Chapter 58: Arthur Vs. Lance (2)

[Third Person's PoV] 

Lance and Arthur's blades met in a furious clash, the sharp clang of steel ringing out through the courtyard like a thunderclap. Sparks danced as the two swords collided, each boy locking eyes with the other, their muscles straining as they attempted to overpower one another. The screech of metal against metal echoed as the pressure intensified, their blades trembling under the weight of their strength.

Teeth clenched, arms quivering, Lance struggled to hold his ground—but Arthur's relentless strength began to show. A single, forceful step forward from Arthur was all it took for Lance to lose his footing, his boots sliding back through the dewy grass.

Realizing he was losing ground, Lance disengaged with a sharp backward leap. He landed smoothly and sucked in a deep breath, narrowing his eyes. Then, without hesitation, he launched himself forward again. 

His sword swung fast and fierce, each strike backed by fiery aggression—but not once did he sacrifice control. His movements were fluid, almost elegant, each slash perfectly balanced between power and precision.

Arthur, for his part, was forced into a defensive stance. His sword wove in quick arcs to parry each blow, his eyes laser-focused on Lance's rapid movements. There was no room for distraction—no time to consider anything other than the next incoming strike. Lance was fast. Too fast. Arthur couldn't afford even the slightest mistake. One misstep, one poorly timed parry, and it could cost him the match.

Lance swept his blade toward Arthur's neck in a wide, arcing swing. Arthur ducked just in time and countered, sweeping low with his leg in an attempt to knock Lance off balance. But Lance anticipated the move and leapt upward, evading the sweep entirely. In mid-air, he twisted his torso and brought his blade down in a sharp vertical strike.

Arthur responded quickly. He brought up the flat of his sword to intercept the blow, using the impact to push upward with a grunt. He expected Lance to fall back—what he didn't expect was for Lance to use that push as leverage. With a burst of agility, Lance flipped forward in mid-air, sailing right over Arthur's head in a move so smooth and acrobatic it left the crowd stunned.

"Woooah!!" the students around them gasped in unison.

Even before Lance's feet had fully landed, Arthur was already spinning around, his blade slicing through the air in a powerful slash. But Lance, quick as a flash, mirrored the motion with a spinning slash of his own. Their blades collided once again, but Arthur's superior strength won out, knocking Lance backward.

Lance grunted as he hit the grass, but instead of staying down, he rolled with the force and sprang back to his feet in a single fluid motion. Without wasting a second, he charged again, his eyes burning with determination.

Around them, students had gathered in a circle, unable to tear their eyes away from the duel. The energy was infectious—gasps, cheers, and heated debates broke out among the spectators.

"The blond one's got this!" one student shouted.

"Don't be ridiculous," another shot back. "Can't you see he's struggling just to keep up with the other kid's movements?"

"Struggling? Please, the other kid's the one being tossed around like a ragdoll! He hasn't even landed a solid hit! Blondie's clearly overpowering him!"

"Wait a minute… isn't that blonde one Arthur? The one those ghosts have been talking about lately?"

"Yeah! That's him! Arthur of Gryffindor. No wonder he's so good with a sword!"

"Then the other one must be Lance from Slytherin! I've heard rumors about him too!"

As their names were tossed around the crowd, it quickly turned into more than just a fight between two students it became a clash of two Houses. A duel between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

"Gryffindor! Gryffindor! Gryffindor!!" the students of Gryffindor chanted excitedly, clapping and stomping.

"Slytherin! Slytherin! Slytherin!!" came the defiant cry in return from the green-robed Slytherins, just as loud and proud.

Soon, more and more students poured into the courtyard, unable to resist the spectacle unfolding before them. No one even thought to ask why Lance and Arthur were dueling, or how they had even come to possess swords in the first place. 

It didn't seem odd. Not at all. The blades in their hands fit as naturally as wands, as if born to be wielded a blade. The way they moved—so instinctive, so fluid—it was as if the swords were extensions of their very souls.

A little distance away, watching with knitted brows, Gwyneth wrung the hem of Lance's robe nervously. She bit her lower lip, her eyes flickering anxiously between the two boys locked in battle.

"Merlin…" she called softly, not looking away. "I don't know what to do…"

"What's troubling you?" Merlin asked casually, her gaze locked on the fight, utterly absorbed. By now, the teachers should've intervened, should've come sprinting in to put a stop to it—but Merlin held them back for a bit with the secret use of her magic. She was enjoying the show after all.

"I don't know who to cheer for!" Gwyneth admitted in frustration. "Lance and Arthur are both my friends. I want them both to win!"

Merlin's eyes remained on the duel, but her voice dropped an octave. Her usual playful tone vanished, replaced by something flat and emotionless—eerily inhuman. "Cheer for Lance."

The sudden shift in her tone snapped Gwyneth out of her daze. She turned to look at Merlin, startled. For the briefest of mome face was stone-cold, devoid of all her usual warmth.

