The horns and claws, scales and tails, mixed together with a vindictive glare that seemed directed solely on him, he understood why they were called demons. If Kieran hadn’t experienced such a terrifying event at the Loftus Manor, he might’ve let out a minor scream here.
How come none of the nobles on his side were that strong?
Ponytail guy and the girl with a black dress darted forward.
“Handle her,” cried out Josette, the blonde noble, as she swatted away Ponytail’s claws.
Charging from the side, the chubby fellow, whose name was Raimund, intercepted her. Their blunted swords clashed. He whipped at her with his tail but she took it on her shoulder and pressed forward. Somehow, he dragged her away and the ringing of their swords grew quieter.
The situation at the front lines were dire. In a few moments, they’d be hounded by the rest of the other team. Ponytail knocked Josette down. She continued blocking as best she could. The twins fired two powerful bolts, stopping Kieran and his team in their tracks. They leapt into the fray and Bilal and their other teammate engaged. Less than five moves was all it took for the twins to overpower their opponent. Bilal, for all the boasting he did, was now bruised and on the backfoot.
Ponytail wrestled Josette’s gloved hand. Right as he was about to pull it off, Freckles tackled him.
“Stop,” said the Overlord before anything more could happen. “Five minutes have passed.”
Alban Warf glared at the fools cowering before him. Not only did they fail to quickly eliminate the pairs in the first round, their blunder and incompetence cost them a swift and easy win. With their energy depleted, the enemy somehow managed to hold out for another two rounds.
Blood ran down his fingers as his claws pierced his own scaly flesh. Azyir placed a hand on his shoulder, “Calm down. Each round they’ve been saved by the time. Now that Overlord Kaal’un has removed it, our victory is assured.”
Alban nodded, “Everyone listen. Our formation will be simple. My younger brother and I, along with Enzo and Lucia, will be the vanguard once again. Everyone else will provide support and aim to engage an enemy one on one while we claim the king’s glove.”
“You don’t mind if I reserve her, do you?” asked Enzo, their spymaster, as he pointed to the freckled girl.
“Do what you will,” replied Alban. “So long as it doesn’t impede your performance.”
On the signal of the Overlord, the fourth and last round began. Both sides knew who the kings were and all efforts were thrown at them and the people nearest to them. Throughout the previous rounds, the blonde and round-bellied nobles were the most troublesome followed by the freckled spymaster and thin peasant. Without those four, their king and false king, were simple prey.
Three rounds of humiliation suffered at the hands of an inferior enemy left a bitter taste in both him and his brother’s mouths. For all the shame this match shoved unto their name, they would wipe it all away with their opening strike. Not a single bit of their strength was held back as they tore through the opposing formation, rending them with their claws and crumpling them with their swords.
Enzo charged ahead, his sights set on the freckled girl who dispatched whatever remaining essence she had in a feeble attempt to stop him. Alban blocked one of her spells before, sturdy blasts filled with Earth Essence, but the spell’s overall size and speed had decreased. Enzo dodged and blocked them with ease.
A fierce black bolt shot toward Alban. Alban stepped out of the way and it collided with someone behind him, bringing them low. The shortest boy among the enemy sent it. He was the king. On his left hand they had clearly seen the mark and confirmed it in the third round. A boy who barely met the threshold of entry. If he had been through his Scaling, perhaps the match would have been more even.
Azyir, with one swift movement, disarmed a fool in their path and kicked him onto his backside. Lucia pinned him down and tore off his glove.
Many who followed him were now locked in combat with one other. In time, they would win based on pure numbers alone but there was no need. Standing between Alban and the enemy king were five people, one of which was embroiled in a duel with Enzo.
Their king, upon noticing them, decided to help his spymaster.
Alban stopped Azyir from chasing after him, “Focus on the ones in front of us first.”
“You’ll lose this rematch,” Lucia said, displaying her claws.
“I don’t think I will,” replied the blonde noblewoman.
Lucia leapt at her. All of a sudden the lanky peasant caught her mid attack with his sword. She blocked but the force pushed her aside. Without a second of respite, the overweight noble followed through, bombarding her with fists.
“Should we help her?”
“No, she can protect herself against them. The bodyguard is one of these two.”
They hid their marks by facing their palms to the twins. This kind of tactic, meant to buy time, would do nothing. No longer would the Overlord save them.
Azyir fought the blonde noblewoman while Alban faced off against the false king. The false king swung with his sword. Alban stepped back, the dull tip inches away from his face. It rebounded downward and he parried. He alternated between thrusts and cuts. While the fake’s swordsmanship may have held up to the standards in the safety drunk Blessed in the westmost territory, it could not carry the name of a household.
“You cocky bastard,” said the fake. “I’ll make you remember the Ganton name!”
