Raphael Vs Charles

Raphael stepped backwards, narrowly dodging the vicious strike of Charles Thornbatch.

The massive, gruesomely dark blade whooshed past him, cutting through the air with terrifying force.

Even after the sword was withdrawn, it left behind a dark, shadowy essence that shimmered ominously, like a remnant of death itself.

But the Lord didn't slow down. As soon as his first strike missed, he adjusted his stance, pivoting on his heel and swinging again.

Raphael barely managed to twist his body out of the way, the blade slicing just inches from his chest.

Before he could recover, another strike came, and another—each one faster, more refined, more relentless.

Charles was an experienced warrior, and it showed in the way he wielded his weapon.

Every swing forced Raphael to dodge at the last second, his movements growing more desperate as the gap between them narrowed.

A low, guttural laugh echoed from beneath the Lord's mask as he pressed forward, his confidence growing with every moment.

Raphael ducked under a horizontal slash, feeling the wind of the blade pass dangerously close to his scalp. He stumbled back, his breath uneven.

If he wanted to survive, he needed to do something.

Rachael. Naomi. Answer my calls.

A surge of power erupted from within him, a familiar and comforting heat blooming in his right arm. His palm burned, but not in pain—in power. White flames burst from his palm, roaring to life as they surged forward like a wave of pure destruction.

Charles Thornbatch barely had time to react. He stepped back, raising his sword in a futile attempt to defend himself, but Raphael wasn't finished.

His left hand clenched, and a second wave of fire erupted—this time, black as the void, consuming everything in its path.

The twin flames twisted and intertwined, white and black spiralling together, a fusion of destruction that lit up the area with brilliance.

The heat rippled through the air, warping the space around it, making even the ground beneath them crack and smouldered.

Charles hesitated.

Though his mask hid his face, Raphael knew that if he could see underneath, the Lord's expression would be one of pure, unfiltered shock.

The flames crashed into him like a storm, swallowing him whole.

A scream tore through the battlefield. A cry of a man who thought himself invincible—now reduced to prey beneath the wrath of someone far stronger.

The dark armour that had once made him seem untouchable was now his prison, melting under the intensity of the fire. His once-powerful stance crumbled as he staggered, moaning in agony.

For a few moments, Raphael simply watched as the flames devoured his foe. His heart pounded, but there was no fear. Only certainty.

Then, through sheer willpower, Charles managed to move. He threw himself to the side, crashing onto the grass beside him with a thud. The flames sputtered out as Raphael lowered his hands, letting the fire fade.

What was left of the once-feared Lord of the estate was nothing short of pathetic.

Charles Thornbatch lay sprawled on the ground, his proud armour melted away, leaving his body bare in places, the metal fused to his flesh in others.

He was still clutching his sword, but his grip was weak, his hand trembling. His body convulsed as he gasped for air, his dignity burned away along with his defences.

Slowly, he raised his head, his now-exposed face twisted in horror as he looked up at Raphael.

"I-I'm sorry!" he stammered, his voice raw and desperate.

Raphael's eyes narrowed.

Is he really this weak? That didn't take much to beat him. However, I do feel drained from using the two powers at once.

I'll need to practise more...

Around them, the guards stood frozen, their expressions carved with disbelief. The man they had served, feared, and worshipped sat broken on the ground before a mere student.

Evelyn, however, was the complete opposite. Her face was practically glowing with joy, her hands gripping the hem of her skirt tightly.

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushed. There was something undeniably exhilarating about watching Raphael stand so dominant, his power undisputed.

A smirk curled at Raphael's lips. He turned away from Charles without a second glance.

"Perhaps you have learned to never underestimate your opponent," he said, his tone calm, almost amused.

He began walking toward the estate's exit, his posture relaxed—as if the battle had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

"Guards," he added over his shoulder, his voice indifferent. "Make sure you spread the news. Your lord has been beaten by Raphael Brooks of the Rose School."

Evelyn's eyes lingered on Charles, the man who was supposed to be the father of her boyfriend.

This is the man I was meant to someday call father? She thought, her lips curling in disgust.

Whatever interest she had left in Leofric before—it was gone now.

Her gaze shifted back to Raphael, watching him walk with confidence, his chest high, his presence commanding.

This man… he's the one I want to be with.

She didn't care if she wasn't the only woman in his life. That didn't matter.

As long as she could have him—be close to him, enjoy him and his body—that was enough.

Without hesitation, she hurried after him, instinctively reaching for his arm and pressing herself against him as they left the estate behind.

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