The messenger, breathless, bowed before the circle of royal candidates.Messenger:"A duel… broke out in the inner arena. Between Sir Julius Juukulius… and the man named Guts."
Eyes met across the room.Emilia stood up at once, face tense, unable to hide her concern.Priscilla wore a faint smile—predatory, almost delighted.Anastasia narrowed her eyes, one brow arched. Crusch remained still, upright, unreadable.Felt, slouched casually in her chair, smirked with interest. A duel? Intriguing.
Messenger (catching his breath):"The fight… appears to be over."
Silence fell.
Anastasia (coldly, without rising):"Tell me… Who initiated the duel?"
Messenger:"Sir Julius, my lady."
Anastasia let out a tight, almost sarcastic smile.
Anastasia:"In that case, I don't see why we should interrupt the ceremony. He knew the risks."
Emilia (rising abruptly):"But someone is fighting! We have to stop it!"
The messenger lowered his eyes, voice losing its confidence.
Messenger:"...In truth… Sir Julius seems to be in a difficult situation. Last I saw him… he was on the ground."
A chill swept through the room.This silence had nothing ceremonial about it. It was heavy. Oddly solemn.
Anastasia clenched her jaw. Even she hadn't expected this.Emilia, eyes wide, said nothing. She understood. She knew. And she didn't want to imagine what Guts might've done.Felt frowned, clearly concerned despite herself.Crusch turned her head slightly, looking for Felix—but he wasn't there.
And Priscilla…She snapped her fan shut with a crisp clack, then turned to Al.
Priscilla (softly, amused):"What a commotion… Tell me, knight, is this worth my attention?"
Al (calmly, almost conspiratorial):"If you ask me? You'd regret missing it."
Priscilla said nothing more.She rose to her feet, already walking.The others followed, each driven by a different impulse: curiosity, concern, pride, or a thirst for spectacle.But all of them headed for the arena.The tension was already there—hanging in the air like a blade.
✦ Scene: The Arena
Inside the arena, the scene was surreal.
Julius was on one knee, breathing heavily, hands trembling as he slowly pushed himself back up. His face twisted in pain, clothes wrinkled, his side bruised by the crushing blow he had received. But his eyes… they still burned.
Not here.Not like this.Not in front of them.Not in front of the whole kingdom.
He wouldn't collapse. Not silently. Not without giving everything he had.
Julius (panting):"Not yet… This fight isn't over. I… I'm still standing."
Guts, still unmoving, stared at him in silence.He recognized that look.That fire.That refusal to give in.
He had seen it hundreds of times—on battlefields, in blood-soaked alleys, in men and women who had nothing left but willpower.And that… Guts respected.
He tightened his grip on the wooden sword—but did not raise it.Because he already knew.Because this fight… was already over.
The atmosphere was heavy. The crowd, frozen, held its breath.The battle continued, but what was the point?
Guts advanced. Julius staggered back, clutching his injured side.Every strike from the Black Swordsman echoed like a tolling bell.He wasn't striking to win anymore.He was striking to impose, to correct.To end this farce and etch the lesson in flesh.This wasn't a spar. It was a message.A reminder that honor wasn't worn like a badge—it was proven through action.
Julius kept trying to stand. Over and over, even as his knees buckled.He refused to yield… but his body had already decided.
Then a murmur rippled through the stands.Noble figures had arrived at the entrance to the arena.
Anastasia was the first to react, her eyes wide at the sight of her knight—on his knees, broken.Emilia arrived just after. Her gaze met Guts's—empty, almost cold.Disappointment or confusion—he couldn't tell.But that look struck harder than any sword.
He stared back.He didn't understand.What had he done wrong?He'd kept his promise… hadn't he?
Priscilla, chin raised, leaned toward Al with a sharp smile.
Priscilla:"Seems we arrived too late. Pity… your comrade didn't hold back."
Al (low voice, somber):"Yeah… He's not like the others. There's something in him. I can feel it."
Guts, unfazed, turned his focus back to Julius.He stepped forward. Slowly.The final blow was coming.A last, sharp strike to end the duel for good.
He raised his wooden sword—ready to break it on Julius's shattered pride.
But a flash of red and white shot between them.
Reinhard.
The Sword Saint stepped between them, calm and unwavering.
Guts had no time to stop. His arm swung.The impact landed.
A sharp crack.The wooden sword exploded against Reinhard's extended arm——and he didn't even flinch.
A sacred silence fell over the arena.
Reinhard (clear, gentle voice):"The match is over. I declare Guts the winner."
All eyes turned to Julius, still on the ground, trembling, sword fallen.He didn't move.His rage, pride, and determination… had all vanished.What remained was a young man defeated, emptied, his honor shattered.
The silence lingered a few more seconds, heavy, solemn.Then, one by one, the knights in the stands lowered their heads.Even without a word… they understood.
A foreigner.A man with no title.No homeland.No pedigree.
Had just humbled one of Lugnica's brightest sons.
Julius, still on the ground, clenched his teeth.He wouldn't cry.He mustn't.
He was a knight.But doubt… had entered him.Quiet.Ravaging.