Chapter 7 – The Duel of Wits

The fortress of Tengaki never slept. Torches flickered against the dark stone walls, their wavering flames casting eerie shadows across the courtyard. The scent of damp earth and burning wood mingled in the cold morning air as the warriors of the kingdom gathered near the training grounds, murmuring amongst themselves.

Word had spread quickly.

A duel was set to take place,one between the strongest young warrior among the recruits, Fezzi, and a nameless old man who had dared to challenge him. No one knew who the man was, where he had come from, or why he had issued the challenge. But intrigue had drawn a crowd, and now they stood, waiting, restless with anticipation.

At the highest pavilion, overlooking the arena, Lahara sat in his ornate chair. His robes were loose over his broad frame, his sharp eyes unreadable. Kings from neighbouring lands had also gathered, seated beside him in muted conversation. It was not every day that an outsider stirred the ranks of Tengaki's finest.

Kovu stood at Lahara's side, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the empty arena below. He had informed Lahara about this strange old man the night before, and now, as he watched Fezzi warming up with his sword, he found himself just as curious as the rest.

"Where is the old man?" Fezzi growled, swinging his blade in tight, controlled arcs. His muscles flexed with each motion, confidence radiating from every movement. He was used to victory, to admiration. The idea that some frail elder could stand against him was laughable.

The crowd stirred.

"Right behind you," came a calm voice.

Fezzi whirled around, startled, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.

There, standing no more than two steps away, was Tsegunki. His cavern cloak wrapped tightly around his body, his expression unreadable. He had arrived without a sound, moving like a whisper in the wind.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. How had a man his age approached so silently?

Lahara arched a brow. "Interesting," he murmured.

Fezzi's smirk returned, though it held a hint of unease. "You move quietly for an old man. Perhaps your only skill is sneaking about."

Tsegunki inclined his head slightly, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Perhaps."

"Are you ready to fight?" Fezzi lifted his blade, resting it on his shoulder. "Or will you admit your mistake now and spare yourself the embarrassment?"

Tsegunki did not answer right away. Instead, he studied Fezzi as though he were reading an old manuscript, his gaze tracing every detail—the tension in his arms, the slight shift in his stance, the impatient twitch of his fingers.

"You seem eager for battle," Tsegunki observed.

"Of course," Fezzi scoffed. "A warrior should be eager for battle."

"A warrior should be eager for victory," Tsegunki corrected. "Battle is simply a path."

Fezzi's smirk wavered. "Enough riddles. Draw your weapon."

Tsegunki remained still.

A hush fell over the crowd.

Fezzi's expression darkened. "Did you come here to waste my time, old man?"

"No," Tsegunki said. "I came here to teach you a lesson."

Fezzi snorted. "You? Teach me? I could break you in half with my bare hands."

Tsegunki smiled faintly. "That would be quite a feat."

Something about his calmness unsettled Fezzi.

"If you refuse to fight, then I'll make you," Fezzi growled, taking a step forward, blade poised to strike.

Tsegunki raised a single finger. "Before you do, tell me have you ever fought a man who does not fight back?"

Fezzi hesitated.

"What?"

Tsegunki tilted his head slightly. "You are prepared to face an opponent with a sword. But what if your opponent does not strike? What if he does not play the game you are expecting?"

Fezzi frowned, gripping his weapon tighter. "It wouldn't matter. I would cut him down all the same."

"Would you?" Tsegunki mused. "Tell me, Fezzi, why do you grip your sword so tightly?"

Fezzi blinked. "What?"

"You are squeezing it as if it might slip from your fingers," Tsegunki continued. "That tells me you are uncertain."

Fezzi scoffed. "Uncertain? Don't be ridiculous."

"And yet," Tsegunki went on, stepping lightly to the side, "your stance is wide, but your weight is uneven. You favour your right leg more than your left. An old injury, perhaps?"

A flicker of something passed across Fezzi's face.

"You're talking nonsense," he snapped.

Tsegunki only smiled. "Am I?"

The crowd was silent now, watching, listening. Even the kings in the pavilion leaned forward in their seats.

"You see, Fezzi," Tsegunki continued, his voice smooth and deliberate, "I have no need for a sword. I do not need to lift a single finger to defeat you. Because the real battle… is already happening in your mind."

Fezzi clenched his teeth. "Enough of this! Stop talking and fight me!"

"Why?"

"Because that's how a duel works!" Fezzi shouted.

Tsegunki chuckled. "Only when both men agree to the same terms. I never agreed to fight. I simply agreed to face you."

Fezzi's eye twitched. He was starting to sweat, his frustration boiling over.

"Fine. Then stand still and take your beating!" He lunged forward, swinging his sword in a powerful arc.

And Tsegunki… moved.

With the slightest shift of his weight, he stepped aside, and Fezzi's blade cut through nothing but air.

The force of the missed strike sent Fezzi stumbling forward. He recovered quickly, whirling around, eyes blazing with fury.

Tsegunki remained still, his expression calm.

"Again," Fezzi growled. He attacked once more.

Tsegunki stepped aside.

Again.

Tsegunki shifted, avoiding the blow effortlessly.

Again.

And again.

The crowd was no longer murmuring. They were laughing.

Fezzi's face burned. He roared and lunged with all his strength. But at the last moment, his foot caught on a loose stone, and he tripped, falling forward with a thud.

Silence.

Then, an eruption of laughter.

Fezzi scrambled to his feet, his face red with humiliation. His sword had slipped from his grasp, lying several feet away in the dust.

Tsegunki stepped forward and placed his foot on the blade. "Enough," he said, his voice firm. "The battle is done."

Fezzi stared at him, chest heaving. His fists clenched, but he saw the amused looks from the crowd, saw the kings watching from above. He had been humiliated.

Defeated.

By a man who had never lifted a weapon.

Tsegunki picked up Fezzi's sword and held it out to him. "A warrior does not need to win every fight," he said. "He only needs to learn from each one."

Fezzi hesitated before snatching the sword from Tsegunki's hands. Without another word, he turned and stormed away, disappearing into the crowd.

From the pavilion, Lahara chuckled. "An unusual man," he mused.

Kovu, still watching Tsegunki, smirked. "Indeed."

The crowd continued to murmur, whispering Tsegunki's name.

The old man had not raised a sword.

Yet he had won the battle.