Clash

The sky had shifted to a twilight hue by the time Hiral returned to camp. Dust clung to his boots, and the heat from the day's ride still lingered on his shoulders, but his steps remained precise, steady—as a general's should be.

Inside the war tent, his commanding officers gathered, murmuring among themselves. Maps, reports, and scouting parchments were set aside for the moment. All eyes turned to him as he entered.

Without ceremony, Hiral stepped forward and laid out the plan.

"We'll stage a one-on-one duel between generals," he began, voice firm. "Our opponent wishes to avoid bloodshed as much as we do. The duel will serve as a performance to satisfy both our rulers."

A few officers blinked, others glanced at each other in restrained disbelief.

"We're going to pretend the outcome of the battle has meaning?" one captain asked.

"No," Hiral replied calmly. "We're going to give it meaning—the kind that avoids widows and pyres."

He turned toward Seran, his second-in-command. "You'll be stepping forward as me."

Seran stiffened, blinking. "You're having me fight as General Hiral?"

"You're skilled, your swordplay well known. Our soldiers respect you—and more importantly, trust you. You've seen my style. I know you can perform."

Seran nodded slowly, jaw set. "Then I won't hold back."

"Good. You shouldn't."

A pause lingered in the air as the weight of the coming duel settled over the room.

But then, one of the older commanders spoke, voice low with concern. "General… what if Seran loses? The Empress expects victory. She expects spoils. If this goes sideways—"

"She won't act," Hiral interrupted. "She needs me to keep waging her wars. And her… other request"—his voice turned dry—"will be fulfilled. She'll see 'captured prisoners' brought before her. The court ministers are too caught up trying to use me or ruin me to inspect the truth. I'll be fine."

There was hesitation. But as Hiral's calm assurance spread through the tent, one by one, the officers began to nod, reassured. The relief in their expressions was subtle, but real. 

Some even cracked dry smiles.

"If this works," one muttered, "you may have spared more lives in one day than some of us in a lifetime."

"I didn't take you as the sentimental type, Commander Li." 

Commander Li smiled.

One by one, they saluted, then exited to prepare their troops. The tent emptied slowly until only Seran and Hiral remained.

Seran gave his commander a long look.

"You sure about this?"

"I'm sure," Hiral replied, not looking at him. "Go rest. You'll need your strength."

Seran hesitated, then bowed. "Yes, sir."

When the flap closed behind him, silence fell.

Finally, Hiral let himself sigh, deep and drawn.

"If only all battles could be solved this way," he murmured. "Let them punish me. Strip my rank. Let them scorn my name… if it means one less mother weeps over a pyre."

He moved to the corner of the tent, where a chest lay buried beneath reports. 

Opening it, he pulled out a stack of documents—requests from villages, supply shortages, tax reports, scattered appeals for aid. 

He sifted through them slowly, his brow furrowing deeper with each passing page.

The battle is easy, he thought bitterly. The real war is making sure this empire doesn't eat itself alive from neglect.

His thoughts swirled with funding schemes—legal, discreet, and effective. 

Alliances with wealthier merchant houses, commissions from outer border provinces, incentivized agricultural expansion under military protection. 

It was a puzzle more complex than any campaign he had ever planned, but he had to solve it.

No empire can survive without its people. If I don't find a way to keep them fed, housed, and safe… all these battles will mean nothing.

His fingers paused on a petition from a burned-out farming village two valleys away. The ink was smudged with dirt, as if it had been written with trembling hands.

He set it aside for priority review.

Then, leaning back, Hiral stared at the ceiling of the tent—where the lantern's glow flickered like a distant sun—and let the weight of his choices settle into his bones.

Tomorrow, there will be spectacle, he thought. But tonight, the quiet battle rages on.

****

The morning sun cast long, sharp shadows over the scorched flatlands as both armies gathered on the neutral zone—a rough, wind-scoured basin flanked by high ridges. 

There, soldiers lined the ledges and slopes in tidy formations, banners fluttering like watching eyes, though none dared raise them too high. 

