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No one noticed how their young lord, Clay, appeared silently beside them, as if he had emerged from thin air. To draw an imperfect comparison, it was like a flock of sheep failing to sense the wolf's fangs at their throats.
For a group of personal guards, such a lack of vigilance was a serious flaw—one that could prove fatal on the battlefield.
Clay observed the victorious duelist, who had called out to him yet now stood frozen like a statue, utterly stunned. The sight amused him, though he could understand the other's reaction. With a light chuckle, he spoke.
"What's wrong? Did the match just now drain all your strength? No matter—I can wait."
Like waking from a dream, Christen snapped back to his senses. He was met with the young lord's warm and reassuring smile. And yet, despite that kindness, an inexplicable tension settled in his chest.
"I—it's not that, Young lord Clay. I'm just… afraid I might hurt you."
His words were hesitant and awkward, but at least he managed to convey his concerns. He had seen the young lord fight before, but that was back at the training yard, where everyone was cautious, never daring to truly engage him in combat.
With so many people watching that day, Christen hadn't had the chance to cross swords with the young lord himself. But now, after spending time rigorously honing his swordsmanship, he believed he had improved significantly—enough to worry about accidentally injuring Clay.
Clay, however, couldn't help but feel slightly offended. Though he knew Christen had no ill intentions, the blunt honesty of these branch family members was worlds apart from the refined mannerisms of his direct lineage. He had grown used to their lack of tact.
Shaking his head, Clay raised his wrist, and with a sharp metallic hiss, his finely crafted steel sword slid from its sheath. The blade caught the light as he spun it once in his grip, forming a silver arc in the air—a ghostly shimmer of steel.
"Your name?" Clay asked in a calm voice.
Christen blinked, needing a moment to process the question before responding, somewhat nervously, "Christen…"
The instant his name left his lips, Clay's voice shot through the air like an arrow, direct and unwavering.
"Christen, I have memorized your name. Now, as your lord and commander, I order you—take up your sword!"
Christen instinctively began to lift his blade, but hesitation was still evident in his movements. Clay noticed this at once and decided to push him further.
"What? Do you lack even the courage to raise your weapon? If so, you should leave now—this unit has no place for cowards."
The words had their intended effect. Christen's gaze sharpened with resolve—not from the sting of an insult, but from Clay's threat to send him home.
He could not allow that to happen.
Restoring his family's honor, reclaiming the title of 'Ser'—those ambitions weighed too heavily upon his heart.
He would not, could not, accept being dismissed in disgrace.
At last, he raised his sword, meeting Clay's gaze directly. His voice was steady as he declared, "Be careful, young lord!"
Clay's only response was to level the tip of his blade at Christen in silent challenge.
Christen recalled the teachings of Ser Marlon and instinctively took a cautious step forward, probing for an opening. In a one-on-one duel, the first to strike often exposed themselves to a swift counterattack. A patient opponent could exploit the slightest misstep to deliver a decisive blow.
However, Christen soon realized something troubling—Clay was constantly advancing, his footwork pressuring him relentlessly, leaving no opportunity to seize the initiative. Their blades met briefly before parting, yet Christen found himself steadily retreating under the assault.
If he continued backpedaling, he would soon lose all space to counterattack. He couldn't afford to wait any longer. Gritting his teeth, he lunged forward, thrusting his sword in a precise, controlled strike.
He held back slightly, fearing that if Clay failed to react in time, he might accidentally wound him. After all, the difference in their statuses made him hesitant to attack at full strength.
But in the very next moment, he realized just how foolish that hesitation had been.
Clay sidestepped effortlessly, dodging the thrust with minimal movement. Then, in a flash, the spine of Clay's sword lashed out like a striking viper, landing a sharp blow on Christen's wrist.
A muffled grunt escaped him as pain shot up his arm, and all traces of underestimation vanished from his mind. If Clay had used the edge of his blade instead of the flat, Christen's entire hand—sword included—would already be on the ground.
Clay nodded at him, signaling him to continue. With a fluid motion, his sword spun in a graceful arc, forming a dazzling flourish before settling back into position. The blade's edge pointed upward, resting lightly along the back of his arm. The previous strike had not been meant to injure—it had merely served as a reminder, urging his opponent to take the duel more seriously.
