The hall was silent—only the steady crackle of torches and the muted breath of onlookers filled the vast space.
Alric and Castor faced each other, still as statues, the tension between them taut like a drawn bowstring.
Alric gripped his spear in both hands, its long shaft angled forward, the iron tip steady—pointed directly at Castor's chest.
Across from him, Castor stepped forward and, with a flourish, unsheathed his sword. The metal rang out as it left its scabbard, the sound clean, deliberate—a practiced gesture meant to be heard.
Then he moved.
Fast.
A blur of motion, Castor lunged—his blade already mid-swing, cutting through the air toward Alric's head.
But Alric had seen the attack in the set of his shoulders, the twitch of his lead foot. He was already moving.
With a sharp twist of his arms, Alric angled his spear upward, catching the sword just beneath its edge. Metal clashed on metal, the force of the strike echoing through the hall like a bell struck hard.
But Alric didn't hold the block—he tilted the shaft, letting the sword's momentum glide down along the spear's length.
The moment it slid past, he pivoted on his back foot, using the motion to whip the spear forward.
The tip of the spear snapped toward Castor's face, sudden and direct.
Castor recoiled just in time—the spearhead passed inches from his cheek, close enough to pull a gasp from the watching crowd.
He stepped back, resetting his stance, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Alric didn't pursue. He dropped back into his guard, spear lowered slightly, the shaft held loose but ready in his hands.
He was calm. Focused.
This was familiar ground.
Castor narrowed his gaze.
This time, Alric moved first.
He stepped forward with sudden speed, driving the spear straight toward Castor's chest in a clean, committed thrust.
But Castor was ready.
With a sharp pivot of his wrist and a sidestep to the right, he swept his sword down, catching the length of the spear near the head and knocking it aside with practiced ease. The clash rang out again—metal on metal, loud and fast.
The force of the parry tilted the spear upward, throwing Alric's angle wide.
Castor didn't hesitate.
He stepped into the opening with a short, explosive burst of speed, raising his blade and swinging low toward Alric's exposed ribs.
Alric's eyes widened—but his body responded before his mind could catch up.
He snapped the butt of the spear upward, catching the flat of the blade just in time, halting Castor's advance for a breath.
But the balance was wrong.
The earlier deflection had pulled Alric's stance off-center. The force of the block rolled up through his arms and into his shoulders, and he staggered back two steps, boots skidding slightly on the polished stone.
Castor pressed forward, his sword gleaming in the torchlight, sensing the shift.
But Alric planted the butt of the spear hard against the floor, halting his stumble.
He raised the weapon again—grit in his jaw, his breath steadying. Eyes locked.
Castor lunged in again, sword leveled for a driving strike.
Alric met him head-on.
He brought his spear up crosswise, bracing it with both hands. The weapons met with a sharp crack, and both men recoiled from the force—feet sliding slightly as the blow echoed through the stone hall.
But this time, Alric didn't hesitate.
Before Castor could reset, Alric charged again, spear leveled for the chest.
Castor raised his sword instinctively, ready to deflect the incoming thrust just as he had before.
But something felt wrong.
As their weapons met, Castor felt the spear glide, not clash. The iron tip didn't halt—it slid along the edge of his sword, following through with ghostlike precision.
Too late, Castor's eyes flashed with realization.
A feint.
The spearhead curved up, veering not for the chest—but the neck.
He twisted sharply, turning his head aside. The spear missed its mark—but not entirely. The sharpened edge grazed across the side of his neck, opening a shallow red line just below his jaw.
A gasp rippled through the watching crowd.
Blood trickled down Castor's collar, staining the black of his knight's uniform.
But Castor wasn't finished.
He used the glide of the spear to his advantage, shoving his sword forward with the same momentum. Alric felt the surge of pressure—but anticipated it.
He twisted his body, stepping sideways while knocking the blade off course with the haft of his spear.
Even so—the edge grazed his side, carving a thin, burning gash across his waist. The pain bloomed hot beneath his robes.
Both fighters disengaged, breathing hard, circling again.
Blood now marked them both—Castor's at the neck, bright against pale skin; Alric's at the waist, soaking into his tunic in a slow, dark smear.
Neither yielded.
Not yet.
Castor's hand briefly touched his neck, feeling the warm trickle. Alric adjusted his grip on the spear, breathing steady despite the burn at his waist.
They circled again.
Castor's form remained immaculate—blade at the ready, feet light, shoulders poised. He fought like someone taught by scrolls and masters.
Alric didn't.