In the makeshift arena below, a ring of stone was hastily drawn with banners placed at four corners. A neutral ground. A testing ground. A stage.

Back in the Eastern camp, Hiral stood with Seran, the latter clad in the full regalia of the Eastern Grand General—silken red sash over plated armor, dark hair tied back in traditional knots. 

He looked every bit the part.

But his fingers twitched slightly, betraying the weight of the role.

Hiral clasped his shoulder. "Don't let his ease fool you. Alexis is a master at appearing casual while probing for weakness. Keep your center steady and never let your rhythm fall into his."

Seran nodded, his face composed. "Understood."

"I compiled everything I could find on his past battles," Hiral continued. "His style favors swift, deceptive counters. Sometimes he'll deliberately create openings just to lure out aggression."

Seran gave a low whistle. "So… like fighting a smile with a dagger behind it."

"Exactly," Hiral replied, amused. "But be cautious. Some of that intelligence may be outdated. Or worse, intentionally misleading. There's a chance he's changed his style."

"I'll adapt."

"I know you will," Hiral said, offering a small smile. "Today, you're the Empire's sword."

Seran smirked. "I'll do my best not to chip it."

By midday, the arena buzzed with tightly drawn anticipation. 

The high command of both armies now stood in a semi-circle close to the stone ring, acting as witnesses. 

The air was dry, thick with tension, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Alexis stepped into the arena from the Western side, removing his blue cloak with a casual flair, his platinum blonde hair catching the light like a banner of its own. 

His blue eyes swept the crowd, narrowing slightly as they landed on Hiral, who stood speaking to Seran, calm and unreadable.

Still acting like a second-in-command, Alexis thought. But if he's not the real general, I'll eat my gauntlet.

He stepped onto the cracked earth and flexed his fingers.

"Guess I'll know soon enough," he murmured to himself.

From the Eastern side, Seran entered the ring. The two generals stopped at the center and raised their blades in mutual respect.

The announcers from both sides stood forward and projected their voices:

"This duel is under the laws of open parley! No outside interference. The fight ends only when one party yields, is incapacitated, or declared unfit to continue. The victor's word shall determine the movement of troops and terms of temporary peace."

"Let all gathered forces honor the outcome," the Eastern announcer followed.

A moment of stillness.

Then Alexis lifted his blade and gave a formal Eastern bow—a clear nod to the man who might not be who he claimed to be.

Seran returned the gesture with a Western warrior's salute, touching the flat of his blade to his chest.

Then—

They moved.

Steel clashed like thunder.

Their blades were a blur—parries, feints, backsteps, and dives. Alexis moved like water over rock, fluid and unrelenting. 

Seran, however, was precise and rhythmic, adapting with each movement, as if drawing from a well of instinct and memorized drills drilled by none other than Hiral himself.

Around them, soldiers from both sides stood slack-jawed. Even the veterans leaned forward, enthralled.

This wasn't a duel.

It was a dance of legends.

And above it all, Hiral watched. Silent. Observant. His hands were behind his back, but his mind was turning like a storm.

His eyes drifted—not to the ring—but to the jagged rock cliffs to the north of the arena. A strange familiarity tugged at him. The color of the stone. The shimmer beneath the dust.

His gaze narrowed.

That layering… the dull silver sheen... this isn't just basalt.

His breath hitched.

That's the same structure I saw in the collapsed mine near the Diamond Crescent. These cliffs might be...

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

Diamond veins.

As he turned back toward the fight, a sudden glint of humor warmed his otherwise cool expression.

Across the ring, Alexis, mid-parry, caught that smile.

He nearly missed the block.

What the hell is he smiling about at a time like this? Alexis thought bitterly, catching Seran's next blow with a grunt.

I'm the one fighting for my life and he's off daydreaming.

Still, he smirked through the irritation.

"You're good," Seran muttered under his breath as he broke away, sweat beading under his brow.

Alexis grinned, breathless. "You're not bad either. Tell me—your second-in-command, that Hiral—he fight as well as you?"

Seran just smirked, stepping back into stance.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Alexis rolled his eyes. "You easterners love being mysterious, don't you?"

