The crowd that formed was at first just a few random bystanders, unsure what was taking place. They watched the heroes talking to a random person and nearly walking away, bored, wanting to go on about their own days. Until the laughter and the mocking. That slowed their pace.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6I9KJjAuDW
This wasn’t a friendly meeting. Seeing the water sword that followed, and the hero Leena retrieving her shield, caused more to stop and stare. Soon, a crowd gathered. Most were unsure how the others had heard the news, but each was quickly filled in with rumors that grew like weeds.
A merchant had mocked and challenged the hero. That much was true. But none knew why, and all agreed it was slander that needed to be stopped. So they watched, eager to see their hero humble this merchant who dared insult the light that helped keep their town safe.
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The Prince watched the crowd. It felt like a suffocating vice constricting around his throat, this circle of judgment, as if he were not in the right.
He was not a fool. He heard their voices. Each kept saying how the Light would make it right. What a stupid thing to believe. A girl that glowed did not make her a hero, even if she was willing to fight.
“To make it clear, so there is no misunderstanding.” Yarla shifted from the shadows into the center of their ring, stunning both the Prince and Leena. “This IS a duel for honor, agreed by both. It is to yield only, and victory is forced upon the other by a provable, fatal blow as the main requirement for said surrender, if not outright yielding?”
The Prince flinched a bit at the word ‘honor.’ He supposed it was true, but it felt wrong to be forced to prove such a thing to a commoner, as if their words had weight.
Yet if that was true, why had he let it escalate?
So he nodded and mumbled his understanding. Leena’s tired voice said it more clearly as she also nodded.
Yarla seemed reluctant to end it there, perhaps hoping to wound the Prince’s pride by showing he was challenging a commoner. But the action failed and instead bound them both deeper into what they both—the Prince and Leena—already sought: an end to the mocking from the other.
“So be it. I trust you both understand what is at stake here. I will intervene if it seems either of you lacks restraint and turns cruel.” She flowed back and faded into the blend of the crowd. Yet with those words, all eyes watched the Prince, as if he would be the aggressor, the one to take things too far. The implied insult cut deeper than he’d assumed it would. He held himself with what dignity he could muster. He would just have to show them why he wasn’t wrong.
“Well, little Len. Show me why you’re the hero.”
“Don’t call me that. Merchant, to you I am Leena. My friends call me Len.”
He smiled. That was better. She was engaging now, showing some spirit. It would make the duel more interesting. A few exchanges, a clean victory, and then they could talk, once she knew he was right and not trying to escalate this into a real fight. It would be fine.
Yet the waiting stretched into uncertainty. She was just… watching him. Still as water. He was water; he knew the flow of battle. She did not.
Fine. If she feared him so much that she wouldn’t move, he would strike first.
A testing blow. Keep it light, lest she break before the duel really even started.
Rushing forward, hoping to spook Leena, the Prince saw her standing open, unmoving. Everywhere was a clean strike, even with her shield in hand. Her gaze never wavered, never flinched, even as he arced the blade toward her face.
He was about to wince from the smack, from knocking her sideways and having to explain why he’d made the girl cry—a martyr who stood up for her loved ones while he struck her down. They would leave him having to prove why he wasn’t just bullying the weak. So the Prince tried to blunt the strike, to sting but not leave a mark.
CLANG.
The water blade met her smooth shield. Turned aside. Effortlessly.
The Prince blinked. Not once, but twice.
He hadn’t seen the shield move. One moment it was at her side, the next it was deflecting his strike. No wasted motion. No visible effort.
Just… there.
She watched him. Not breathing hard. Not tense. Even her tiredness from before seemed absent in her stare. She was…
Waiting.
“If you’re going to mock me, at least prove you can fight.” The words stung worse than any blade, delivered mere feet from him in that frozen moment.
“Forgive me for showing mercy,” his voice came out sharper than intended. “A mistake I won’t repeat.”
He did not reset his stance. He would match her defiant stare. He arced the blade again.
The echo of his blade, gracefully sliding from her shield as he was repeatedly turned aside with each strike, began to plant an absurd seed: perhaps she did have skill.
Yet that was when he heard the whispers of the crowd, and the festering wound on his pride could not bear it.
They saw Leena defy his blows as if she were merely waving her shield randomly to block the air, with all the carelessness she showed. But the awe she was getting for just standing there was too much.
He started focusing his strikes, no longer pulling the blade back to dull its edge. It was still blunted, but the force was now more than enough to leave a mark—one she would bear to reflect the shame she gave him.
Her stance shifted from carefree to more grounded, and all those easy, careless openings vanished into air. It impressed him. She was indeed a wall. But a wall was easy to crack if she just wanted to stand there. He felt victory with his blade arcing toward her face. What did he care for a shield that only tried to outlast him?
---
Terra gripped her hands tighter, even as the murmur of the crowd grew louder. She tried to block them out, watching her battle-sister. Leena was being so careful and controlled, looking to wear the merchant down. Terra knew that tactic well; her Da had taught it to her as a berserker’s weakness: all speed, no stamina makes you an easy target when you tire.
So Terra knew Leena was trying a similar tactic with this braggart. Let him swing his fancy mana sword, waste his mana and stamina trying to hit someone conserving their strength, and slap him lightly as he falls down. An easy win.