He fought like someone who had learned with mud on his boots and arrows flying over his head.
With a sudden grunt, Castor darted in again, sword low—he feinted left, then slashed right. Alric backpedaled fast, parried the edge with a twist of his spear, and dropped low to the ground.
Then he did something no knight would have done.
He kicked.
A sharp, sweeping strike to Castor's shin—quick, brutal, and entirely unsanctioned by dueling etiquette.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Somewhere, a knight cursed under his breath.
But Castor reacted fast.
Mid-swing, he aborted the strike, twisting his wrist to kill the blade's momentum and slammed the hilt of his sword into Alric's boot, intercepting the kick. The clash was rough, unrefined—but it worked. Even so, the force drove him back, staggering a step.
Alric didn't let up.
In the blink of an eye, he charged again, spear lowered, and slammed his shoulder into Castor's chest like a battering ram. The impact sent Castor skidding backward.
But he'd adapted.
Learning quickly, Castor twisted with the force, letting it spin him. His lead foot grounded him, and in a flash of steel and footwork, he pivoted behind Alric in a single, fluid arc.
Alric's forward momentum betrayed him—he couldn't stop in time.
But he used the base of the spear like a third foot, jamming it into the stone floor to brace his skid. His back exposed, instinct screamed through his body—and he didn't turn.
He thrust the spear behind him.
A jolt shot through his arms as steel met steel—the unmistakable ring of blade on weapon. Castor had swung, but the spear met the sword in a blind parry just in time.
Alric spun with the clash, turning just as Castor's sword sliced past his head, close enough to ruffle his hair.
His own spearhead passed Castor at the same moment, both weapons missing by inches.
But Alric didn't stop moving.
He planted his rear foot, shifted his grip—and pulled.
The spearhead arced back, and it didn't just swing—it snapped in a whip-like motion, bending unnaturally against the momentum as Alric twisted his whole torso to add torque.
The movement was crude, unknightly, borderline reckless—like trying to swing a farming tool rather than a weapon—but it caught Castor off rhythm.
He stumbled again, just a half-step. But in a duel, that was all the space Alric needed.
Castor stumbled back—just half a step, but enough.
Alric saw the opening.
Without waiting, he lunged forward with a short, brutal jab—not a full thrust, but a precise punch of the spearheadaimed at Castor's sternum. It landed with a thud, knocking the wind from his opponent's lungs and forcing him back again—right to the very edge of the platform.
Castor swung wildly, his blade grazing Alric's arm—but it was off-balance, defensive.
Alric twisted the spear in his hands and swept it low, hooking behind Castor's knee.
The knight's footing collapsed.
Castor fell. Backwards—off the edge of the stone platform. His sword clattered beside him. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, followed by a wheeze of lost breath.
The hall went silent.
Above, Alric stood still—chest rising and falling, the tip of his spear pointed downward.
From his seat, the Commander slowly stood. "The duel is over."
There was no ceremony. No cheering. Just the weight of the decision and the judgment it carried.
Alric took a step back, lowering his spear.
But Castor didn't accept it.
From below, a sound—half snarl, half breath—escaped his throat.
His hand clenched into a fist.
Then the air changed.
Alric felt it first.
That same pressure—like a storm behind his ears, like heat under his skin. His instincts screamed.
His breath caught.
Aura.
From Castor.
Unbidden, unauthorized.
Alric turned sharply, raising his spear in reflex—but he was too far, too slow.
A white flash surged at the edge of vision.
But it never hit.
Because between him and Castor stood Benedict.
He hadn't drawn his sword.
He hadn't even taken a real stance.
He had simply stepped in, one hand still resting on the hilt, and with a sharp motion, he tilted the sheathed blade upward.
Alric did not see anything. it was too fast but he heard a muted boom, a rippling shockwave that rushed out in a ring, fluttering robes and rattling the torches. Benedict Red hair fluttered in the wind wildly.
The blast was gone in an instant—dissipated. Harmless.
Benedict didn't move again.
He looked down at Castor, who stared back, panting, eyes wide—not with pain, but with the realisation of what he'd done.
"He did not fight like a knight" Castor said in cold still voice.
No one standing their could refute him.
"That," Benedict said, voice low and cold, "was also not the act of a Holy Knight."
His words cut deeper than the spear ever could.
Castor lowered his gaze, tightening his face.
The Commander's voice rang out across the hall.
"Enough."
He stepped down from his seat.
"Alric of the Plains," he said, turning to face the victor. "You have passed your third trial."