The Duel of Fate

The coliseum of the Academy of Veythar stood tall beneath the crimson evening sky. Hundreds of students filled the marble stands, eager to witness the Academy's first official duel. This was more than a fight; it was the first true display of hierarchy, skill, and dominance. Victors would cement their status, while losers would be branded as weak—easy prey for the ambitious.

At the center of the arena stood Raine Vaelor and Aldric Valtheris.

The outlaw and the noble.

Two men from different worlds, clashing for the first time.

The instructor raised his hand.

"Begin."

Raine barely saw Aldric move.

One moment, his rival was standing still. The next—his blade was already in motion. A sharp, controlled thrust shot toward Raine's shoulder with lethal precision. He reacted on instinct, twisting his body to the side and raising his saber just in time. The impact rattled his bones, the sheer weight of Aldric's strike sending him stumbling backward.

The crowd murmured in approval.

Aldric pressed forward like a relentless storm, his blade flashing in a series of precise, powerful slashes. Raine deflected one—dodged the second—but the third struck home. A solid hit to his ribs. Not deep, but enough to hurt.

Raine gritted his teeth, but Aldric was already pivoting for another strike.

Raine lashed out with a counterattack—fast, unpredictable. But Aldric's blade caught his with an effortless parry, twisting Raine's saber aside before delivering a brutal kick to his chest.

The force knocked Raine off his feet.

He hit the ground hard, rolling back up with a grunt. His ribs throbbed from the blow, but he pushed the pain aside. This wasn't his first fight. Pain was a familiar companion.

The crowd laughed.

Aldric didn't smirk. He didn't gloat. He simply adjusted his grip, watching Raine with an almost clinical expression.

"Your footwork is sloppy," he said. "Your blade is fast, but wild. You're fighting like a brawler."

Raine spat to the side, gripping his saber. He knew Aldric was right.

He had always fought to survive—never with the elegance and discipline of a noble duelist.

But survival wasn't enough here.

Aldric came again. And this time, Raine couldn't keep up.

Every attack was measured, precise, overwhelming. Raine dodged when he could, blocked when he had to—but he was losing ground.

Then, Aldric raised his free hand.

Magic.

A gust of force exploded outward, knocking Raine off balance. And in that split second, Aldric struck.

The flat of his blade slammed against Raine's side. Hard.

Pain shot through Raine's ribs as he collapsed to one knee, breathing heavily.

The instructor stepped forward.

"Enough."

The coliseum erupted into cheers.

Raine stayed kneeling for a moment, breathing hard. He had lost.

But more than that—he had been crushed.

Aldric sheathed his sword, stepping back. He wasn't smug. He wasn't cruel. He simply gave Raine a look—a quiet warning.

"Next time," he said, "come prepared."

Then he walked away.

Raine exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the defeat settle in.

This wasn't the outlaw lands.

This was the Academy of Veythar.

And if he wanted to survive here—he had to be better.