Yet maybe Leena forgot a side effect of Water Magic. It wasn't just controlling water; it could regenerate stamina, and depending on that merchant’s mana level, this dance would not end easily. She feared that would work against Leena even more, since they’d dueled the Wolf Tribe just the other day and traveled for days trying to hurry home…
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Yarla watched from the shadows, blending into the crowd, their voices long lost to her. She saw the pain on Terra’s face and regretted letting it go this far. But he was the Prince. So instead, she focused on calculating, seeing if she could predict the end.
The Prince’s first strike—pulled. Hesitant. Which was good; he was still trying to be gentle. Leena’s block—effortless. Surprisingly well-trained for a commoner’s birth. Perhaps it was wrong not to have researched her father further; maybe he had trained her. Yarla watched as it seemed Leena was conserving energy.
This could go one of two ways: Either the Prince would realize she was better and yield gracefully. Or his ego would force him to escalate until someone got hurt. Yarla suspected the latter. And she had no idea how to stop it without making everything worse.
Yet the slight pause from him gave her hope. Until the open mocking from both dashed that slight belief this would end easily.
---
The Light never failed Leena. She always felt it as a comfort. It healed her, made her whole. But one thing it never did, and why she envied Water users, was heal her fatigue.
No, mental and physical, she bore that weight whole. Both Light and Water Magic could heal wounds, but only the Light could mend them at a godlike rate—at the price of only healing physical wounds.
She deflected the merchant’s strikes easily, but did everything she could to hide her surprise. The strikes were too clean. Too precise.
That was not a merchant’s tactic. She’d trained hard against a berserker and knew well when a strike was wild and mad versus controlled. She had faced both from her trainer and the ogre.
This merchant… was too skilled.
As she shifted her form to take him seriously and end this, her folly was not mocking him, but showing him her skill. She’d assumed it would end in a few strikes, him tiring himself with a rant and throwing a tantrum at worst before he yielded.
But now, each strike was more pure, even as it tested her limits.
For him? She had no limits.
Even as the strikes came clearer, followed by three more, it was a dance she knew well and had never fallen in. But an ache she had never forgotten began to surface with each turning of the blade.
An exhaustion that was bone-deep, and the Light would never heal.
She needed sleep. She wanted an end to this stupid farce. Who was he? Why was he mocking them for just living and trying to move on with their lives?
She risked leaving herself open ever so slightly, lowering her shield.
An open strike from the merchant. He took the bait, too eager to strike, assuming she was too tired to fight.
She arced along the side of the blade as it passed by her, spun, and slammed the shield into the merchant. She assumed a perfect strike and was about to pulse her shield to end the fight.
But even as the shield slammed into the merchant’s flesh, he arced with the blow and spun mid-air into a new stance, ready for her follow-up strike.
It seemed both had skill the other had underestimated. She watched his smile as he rushed her once more, and the tiredness slowly crept up a little more.
---
The blow was heavy upon his flesh. He felt, more with instinct than knowledge, that the shield was enchanted and was about to pulse and shatter his ribs. He shifted his weight to let the blow pull him into the air and away from the follow-through strike.
He smiled, unsure that would even work. Truth be told, he’d used Water Magic to help make his stance flow more, using a bit to push off the shield. The timing was razor-thin, but he’d managed it.
Leena was taking him seriously now, which the Prince never thought she would. But seeing this change in her tactics and skill proved she saw this as a game and intended to mock him. So he had to go all out, lest he fall in shame.
Yet even as the dance between them echoed with the ringing of her shield and his blade, he could not break her form.
He hated cheap tricks, but he wanted a win. He would be the victor.
So he tried, making thin water tendrils beyond the blade, splitting his focus, trying to pull at her form. At first, it worked; he tripped her. As she was falling, he was going to finish her off.
But halfway to the ground, she slammed her shield and pulsed it, pushing herself backward, already in another solid defensive form.
Tsk.
It seemed he needed to keep using this tactic. He rushed once more, trying to bring her down. Even then, she kept almost striking him as he flowed with his Water Magic, narrowly avoiding her shield’s pulses.
If she were so boastful like him and insisted on no handicaps, the Prince feared she would have already won if this were a true fight to the death.
Yet her using a shield, and the rule being to yield or fall, gave both more leeway for recklessness, knowing it would end by making the other yield.
The Prince saw every strike she followed with a slightly slower counter. He feared letting this duel end on such a sad note. After she’d pushed him to be in his prime, he would not win by attrition alone. Even as he feared a careless strike from him would turn the tables.
So he focused and forced her hand with a bluff—but a truth she would not be able to understand.
He arced his water blade down in a heavy, crushing blow. Even a blunted water blade could crush. Leena knew it. She set her stance to block it rather than try to parry. That was the plan, and it sealed her fate.
The Prince used this moment for the final blow. He pulled water at her feet, a sudden tug. She could not keep her stance, nor use her shield to pulse upward, with his blade arcing down. She was forced to take it as it slammed her down.
He moved in for the ending.
“Yield.” He spoke it almost in a whisper. He had pushed himself further than he ever had and wanted it to end on a high note. She had fought him like a hero worthy to stand, but the duel needed to end before he could give that praise to the worthy one.
A hesitation, only for a moment. Then she closed her eyes and said the magic words he wanted to hear.
“I yield.”
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