Taking a deep breath, Christen steadied himself. He now understood—his young lord's swordsmanship was likely not inferior to his own. The North valued martial prowess above all else, and respect was earned through strength. Here, only by fighting with everything one had could a person truly earn the acknowledgment of their peers.
This time, after a brief feint, Christen launched a full-force strike, aiming for Clay's left side, just beneath the arm—a notoriously difficult attack to parry. The angle would force Clay into a backhanded defense, an awkward and physically demanding maneuver against such a powerful blow.
Yet, in that split second, Christan witnessed something astonishing.
Clay's sword stood firm, unshaken, like an unyielding pillar of iron. The moment the blades clashed, a sharp, explosive sound echoed through the air. Christen's attack had been stopped dead in its tracks, its force absorbed entirely.
Before he could process what had happened, an iron grip clamped down on his sword-wielding wrist. Clay's left hand—until now idle—had moved with lightning speed, seizing him in an unbreakable hold.
A wave of pain shot through Christen's arm. The very wrist that had been struck earlier by the flat of Clay's blade was now subjected to yet another sharp impact. The unbearable pain surged through his nerves, reaching his brain in an instant.
He clenched his jaw, determined not to drop his sword. His mind gave the command to endure—to hold on at all costs. But his body, driven by sheer instinct, betrayed him. His fingers loosened against his will, and with a metallic clang, his weapon slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground.
In that same motion, Clay gave a sudden, forceful tug. Christen found himself stumbling forward—his throat stopping just short of the razor-sharp tip of Clay's blade.
The duel was over.
Clay's keen hearing picked up the collective gasps of the onlookers, the guards who had gathered to watch.
It had been too fast. From the moment their swords clashed to the instant Christian was disarmed, only two exchanges had taken place. And both had targeted the exact same spot on his wrist.
Everyone here knew Christian's skills. While he had suffered occasional defeats, he was still regarded as one of the finest swordsmen among them. After spending time together, they had all come to understand his abilities well.
Yet against Clay, he had been utterly outclassed—played with, like a child struggling against an adult. It was clear to everyone that the one holding back in this fight had not been Christian, but Clay.
"That's enough," Clay said at last. "Christian, the victor today is me. I welcome you to challenge me again—to reclaim your victory."
With a casual smile, he reached down, pulling Christian up from where he had fallen. Then, with a practiced motion, he slid his sword back into its sheath.
Christian's face was complicated, his emotions unreadable. For a long moment, he remained silent. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice stiff.
"Young lord… your strength is unmatched. Among all the warriors I have met, you are the strongest."
Clay chuckled, amused by the man's awkward attempt at flattery. He clapped Christen on the shoulder and said,
"This is just White Harbor. But Westeros is vast. One day, I'll take you with me, and you'll witness firsthand the swordsmanship of the South."
Of course, he added silently, we'll most likely see it on the battlefield.
His mind was already made up. The man standing before him—Christian—was to be his first choice.
"Christian," Clay said, his expression turning serious. "I have a task for you. I don't know if you're capable of completing it."
There was no hesitation. Christen straightened at once, his posture like a spear planted firmly in the ground. In a resolute voice, he declared,
"Your blade is my guide!"
---
With his decision made, Clay entrusted Christen to his grandfather. The old man would lead him to a secluded underground chamber—a place carefully hidden from prying eyes. There, Christen would undergo his trial.
As for Clay, he had already left New Castle. He traveled alone, taking no one with him. His destination lay beyond the city, deep within the godswood at the edge of the Wolfsden.
There, he intended to meet with a certain revered figure—the Three-Eyed Raven.
He needed to borrow a fragment of magic.
After becoming a Witcher, magic would naturally replenish within him over time. But for now, he was playing a different role: a stabilizing force, ensuring Christian's body would not reject the change that was to come.
And more importantly, he had to secure a way to counteract the horrifying side effects that would inevitably follow.
This journey was unavoidable.
..
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[Chapter End's]
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