Alban ended the farce with an upward cut, dislodging the sword front the false king’s grip. He swatted his claws away as if he were a child. Swat, swat, swat. A thrust aimed at the center of the false king’s chest sent him sprawling and knocked the wind out of him. Light reflected from the white glove.
Futile struggling. It was a sign of the weak. He tried to get away, but Alban planted a foot on his arm and pulled the glove off. His lip twitched. Rolling wind carried the dropped glove and Alban turned to see another disappointing sight. Enzo sat with defeat plastered all over his face, his glove laying flat along the arena floor.
Lucia was also in trouble. Another of the riff raff joined in the fray. A three on one situation. She dispatched the new foe at a lightning fast pace but it allowed the lanky peasant to land a solid blow.
The only competent person on his team was his brother, who’d soon be harassed by two more foes once Lucia fell.
“Did you think you needed only one person for me?” the freckled spymaster taunted. “Well you’re-”
Saliva flew out of her mouth as she hunched over. Alban removed his foot from her overly haughty gut and clubbed her down with his blunted sword.
He chuckled as the boy looked on in astonishment. “Shall we have a match between kings?”
Metal met the earth and he bared his claws. No one in this tournament would have been glad for Alban to have dropped his sword in favor of his blessings, as it meant their loss, but they would have earned a modicum of respect. This insolent child, however, kept the sword between them even as he audibly gulped.
Pathetic. You should have used your gifts.
It would be over in a flash.
The iron sword was dented and marred with scrapes and scratches. The boy’s swordsmanship lacked in comparison to the false king’s. His footing was unstable, his posture and grip weak. All of that coupled with his constant flinching almost made Alban laugh. Almost. Somehow, the boy managed to survive the important attacks.
Alban’s speed would wow no veteran warrior but against those who hadn’t experienced a real battle, they should have been blinded. Yet, this boy kept up. Each knee on the ground, each misstep he had, Alban followed with decisive blows. He always reacted just in time.
Unsure of whether to get angry at this absurdity, he dodged the boy’s point blank shadow bolt. If it hit, he’d have been in trouble. The boy leaned against his sword, sweat streaking down his brow. Azyir ran over.
Alban praised his younger brother, “I thought it would take you longer.”
“She was stronger than expected but I can’t believe your opinion of me was so low,” he said.
In the middle of their talk, the enemy king charged Azyir. He sidestepped the attempt and tripped the boy.
“I know you dispatched yours sooner than I did mine, but how come you haven’t claimed the king’s glove?” asked Azyir.
“Because I was waiting for you of course,” Alban stated. “The false king over there wasn’t the bodyguard.”
Azyir’s face contorted, “What? That woman wasn’t the bodyguard either.”
The boy chuckled, “Can’t beat me now can you?” In the time they were speaking, he climbed to his feet and placed the sword between them again.
“It was a very amusing game you played and I applaud you for your ingenuity,” Alban said. He nudged his brother. “But it’s over now.”
Azyir flashed his glove and the boy’s eyes went wide. It was the mark of the assassin. A red bolt emerged from his glove and struck him in the chest.
Alban grinned and raised a hand. The crowd’s eyes were glued to the exchange. He could already hear their applause. He and his brother would defeat anyone in their way and fight each other at the end of the tournament. This would be their first step to becoming respected warriors just like their father.
And then, Azyir screamed.
He fell on his knees, grasping his hand. His whole arm shook as his fingers went ridgid. In a matter of seconds he was left partly incapacitated and gasping for air.
The boy chuckled again, “Jokes on you, huh?” The small star that marked the king was clearly on the back of his glove but as he raised his hand, the red mark of the assassin was visible.
Now it made sense. Somehow the boy had replicated the king’s mark on the backside of his glove and hidden the assassin’s by wearing it on his left hand instead of his right.
Red streaked across his vision.
He refused to lose. He kicked up his brother’s sword and used it to absorb the bolt. The boy’s triumphant face dropped. Alban’s quick thinking saved him and unravelled the plan of his enemy.
After a second, the assassin’s mark activated. The boy experienced the same pain his brother went through. Unable to withstand the feedback of the spell circle, he collapsed.
Alban turned his attention to the bruised and tattered pair of people walking his way. Lucia had been defeated but she inflicted substantial injuries onto them.
The lanky peasant scoffed at the noble and showed him the king’s mark, “Almost got done in did ya? Like the surprise?”
“With you two in that state, do you really think you can win?” he mocked. Strong as they may be, they held no candle to him. “Another word from you and this loss will be significantly more painful.”
“Sorry, sorry. I was just buying time.”
Before he could respond, all his muscles tensed as a jolt ran through his body. He was eye level with the ground when someone walked over, “Jesus. That was harder than I thought,” said the boy with the assassin’s mark.
As he tried to understand the events unfolding, the crowd burst into thunderous applause. In the chaos he heard a servant's distinct cry for their “Young Master” and saw his glove get torn off.
"Just in case," said the boy.
