Chapter 9: Duel at Dawn
The training grounds fell into a tense, suffocating silence as Dren and Dexter circled each other—blades drawn, weapons gleaming under the amber hue of the rising sun.
"Enough circling. Come at me already," Dexter barked, a savage grin spreading across his face.
Dren said nothing. He moved in measured steps, blade low, eyes fixed like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"Well then—I’ll come to you!" Dexter roared, gripping Valkaris with both hands as he lunged forward like a storm unchained.
His movement was explosive—so fast it blurred at the edges. Dren barely had time to track him.
"Where’d he go?" Dren muttered through clenched teeth, spinning instinctively.
He expected an ambush from behind—but instead, the sound of clanking chains rang out above him.
"I’ve got you!" Dexter’s voice rang with manic glee as he descended from the sky like a vulture, his axes spinning death.
It should have been the end.
But in a split second, Dren’s left hand flashed. Rend flew into his grip, and before the crowd could even blink—steel met steel, sparks cascading like fireflies in the morning air.
With a forceful twist, Dren launched Dexter and Valkaris backward with the tip of his blade, sending shockwaves through the dirt beneath them.
Hunter weapons were no ordinary tools of war. They shared a soul-link with their wielder. Their strength, their will, their essence—they were forged from within. The more resolute the hunter, the more unbreakable the weapon.
Dexter, caught mid-air, twisted his body and retaliated with Rift, aiming to sever a limb mid-spin—but Dren dodged, the blade missing by a hair’s breadth.
The watching recruits could only stare, wide-eyed and breathless.
Dexter landed with a skidding thud, eyes alight with thrill. "Now that’s more like it, coward!" he laughed. "Thought you were confident enough to win with just one sword."
"I was," Dren replied calmly, raising Rift toward him. "Until I saw the hunger in your eyes. That mid-air strike was your opening move. It’s only fair I return the favor."
"Oh? I see now..." Dexter’s grin widened. "If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe you’re enjoying this."
"I’m simply ensuring you don’t see another sunrise in Celestis Rise if you keep playing games," Dren said, his voice cool, but eyes burning.
"I decide how my fights go and end," Dexter spat. "Not my opponent. Especially one who hasn’t earned the right to be called strong."
His arrogance reminded Dren of Kael. His old friend—his brother in arms. Confident, calm, powerful. A man who stood up for the weak when no one else would.
Dren had once been one of those weak.
He was born of the Northern Tribes—manipulative, powerful, feared. But not Dren. He had inherited none of their ruthlessness. Only solitude.
The only child of two bitter hearts, he had known nothing but cold stares and biting words. There was no warmth. No love. Just the echoing silence of not being enough.
He remembered the night everything changed—a cloaked man with a golden-hilted sword had walked through his village. A blade marked with strange, ancient symbols. Dren, barely ten, had watched him from behind a cracked window.
They called the man a Hunter.
And something in Dren’s heart stirred.
"I want to become one," he had whispered to the stars that night, dream blooming in a soul long starved of light.
But when he told his parents over dinner, he was met not with pride—but cruelty.
"Hunter?" his mother scoffed coldly. "Weaklings like you have no place dreaming that big."
"You’d make a better slave," his father sneered.
Their words cut deeper than any blade.
And that very night, beneath a lonely moon, Dren had made a vow:
I will become strong. I will protect the weak. Even if it kills me.
---
"Enough blabbing," Dren said now, his voice low, dangerous. Both blades gripped tight—Rend and Rift shining like twin fangs.
You could see it in his eyes—pure, unfiltered fury.
"Is that anger I smell?" Dexter grinned, licking his lips like a beast tasting blood.
They lunged at each other again—no flair, no games—just raw, brutal combat.
Dren’s movements were fluid, graceful yet lethal, his blades dancing like twin storms. Dexter was forced back, parrying each strike with gritted teeth. Sparks flew. Circles of dust erupted. The clash of weapon-on-weapon rang across the grounds like thunder.
Then, in a heartbeat—Dren vanished.
Dexter blinked, blood pounding in his ears.
"Hiding already?" he sneered, looking around—but saw nothing.
Then—a flash from the shadows.
A blade lunged forward—straight for Dexter’s face.
He barely shifted—just enough to avoid being impaled—but blood gushed from a fresh gash across his cheek.
The crowd gasped.
"You weren’t kidding," Dexter muttered, touching the blood and licking it. "Who would’ve thought a coward like you had a taste for flesh."
The circle of watching recruits dissolved. This was no spar. This was a war.
"I warned you," Dren said simply.
"I thought we were putting on a show," Dexter growled.
"We are. I’m just complimenting the animal in front of me."
Dexter laughed, dark and wild. "You’ve almost made calling you weak feel like a lie. Almost. Let’s stop holding back."
And so they did.
The battle raged on. Blades clashed, chains cracked, fists met flesh. Hours passed. Blood stained the earth—minor wounds from dozens of exchanges—but neither man yielded.
Hunters and trainees alike gathered to watch, drawn by the commotion. Even the guards from the keep leaned over the ramparts, whispering in awe.
"Why won’t you yield, damn you?" Dexter roared, sweat and blood dripping. "I’m stronger! There’s no way I lose to the likes of you!"
Dren’s voice was calm, but sharp. "Is that what you tell yourself every night before sleep?"
Their weapons met again with an earth-shaking crash.
"You talk about strength and weakness like you’ve known both," Dren spat, circling. "But you haven’t lived either."
"You think I care?" Dexter screamed, rage boiling over. "In this world, you’re either strong or you’re dead. I’ll be damned if I fall into the latter!"
Dren moved.
Faster than lightning.
Rift swung high—Rend slashed low.
A simultaneous attack—beautiful in its brutality.
Dexter tried to block—but his grip faltered.
With a cry, he was knocked off his feet, slamming into the dirt—defeated.
The crowd froze. Silence fell like a curtain.
Dren stood over him, blades drawn, chest heaving—but victorious.
"You lost because you were chasing a power you never understood. What you worshipped was never yours to wield. You weren’t strong — just a pretender, thrashing like a beast, blind to the truth of your own weakness."
Then—
A shadow moved beyond the crowd. A cloaked figure, tall and quiet, watched from the training ground gates.
A hunter whispered, voice tight with unease: "That’s... Thadeus."
One of the Twelve Vanguards.
The cloaked man turned, eyes meeting Dren’s across the crowd. He said nothing—but the message was clear.
He was looking for Dren.