Clang!
The screech of metal on metal rang out.
Just as Artorius's sword was about to collide with Henry's raised greatsword, it suddenly twisted. With a masterful flick of the wrist, he struck the flat of Henry's blade at a precise angle, knocking the heavy weapon aside.
His follow-up slash tore across Henry's chest.
Sparks erupted.
The blade only left a shallow gouge in the thick plate armor. Artorius was immediately forced to pull back and parry a savage return blow from the greatsword, the sheer impact driving him back two steps.
"Heh... hehe..."
Artorius gasped for air, his chest heaving as he tried to reclaim even a shred of his depleted stamina.
He had carved a path of blood to get here, and he had inevitably taken several hits during the earlier melee. Now, every swing of his sword sent a searing tear through his existing wounds. He felt hollowed out, as if his very strength was leaking into the dirt.
The wounds on his shoulder and waist, which had been stabilized by healing magecraft, had split open again. Blood soaked his clothes anew, and the hand gripping his sword had begun to tremble uncontrollably.
"You are strong."
Henry didn't press the attack immediately. Instead, he looked down at the fresh scores on his breastplate, then back at Artorius's youthful face with genuine wonder.
"I hate to admit it, but you are better than me."
If he hadn't been encased in heavy plate, he would have been a corpse several times over by now.
"But unfortunately, your luck has run out. You met me."
"I will kill you, and I will hang your head upon my wall as a trophy to honor your skill. As for your sister, she will become my wife. As an exceptional breeder, she will bear me warriors as strong as you."
"Brother, leave me! Just go!" Artoria cried out in anguish.
"Long live our Chieftain!" the Saxons roared.
This was, by every definition, a desperate situation.
His stamina was gone. His wounds were bleeding out. While the enemy's raw skill was inferior to his own, that armor bridged the gap all too well. If this continued, Artorius wouldn't even need Henry to finish him; the surrounding Saxon soldiers would eventually swarm him and tear him apart.
And so...
Stay calm.
"The more desperate the situation, the more you must remain calm."
The teachings of his foster father, Sir Ector, surfaced in his mind. Standing in the center of the chaotic, flame-licked battlefield, Artorius slowly closed his eyes.
"Calm..."
His breathing began to steady. As one sense shut down, the world around him became sharper.
He heard Henry's taunts.
He heard Artoria's pained sobs.
He heard the raucous cheers of the Saxon soldiers and the distant, agonizing wails of the townspeople being tortured, violated, and slaughtered.
Every sound surfaced clearly in Artorius's mind, but he systematically purged every stray thought they brought.
He ignored the pain. He ignored his exhaustion.
He cast aside his worry for his sister.
He abandoned the rage he felt toward the man who had hurt her, and he discarded the fear of what would happen to her if he fell. All that remained was...
"Calm."
Artorius meditated in the eye of the storm. His mind emptied until only the enemy before him remained. He loosened his grip on his sword, holding it with just enough tension to stop the trembling.
His thoughts went blank—No-mind, No-thought.
He stopped thinking about techniques. He focused only on himself and the enemy he could no longer see. The sounds of the world vanished. It was as if he and the Saxon were the only two beings left in existence.
"Giving up?"
Henry sneered, but a sudden, inexplicable sense of unease bubbled up within him. He laughed it off, shaking his head to dispel the nonsense.
I don't know what I'm worried about.
The boy was exhausted and wounded, bleeding from multiple gashes. Henry himself was in heavy armor and at the peak of his strength. There was no mathematical possibility of loss.
"It's time to end this."
They had been raiding the town for some time now. Though he had stationed men to intercept any messengers, the delay would only last so long. Celtic nobles from nearby castles would surely have noticed the smoke by now. This wasn't the lawless border; this was the heart of the kingdom.
The lords here wouldn't turn a blind eye like the border barons who only cared for their own survival. Furthermore, these two siblings clearly came from high-ranking stock...
"As a worthy opponent, I shall grant you a painless death."
Henry spoke in a low rumble, hefting his greatsword as he strode toward Artorius.
Even though the boy's eyes were closed—looking for all the world like he was awaiting execution—Henry didn't lower his guard. He kept his body coiled with tension. Only when he was within striking distance did he raise his greatsword high.
In that exact heartbeat, Artorius's eyes snapped open.
Danger!
Alarm bells screamed in Henry's mind. He instantly aborted his attack, pulling his sword back into a defensive posture.
In that same split second, Artorius's blade whistled upward.
There!
Judging by the trajectory of the swing, Henry predicted the point of impact and adjusted his guard.
But in the next instant, Artorius's sword performed a violent, mid-air pivot, slashing toward his throat.
"I've seen through all your moves!" Henry snarled.
The neck was the only vulnerable gap in his armor; he would never leave it unprotected. The moment Artorius shifted his stance, Henry raised his armored gauntlet to shield his throat.
Instead of looking to parry again, Henry drove his greatsword downward toward Artorius, determined to trade a minor hit for a kill. If he just stayed on the defensive, the boy would eventually collapse from blood loss anyway.
But he was Henry Duncan!
Son of the Lion Tribe's Chief, a warrior favored by the White Dragon, and the future ruler of his people. If he were forced to hide behind a shield and wait for an unarmored, underage boy to tire out before he could kill him...
How could he ever face his tribe again?
How could he face his parents, or challenge his brother for the throne? How could he offer his loyalty to the Great White Dragon Queen?
"Checkmate!"
Henry laughed as his blade descended, already imagining Artorius's head rolling in the dirt.
But Artorius moved again.
As if he had anticipated the counter-attack, he dropped his center of gravity to an extreme low, twisting his waist with such violence that the "guaranteed" killing blow whistled through empty air.
No—it didn't completely miss. The greatsword carved a chunk of flesh from Artorius's back.
Crimson sprayed.
Yet Artorius didn't slow down. He didn't even grunt. His face remained a mask of cold indifference. As his body spiraled, he brought his sword up toward Henry's unprotected side-neck.
"What?!"
Henry tried to recover, but the momentum of his heavy swing made it impossible to pull back. He could only turn his head.
In the reflection of the cold, silver blade, he saw a pair of eyes devoid of all emotion.
In the next heartbeat, Artorius shifted again. His nearly-snapping ankles bore the brunt of his weight as he pivoted from Henry's side to his rear, performing a near-360-degree rotation to adjust his strike.
Shing!
A flash of silver erupted.
The world went silent.
The raucous cheers and taunts of the Saxons died in their throats. They stared, paralyzed, at the boy who stood half a step behind Henry, holding his sword in a follow-through pose, breathing shallowly.
The Chieftain's son stood frozen.
Henry still held his sword high. In his mind's eye, he replayed Artorius's movements.
So... even that strike to the side of the neck wasn't the real killing blow.
The boy had anticipated that if Henry didn't die from the first move, his pride would drive him to attack rather than defend. That final, spiraling strike to the back of the neck... that was the true end.
"I see. It seems... my death was earned," Henry whispered.
He suddenly smiled, and a torrent of blood surged from his lips.
"Tell me... your name...?"
"Artorius."
"Arto... rius..."
Henry murmured the name as a thin red line appeared across the back of his neck.
Blood geysered out.
Driven by the pressure, Henry's head slumped forward. He fell to his knees, then crashed face-first into the dirt, silent and still. A faint smile—perhaps of self-mockery, perhaps of respect—remained etched on his lips.
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