"I’ll give you one more chance after seeing that you are decent enough. How about you forfeit now?"
"Thank you for the suggestion, but I must decline. I have my own ambitions, as any person does."
"...You’re aiming for the prize. You have some grandiose ideas above your station."
Gareth clicked his tongue, further lowering his opinion of his opponent.
"Well then, you will die by my hand."
...And then match began.
The moment the words left Gareth’s mouth, he lunged.
His movements were fast—fast enough to startle the average viewer. His footwork was sharp, trained, refined. His sword shimmered in the sunlight, coming down in a clean, vertical arc aimed directly at Julies’s shoulder.
A strike meant to end the match quickly.
Metal scraped against metal. Julies’s blade was there, waiting for it. Not late, not early. Perfect timing.
The clash sent a ripple of murmurs through the crowd. Gareth’s expression twisted, not in pain, but confusion. Just slightly.
Julies didn’t press the advantage.
He simply stepped back, blade held in a reverse grip now, as if adjusting to something only he understood.
"You blocked it," Gareth muttered, brows furrowing.
Julies didn’t respond. He remained poised, focused—not on Gareth’s words, but his stance.
"Very well," Gareth muttered. "Let’s see how long you can keep up."
He charged again, and this time, the strikes came faster—horizontal slashes, angled thrusts, deceptive feints.
Julies parried each one with minimal movement. He didn’t try to overpower Gareth. He didn’t need to. His strength lay in precision—his ability to see openings and preserve energy, to avoid being drawn into the chaotic rhythm Gareth wanted to impose.
Each time their blades met, Gareth’s attacks grew more violent. More erratic. He expected Julies to stumble. To panic. To break form.
But Julies just... moved.
Like water avoiding rocks.
He didn’t just dodge. He flowed.
And then—Julies ducked under a wide swing, letting Gareth’s blade whistle past his head. With a flick of his wrist, he tapped Gareth’s ribs with the blunt end of his blade.
A light touch. Not a wound.
I could’ve struck you there.
The audience gasped. Even some of the nobles leaned forward, brows raised.
Gareth’s face reddened—not from exertion, but embarrassment.
Before Gareth could finish his sentence, Julies cut in smoothly, his tone far too casual for the tense moment.
"That armor of yours... it’s quite the piece."
"The lion emblem on the chest, and those gemstone eyes—magic stones, aren’t they? That’s not just some ceremonial armor. Is it a relic?"
Gareth blinked, momentarily thrown off. His lips parted in confusion, unsure whether to feel insulted or flattered. Julies’s eyes, however, didn’t lie—they gleamed with open interest, like a merchant eyeing a rare treasure.
The way Julies tilted his head, slowly examining the armor from head to toe, sent a chill down Gareth’s spine. Not from fear.
From the sheer audacity.
"...I misjudged you," Gareth muttered, narrowing his eyes.
The man in front of him—this so-called servant—wasn’t intimidated. Not in the slightest. He didn’t posture or threaten.
Like he was already imagining what it would be like to rip the armor off Gareth’s body and claim it as his own.
Gareth raised his great sword again, this time gripping it tighter—not out of strategy, but emotion. He wasn’t thinking about form now. He wasn’t analyzing distance or timing.
He just wanted to shut Julies up.
With a growl, he surged forward, this time not with the finesse of a noble-trained warrior, but the rage of a man whose pride had been pierced.
Steel met steel again.
Julies didn’t flinch.
Even as Gareth bore down on him with strikes heavy enough to shake a lesser man, Julies moved with a calm that was almost maddening.
His steps were light, his blade subtle. Every time Gareth tried to corner him, Julies sidestepped, countered, or redirected.
A flick of the wrist. A slight angle of the guard. A pivot of the heel. Efficient. Effortless. Disrespectful.
To Gareth, it felt like fighting a ghost.
This time on his elbow joint.
Gareth recoiled instantly, feeling the dull sting where Julies’s blade had tapped him again.
And again, not meant to injure.
You’re too slow here, too.
"You bastard," Gareth spat, spinning around with a reckless backhanded sweep.
Julies ducked under it, dragging the flat of his blade along Gareth’s thigh in response.
It didn’t hurt, not really—but the audience saw it. All of them did. Nobles, instructors, cadets. He could feel their eyes, could hear their murmurs, their barely-hidden laughter.
Julies finally spoke, voice still level. Cool, almost casual. But the weight behind it was undeniable.
"You use a heavy weapon. You wear magic-forged armor. You rely on force, pressure, weight. That works on people who get overwhelmed."
"But you can’t overwhelm me."
Gareth’s fury peaked. He let out a shout and activated the magic core embedded in his armor.
A surge of light pulsed from his chest as heat and mana radiated outward like a furnace, and the lion’s emblem on his armor glowed a fierce crimson.
The crowd roared. Some even stood.
Now this was a relic in motion.
Julies didn’t move. Not an inch.
"Oh... So it is a relic."
It wasn’t admiration.
"You really plan to take me on with that smug face?" Gareth growled.
Julies smiled faintly. Not wide enough to be a smirk, but enough to irritate.
"I don’t plan to take you on," Julies said.
The relic-enhanced blow was monstrous, cleaving through the air with a roar of burning mana. The impact cratered the dueling stage where Julies had just been.
Some people gasped. A few thought it was over.
But as the smoke cleared—
Julies stood behind Gareth.
Blade raised, aimed at Gareth’s nape.
Every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn, to attack again—but he didn’t move.
If Julies had struck with killing intent... it would’ve been over.
But that doesn’t mean he was going loose a servent of the Draken family when his real goal was Alice Draken!
He is still hasn’t used his aura.
At that moment, A colorless aura surged around Gareth’s greatsword. Julies frownd and quickly put a distance between them.