He chuckled softly.

Still. He fights well. Too well. But... something's missing. There's no grace and elegance in his stance, as the hidden spy has informed him before.

He parried again.

Maybe the real Hiral is still in the crowd. Watching. Waiting.

As the fight raged on beneath the burning sun and the soldiers watched breathlessly, the true stakes simmered quietly beneath the surface—hidden in veiled smiles, studied stares, and the shadows of things yet to be revealed.

Dust rose and shimmered in the heat as blades rang loud within the makeshift arena. 

The sound of steel scraping steel echoed through the cliffs—but Hiral heard it only faintly now.

His gaze was fixed on the northern cliffside, the jagged formation of gray-silver rock that jutted like a broken crown above the barren lands.

That layering… the flecks… and the way the light refracts…

He lowered his head slightly, shielding his expression from the other commanders. 

In his palm, he slowly turned over a small notepad, the leather cover worn from years of quiet observation.

I need to get a sample. Tonight, maybe. Or send someone discreet before sunrise.

A flicker of excitement warmed his blood, rare and fleeting.

If that really is diamond ore… then the gods have a strange sense of humor. Or timing.

His thoughts danced between calculations. If the cliff did contain even a minor diamond vein, it could mean everything—leverage, funding, future independence from the Empire's erratic treasury. 

No more relying on mercurial nobles or indifferent courts.

I could fund military reforms, civilian rebuilding programs... feed the outer provinces without begging.

He almost smiled again, already picturing the schematics, the logistics.

Behind him, the duel continued—but Hiral was no longer watching.

And across the ring, Alexis noticed.

Alexis sidestepped another swing from Seran, barely breaking a sweat. His parries were sharp, movements fluid—yet a twinge of irritation crept up his spine.

He risked a glance toward the Eastern flank.

There was Hiral, standing perfectly composed.

But not watching him.

Not watching this.

Not watching him.

Instead, the man looked lost in thought, eyes fixed on the rock cliffs, brows slightly furrowed in what Alexis knew to be—infuriatingly—deep internal contemplation.

A tick formed at the corner of his jaw.

Seriously? I'm out here doing my best to give a damn good show to quench the pride of both our King and your Empress, and you're thinking about rocks?

He gritted his teeth, and all at once, the irritation bled into his movements.

The practiced looseness of his current style dropped.

His form shifted—tighter, faster, more aggressive. This was his true style, honed in the streets of Ro's border cities, carved in blood and survival. 

A feral elegance.

Seran blinked in surprise as the tempo changed in an instant. The gentle tide had become a riptide.

Alexis drove in, footwork relentless, his strikes like crashing storms. One feint flowed into a hook, a parry into a spin. 

Seran blocked with admirable skill—but his strength and speed lagged just a half-beat behind.

A misstep. A breath off-rhythm.

Steel twisted from Seran's hand with a ringing clang.

Alexis disarmed him cleanly, pivoted on the ball of his foot, and swept Seran's legs out from beneath him in one smooth motion.

Seran hit the dirt, panting, eyes wide—not humiliated, but clearly stunned.

A hush fell over the battlefield.

Alexis stood over him, blade poised at Seran's throat—but did not strike.

The silence broke with the echo of the Western side cheering, a mix of awe and relief surging from the soldiers who had feared their general might lose.

The Eastern forces remained tense, gripping their weapons—until Hiral raised a single hand, his expression unreadable, and signaled no retaliation.

Only then did the Eastern lines exhale as one.

Alexis stepped back, offering a hand to Seran. The knight took it, still breathless but with a dry smile.

"You're really something."

Alexis winked. "I try."

He looked past him—eyes snapping once more to Hiral, who was now watching again, composed as ever.

Alexis shook his head, smiling tightly.

"You missed the good part."

But in truth, he didn't know what annoyed him more—

That Hiral hadn't watched the final strike.

Or that he suddenly wanted him to.

The tension of the duel melted into a formal hush as both armies began the ritual of recognition. 

Horns were blown, flags were raised, and declarations were read aloud by heralds on both sides, announcing the victor—General Alexis of the Kingdom of Ro.

