”
“She’s accepted duels,” I defend. “Open challenges. And won.”
The scarred man shakes his head. “I’ve heard about Cinnabarn duels. It’s entertainment. They don’t mean anything. I heard they even gamble over the outcome! Tell me, boy, has your blade ever reaped a life? You threatened to kill me earlier. It’s not as easy as you’d think. Have you ever watched a man’s life fade from his eyes? Have you ever knelt next to your friends, trying to staunch the blood and stop their guts from spilling out?”
I swallow, taken aback at the abrupt intensity in his tone.
“You asked me what I know? Let me show you.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He shifts his stance—one foot to the rear and the other to the front—and grips his blade with both hands, raising it high. The form is flawed. In Cinnabar, he would be laughed out of town. And yet, I cannot help but feel uneasy.
And then he shouts something I can’t quite make out, exploding forward with an overhead swing. I barely manage to bring my own blade up in time to block, but the powerful impact jars my hands and leaves my arms shaking. Barely a moment passes before he swings again, just as forceful as the last.
This time, I learn my lesson, deflecting his blade to the side, rather than blocking it. And yet, before I know it, he swings again, and again, and again. I can do nothing but step back, doing my best to ward off his blows as my hands grow numb and my shoulders tremble, even when I know it is coming.
There is nothing elegant about his Sword Style. It is the approach of a brute, repeatedly bashing his sword with brute force. And yet, it is effective: fast, powerful, and ruthless. There are no wasted movements. Some small part of me cannot help but compare it to the Tempest Blade Style … and find the latter lacking.
And just as I begin to despair, feeling my grip begin to slip, I notice a brief lull in his assault. As he lunges forward again with an overhead swing, I duck forward and dive to his left, leaving his blade to swing by and miss. As his momentum carries him forward, I twist, sweeping my blade to the right. He immediately crouches, tilting downward so that the blade only cuts a few strands of hair.
He turns to look at me. “You have good reflexes. But you’re not a match for me.”
I ignore his taunt. “That style … where did you learn it from? You’re not a common bandit.”
He avoids my question and stands up, shifting into the same stance again.
“Look at you. I called you a leech, and I was not wrong! How many years have you spent in Cinnabar to have reached that level of swordplay at your age? What have you ever done for your people? You plunder their hard work while you remain lost in your ivory tower, ignorant to the world! Deaf to the suffering of your people!”
“Enough talk, bandit! I won’t have you accuse me of exploitation after catching you in the very act!”
“I’m done here,” he states. “Without Aura, you have no hope of matching me. Your Sword Style can’t even be used right.”
I tense and prepare as he raises his blade again to lunge forward. However, after I deflect his blade, he chooses to step in immediately instead of swinging again, and rams into my body with his shoulder. I stagger back, barely catching my footing and parry his blade once more, before he lowers his hands to my chest—blade still in hand—and shoves me, causing me to fall backwards.
Immediately, I scramble to my feet, bringing up my blade, but can only get halfway there before he plants his foot on my chest and pushes, putting all his weight into forcing me backwards once again.
Despite my best efforts, I am flung back, losing my orientation as I slide and tumble along the ground. My blade slips out of my grip, leaving me defenseless. I quickly roll to the side, blindly reaching for my lost weapon as I blink rapidly, trying to clear the stars from my vision. Just as the tip of my fingers brush against the hilt, I can feel cold metal pressed against my neck.
I freeze. How can a mere bandit—no matter how well trained—defeat me like this? Is he going to kill me now? Am I going to die just like that? I close my eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
“You’ve lost.”
I open my eyes to see the bandit withdraw his blade, shaking his head in disappointment. “Take this as a lesson on how the world works, little baron. The strong rule the weak.”
“No,” I refute. “Like you said, the Tempest Blade Style is incomplete without Aura. I admit you bested me—but you don’t understand it.”
He smiles bitterly, lips forming into a crooked grin. “I understand enough.”
And then his blade begins to glow with a soft, golden light and my eyes widen in disbelief.
“Without Aura,” he repeats, “you have no hope of matching me.”
As he walks away, I shout after him. “A man like you could go anywhere—why this?”
He stops, letting a long silence lapse, before turning his head. He looks up and down, eyeing my broken figure, then snorts. “Look at you. The clothes you wear. The state you’re in. A baron? Ha! We’re not so different, you and I.”
“We’re nothing alike,” I snarl furiously. To be compared to a parasite, someone who makes their living from thievery and plunder … death would be preferable.
“I used to think like you. But the world isn’t so black and white. Sometimes, you make do with what you get. You’ll understand one day.”
Before I can retort, he waves at his accomplices. “We’re done here. Just ignore him. Let’s move on.”
As they walk away with their ill-gotten gains, I raise my head and shout, “You won’t get away with this! It doesn’t matter how strong you are—you’re just a bandit! I’ll go straight to the capital and report you to the Emperor! I’d like to see you to take on the First Legion!”
The bandit stops once again, then turns slowly, a sneer on his face.
“For all that talk of the people, it turns out you’re just a hypocrite—or incredibly naïve. Do you really think the Emperor cares for the people? We’re nothing but ants in his gaze. If you can really bring an army all the way out here, I’ll turn myself in! Just ask around for Darren and you’ll find me. But first, a word of advice. People like us, we live and die by the blade. But you’re not suited for this. Give up and go home to live a quiet life.”
As he walks away, I attempt to stand, but my legs refuse to move. I clench my fists and grit my teeth to suppress my trembling fingers and chattering teeth. A whirlwind of emotions war within me, leaving my thoughts jumbled and confused.