The punch connected clean.
A heavy, brutal crack as Leonel's gauntlet smashed into Callen's exposed shoulder, driving the boy sideways with all the weight of mana-charged steel behind it.
Callen stumbled, boots skidding across the gravel, arms flailing for balance. His mouth twisted — not in words now, only a startled grunt as he caught himself badly, half-crashing to one knee.
The nobles above muttered in sharp disbelief. Some even stood, craning for a better view.
Leonel kept moving. No breath wasted. No mercy offered.
Callen rose fast, teeth bared, and abandoned any pretense of form. No sword now. Only fists and fury.
He swung wide — a clumsy, rage-fueled arc aimed at Leonel's jaw.
Leonel ducked the blow, feeling it slice through empty air above his head, and drove a tight jab into Callen's ribs.
The gauntlet hissed faintly as it compressed on impact, the shock glyph pulsing once against flesh and bone.
Callen grunted, staggered, but didn't drop.
The second strike hit lower — a brutal body blow right into the gut. The impact lifted Callen half off his heels, folding him forward with a strangled gasp.
Leonel pivoted.
His left foot slid back for balance as he planted his weight into the final blow — an uppercut powered by a clean, savage burst of mana through the knuckle glyphs.
Callen's head snapped back.
The boy toppled in a sprawl of limbs and dust, collapsing flat onto the gravel.
Silence fell.
Not a breath stirred from the balconies. Not a cough, not a whisper.
The duelmaster stood frozen for a second longer than necessary, eyes darting between the unconscious form of Callen and the boy who wasn't supposed to win standing over him.
Slowly, with clear ceremony, the duelmaster stepped forward.
He lifted Leonel's arm high — the gauntleted fist still curled tight — and announced the victory with a voice flat but undeniable.
Leonel didn't look at the crowd.
Didn't look for his father.
The muscles in his back stayed tight, expecting — absurdly — that at any second, someone would call it back, demand a rematch, accuse him of cheating.
No one did.
Footsteps crunched nearby. A heavy figure passed close, stiff coat brushing Leonel's sleeve.
Lord Varnhart didn't stop. Didn't meet his eyes. Just muttered, low enough for only Leonel to hear:
"Don't ever do that again."
Leonel let his arm drop.
The nobles had found their voices again, but softer now, sharper, uncertain. He caught pieces — "illegal weapon," "impossible," "need to find out how he—"
He walked away before the whispers could weave themselves into accusations.
The duelmaster's bell rang again, signaling the formal end of challenge.
The banners hung heavy against the rising breeze as Leonel crossed the yard, boots scuffing silent trails in the gravel. Every step felt too loud.
Somewhere above, a hawk circled, its cry cutting across the sullen hush.
Later that afternoon, in one of the estate's smaller halls — hastily prepared and smelling faintly of old wood polish and fresher fear — Leonel stood facing a small cluster of gathered nobles and a few senior mages from the Yellow Mage Tower.
The Runewriter Mk. I pens sat neatly arranged across a velvet-lined case on the table beside him.
No fanfare. No speeches. Just hard proof.
He picked one up — slim, balanced perfectly in his hand — and uncapped the tip with a small twist. Mana ink shimmered faintly along the nib.
A nobleman — Leonel didn't bother catching the name — stepped closer, frowning skeptically.
Leonel flicked his wrist once, fast and fluid, and drew a perfect mana rune across the test parchment laid out.
The rune stabilized instantly. No wobble. No smearing.
The mage from the Yellow Tower leaned in sharply, his rings clicking against each other as he tugged off a pair of reading spectacles.
Leonel offered him the pen.
The mage took it — reverently, almost — and tried it himself.
Another rune bloomed across the parchment, clean and steady.
A murmur of surprise stirred the air.
Leonel folded his arms across his chest, waiting.
The Yellow Tower's mage straightened with a huff, wiping sweat from his bald head.
"Forty gold each, was it?"
Leonel nodded once.
"We'll take ten," the mage said immediately, gesturing for one of his apprentices to start counting the gold.
The nobles whispered among themselves, but now the current shifted — curiosity edging into desire.
Leonel watched without smiling as a second noble — a minor lord whose son had just entered one of the lesser academies — stepped forward.
"I'll take three."
"Two for me," another chimed in quickly, voice tight with eagerness.
One after another, the pens disappeared from the case.
Nine to the nobles.
Ten to the Yellow Tower.
All sold at full price — forty gold each.
Leonel tucked the weighty pouch under his coat, feeling the coins shift and jangle against each other.
Seven hundred and ninety gold.
Enough to repair the estate's western wall. Enough to fix the broken irrigation channels. Enough to matter.
One of the Yellow Tower's apprentices lingered, eyes wide.
"When will there be more?" the boy asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
Leonel gave a faint, noncommittal shrug. "When they're ready."
He left before anyone could press harder.
No handshakes. No false congratulations.
The autumn wind bit harder as he crossed the courtyard, the gold heavy against his side.
The nobles stayed behind, their whispers already building again — but this time, tinged with something thicker than mockery.
Need.
The Varnhart gates loomed ahead, iron and stone bathed in the last low gold of the setting sun.
Leonel loosened his pace, letting the tension bleed off his shoulders with each slow step.
At the threshold, something small and fast barreled toward him.
Sable.
The pup's dark fur caught the dusk light as he skidded across the cobblestones, tail whipping back and forth in wild, thudding arcs.
Leonel crouched instinctively, bracing as the beast half-leapt against him, paws scrabbling against his coat.
"You knew, didn't you?" he muttered under his breath, one hand curling into the thick fur at Sable's neck.
Sable gave a sharp, pleased whuff, nuzzling under Leonel's arm.
Leonel stayed there a moment longer, one knee in the dirt, the cold stone pressing through his boots, the sky stretching wide and open overhead.
The gatekeeper's lantern swung on its hook, casting slow circles of light across the ground.
Leonel rose finally, slinging the coin pouch higher on his belt.
"Come on, boy," he said under his breath. "We've still got work to do."
Sable bumped his shoulder against Leonel's leg once before trotting alongside him into the deepening dusk.