But just as quickly, Merlin's expression softened again, causing Gwyneth to have missed it and think she was just imagining it. Merlin turned with a bright smile, as if nothing had happened, the coldness gone like a phantom.

"What?" Gwyneth asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"I said cheer for Lance," Merlin repeated cheerily, now grinning as she winked playfully. "Since I'll be rooting for Arthur, it only seems fair that you support the other side."

Gwyneth blinked, then giggled softly. "You're right," she said with a cute smile. She clutched Lance's cloak to her chest and cupped her hands around her mouth, shouting toward the duel, "Go Lance! Kick his butt!"

Merlin's playful expression slipped once more, her face returning to that unnerving, emotionless calm. Her eyes lingered on Gwyneth for a moment before drifting back to the duel below, lids narrowing as she spoke with a flat, deadpan tone:

"Arthur… if you lose, I'll disown you."

Arthur's brow twitched at the words, a subtle tick of annoyance—or motivation. His eyes sharpened, honing in on Lance with renewed intensity, his grip on the sword tightening as his stance shifted.

Their blades met again in a shower of sparks, the screech of steel against steel echoing across the courtyard. Lance was forced back under the pressure, his boots skidding slightly. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward and raised his sword high for a decisive, downward slash—one that could end the duel.

But Arthur saw it coming.

He surged forward with a swift sidestep and used the elbow of his sword arm to catch Lance's hilt mid-swing, blocking the trajectory entirely. In the same motion, he rammed his open palm into Lance's torso with a precise strike.

"Ugh—!" Lance grunted, stumbling back from the blow.

But the fire in his eyes only burned brighter. Refusing to give in, Lance's movements suddenly accelerated—he blurred like a silver whirlwind, a dance of speed and fury. His attacks became faster, sharper, almost impossible to follow with the naked eye.

Arthur matched him step for step. His form was less flashy, but just as brutal, calculated with military precision. 

The strain between them was beginning to show—sweat clung to their brows, their breathing grew heavier, and their movements more desperate.

Then, with a flash of insight, Lance brought the hilt of his sword down hard against Arthur's exposed hand. Arthur flinched, momentarily losing his grip—and the sword slipped free.

But before the weapon could hit the ground, Arthur snatched it out of the air with his other hand, pivoting into a low stance and readjusting his grip instantly. The audience gasped at the seamless recovery.

Unbeknownst to Lance, Arthur's focus hadn't faltered once. He had been striking the same exact point on Lance's blade throughout their prolonged exchange—wearing it down inch by inch. A faint, jagged crack had begun to creep along the base of Lance's weapon.

Now was the time to end it.

Arthur spun on his heel, twisting his body with a burst of momentum. With both hands on the hilt, he brought his sword around in a powerful arc toward Lance's exposed neck.

Lance's eyes widened. He knew he wouldn't be able to dodge in time.

He raised his sword to block—and the blade shattered.

CRACK!

The weakened steel splintered under the force of Arthur's swing, fragments scattering through the air like glass. Arthur's intact sword came to a stop just against Lance's throat, the cold steel brushing skin.

But Lance didn't retreat.

In the same instant, he reached up and caught a broken piece of his sword midair—gripping the jagged shard barehanded. Ignoring the bite of steel into his palm, he thrust the point toward Arthur's throat in turn.

The courtyard held its breath.

Both boys were locked in place, eyes wild and unwavering, their faces only inches apart. Their chests heaved with ragged breaths, sweat dripping down their brows, dampening their clothes as they clung tightly to their bodies.

Then—

"YEEEEAAAHHH!!!"

The tension snapped like a rubber band as the crowd erupted into wild cheers and applause.

"That was bloody brilliant!"

"My heart's still racing!"

"WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME IS GOING ON HERE?!"

A shrill voice rang out above the cacophony. Heads whipped around to see Professor McGonagall storming through the crowd, robes flaring like a storm cloud. Her face was beet red—whether from fury or shock, no one could tell.

And she wasn't alone.

Professor Snape followed with an ever-present sneer, his dark eyes scanning the scene with clear disdain. Beside him, Professor Flitwick hurried along, barely keeping pace with his short legs, but his face shimmered with excitement and awe.

The three professors stopped cold at the sight before them: Lance and Arthur, blades still poised at each other's throats.

And yet the boys didn't react—not right away. Their gazes remained locked, not with hostility, but mutual respect.

Then Lance slowly let out a breath and closed his eyes. "It is my loss," he admitted softly. "I allowed my blade to shatter. That alone is a swordsman's greatest shame."

Without another word, both boys took a measured step back. They lowered their weapons—what remained of them—and stood tall. In perfect unison, they moved as though to sheath their swords, then offered one another a deep, ceremonial bow.

"Thank you for the duel," they said simultaneously.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a second wave of thunderous cheers. But the three professors—especially McGonagall—were less impressed.

'Sorry Arthur, I held them back as much as I could' Merlin thought, shaking her head. 

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