And yet, in the air, no triumph echoed. No mockery. No gloating.

The gravity of peace hard-won through spectacle was not lost on the soldiers. The duel had been more than tradition—it had been mercy dressed in valor.

The generals from both factions stepped forward, with Seran standing tall beside Hiral, and Alexis flanked by his captains, their armor still carrying the dust of the arena.

The formal discussion of terms and future arrangements began. But it was Hiral who carried the Eastern side's words—not the supposed victor, but the man with the calmest voice and clearest plan.

"We will cede the contested land for now," Hiral said smoothly, "on three conditions. First, that the native communities and tribal groups in the region are to be unharmed and protected under both nation's law. Second, that the mineral and environmental rights are not to be exploited without treaty. And third—"

He gave Alexis a sharp look.

"—that we leave capable stewards behind to uphold these agreements, not soldiers seeking spoils."

Alexis gave a half-laugh. "You beat me to it. I was going to insist on the same." His eyes twinkled. "Can't let good ideas only belong to one side."

Both generals signed the agreement with seal and blade. 

The troops were ordered to retreat, leaving only a small diplomatic detachment on each side to watch over the barren region and its people.

When all formalities were done and hands had been shaken, Hiral immediately turned and began to walk away, intent on heading toward the northern cliffs.

His mind had never left the rock face, and now that his duty was done, he could finally—

A firm hand grabbed his arm.

"Hold on," Alexis said.

Seran immediately frowned, stepping in between. "General Alexis, what are you—"

"I'm just borrowing your second-in-command for a moment," Alexis said, grinning as if the request weren't entirely out of line.

Seran opened his mouth to argue, but Hiral gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright, General" he said softly. "Please return to the men and begin preparations. I'll join shortly."

Seran glanced between them, then sighed—half exasperated, half resigned—and gave a shallow bow. "Be sure to be back soon."

Once Seran disappeared into the ranks, Hiral turned back to Alexis, gaze steady.

"So," he said, voice low, "what's bothering you so much that you've detained the Eastern Empire's second-in-command like a brigand?"

Alexis stared at him, expression unreadable for a long breath.

Then, he asked, bluntly, "Why weren't you watching the fight?"

Hiral blinked, then gave a small, almost sheepish smile. "Apologies. It was discourteous of me. You both fought with everything you had to avoid needless bloodshed. I... let my mind wander." He gave a deep bow, precise and proper. "It was wrong of me."

Alexis stared at the bow, somehow annoyed by how honest and measured the apology was. Too smooth. 

"That's it?" he said, frowning. "You were thinking?"

"Yes," Hiral answered simply.

"And what, exactly," Alexis pressed, arms crossing, "was so fascinating that you missed the final act of a duel, a crucial event for negotiation, hmm?"

Hiral hesitated—then, unwilling to expose his hunch about the cliff's mineral wealth, gave a soft chuckle and lowered his voice.

"It reminded me of... someone. The cliff, I mean."

Alexis tilted his head. "Someone?"

Hiral nodded. "Of the first time I met my fiancé. Strange, I know. But the rock formations were similar. I found myself... reminiscing."

Alexis stared at him, mouth slightly open. "You have a fiancé?"

"Had," Hiral corrected, with a faint, nostalgic smile. "Once."

A silence lingered between them, heavy and uncertain.

Alexis looked away and scratched the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to pry."

"You did," Hiral replied mildly, "but I expected you to."

Alexis let out a laugh—quiet and dry. "You know, for someone so composed, you're a damn menace when you want to be."

"Only when needed."

They stood for a beat, the silence now lighter. 

Alexis's shoulders lowered. 

His fingers no longer tapped restlessly.

Hiral gave a final nod.

"It's time I go. I have more ground to cover."

Alexis stepped back, not stopping him this time.

"I hope we meet again," he said, quieter now.

Hiral held his gaze a moment longer.

And nodded once.

Then he turned, cloak fluttering behind him, and walked into the wilds of the barren land, toward secrets glittering beneath stone and soil—and the future he hoped to carve from both.