{direct message} [LifelineV]: The guys name is Galoravad, but he just goes by King Galor. Rank 43 in the Kings Game, Country of Morvakar. He’s a king from the northern highlands. Cold land. Martial culture. They settle matters physically. This duel is how he introduces himself.

  {direct message} [LifelineV]: Known for overwhelming physical strength and endurance. He doesn’t pace himself — he leans into pressure. If you push him hard early, he doesn’t slow down.

  {direct message} [LifelineV]: He’s rumored to channel exertion into power. He is rewarded for staying in the fight longer.

  {direct message} [LifelineV]: Don’t trade blows, it feels like you need to hit him hard enough once to knock him out. Make him move. Make him reset. He’s comfortable standing his ground — less so when he has to chase.

  {direct message} [LifelineV]: That’s all you need for now. I’ll fill you in more after the duel.

  Victor’s message sits in the back of my skull like a hand on my shoulder. Simple and precise.

  I file it away and keep walking.

  Galoravad takes the lead like this whole villa belongs to him. He talks the entire way out of the corridor, down the stairs, through the bright, overfurnished parlor, and into the night air beyond the rear doors. Words spilling like he’s trying to fill every gap with noise, as if silence would let someone else take control of the moment.

  “Testing the waters,” he says for the third time, gesturing with his hands like a preacher. “Making sure everyone here is a good fit. That we’re not wasting each other’s time.”

  A good fit for what, exactly?

  I don’t ask. I just let him talk.

  As we pass the parlor I catch Scott’s eye. He’s still posted up like that was his favorite chair, leaning forward while Thalienne—the High Elf queen—laughs too loudly at something he says. He’s got her doing that thing people do when they forget they’re in a room full of strangers. Like the conversation is its own little pocket of safety.

  He sees my face and his grin slips, replaced by something sharper.

  A message pings in my mind.

  

  {direct message} [Thalos]: You all good man? You look pissed.

  {direct message} [Kyris]: Yeah. This guy just wants to “duel” in the practice field.

  {direct message} [Thalos]: Want me out there? As insurance? My tremmor can still work here. I tested it a bit ago just a tiny amount.

  So his power carries into Solomir too. That could prove useful. Dangerous, if Alaric is paying attention. But the last thing I need is Galoravad deciding he can cheat because he thinks no one is watching.

  

  {direct message} [Kyris]: That would be appreciated. Make a big deal out of it, see if you can get a bigger audience. Might make for a safer fight if he is observed by a lot of eyes.

  I don’t even have time to let the thought settle.

  Scott’s voice detonates behind me like a cannon.

  “Oh HELL yeah,” he booms, loud enough to pull heads from every corner of the parlor. “You guys going out to fight?! I have got to see this.”

  He’s on his feet instantly, rolling his shoulder like he’s the one about to step into the ring. Thalienne rises a heartbeat later, curiosity in her eyes now, the kind that has nothing to do with responsibility and everything to do with entertainment.

  Another figure stands more slowly near the edge of the room.

  Sethryn.

  The merfolk queen’s posture is rigid, her jaw set. A bruise has bloomed across her left upper arm—darkening near the center like a thumbprint pressed too hard. She doesn’t look at Galor as she falls in behind us, but the disgust is there anyway, written into the angle of her shoulders.

  So he has already “tested the waters.”

  And she’s still standing.

  That fact alone stops my mind from spiraling too far into worst-case theories. Kings have egos. Some of them express it with speeches. Some express it with steel. A duel isn’t automatically a trap.

  But a duel can still be a message.

  We step into the practice yard and the air changes. The villa’s interior smells like wax and perfume and expensive wood. Out here it’s soil and sweat and oil rubbed into training grips. The yard is a large square pitch of tamped earth, enclosed by white stone walls and ironwork that mimics the shape of blades. At the center sits a raised marble platform, a foot high and wide enough to make a stage for the imitated violence. The stone has been textured so boots can bite. No slick surface. No excuses when you loose.

  A rack of practice weapons lines one edge—polished wood, well-balanced, built like they expect kings to use them and not snap them in half.

  Galor steps up onto the platform like he’s arriving at court.

  

  [ProteinPrincess]: kyris isn’t even armored huh

  [GainsGoblin]: ashwing leather though. still sturdy

  [Carapace_kid]: that other guy is BUILT built

  [Archivolt]: Heavy plate encourages commitment. Mistakes compound faster.

  “What’s your preference, Bug?” he calls, voice carrying. “I’ve seen you use a few different weapons. I like that. Don’t limit yourself to one style.”

  Bug.

  I let it slide, not because it doesn’t hit something in me, but because reacting is what he wants. I walk to the rack and let my eyes move across the options with deliberate slowness.

  Spear. Sword. Shield. Axe.

  Then I see it—a thick, squared club, the kind of blunt instrument that doesn’t care about edge alignment or finesse. It’s heavy enough to hurt, simple enough to learn on the go.

  I take it in both hands and test the weight.

  “Ahh,” Galor says, pleased, like he’s watching someone choose a flavor of drink. “Going with the mace then.”

  I haven’t spoken to him since he shoved his boot into my doorway. He’s been filling every silence on purpose, trying to shape this into a narrative where he’s the one in control.

  I watch him instead. The way he shifts his feet. The way he rolls his shoulders. The way his eyes flick to the spectators as if he’s counting them.

  Thalos and Thalienne come to a stop near the edge of the yard. Thalos plants himself like he’s about to announce a main event. Thalienne folds her arms, smiling faintly, interested. Sethryn stands apart from them, gaze flat, the bruise on her arm like an underline beneath her expression.

  Galor picks from the rack and lifts a greatsword that’s more plank than blade—flat-edged, heavy, ridiculous. It suits him. Something meant to be swung like a statement of his power.

  “You ready?” he asks, and his grin turns sharper. “I’m still on edge from my last fight with Fish over there.”

  He points the wooden slab toward Sethryn without looking at her.

  She doesn’t flinch. She just turns her eyes away, like he isn’t worth the effort.

  I step up onto the marble platform and let the club settle into my grip.

  “I’m ready whenever, Galoravad.” The first words to him since he forced me from my room.

  That gets his attention.

  His brow lifts and the grin spreads wider, cocky and bright. “I never told you my name. You been watching my channel, mayhaps?”

  So he cares about that. About being known. About being recognized.

  Victor’s message presses again in my mind. He is rewarded for staying in the fight longer.

  This isn’t just about pride. It’s about feeding whatever mechanism rewards him. He wants a long exchange. He wants me to swing and strain and build the pressure for him to drink.

  I give him nothing.

  “I pay attention,” I say, voice calm. “It’s hard not to, when you go out of your way to make sure everyone hears you coming.”

  A brief flicker crosses his expression—amusement and irritation mixed together. Then he laughs, loud and confident, and raises his practice sword into a guard that is less technique and more threat.

  “Good,” he says. “Then you know I don’t do half effort.”

  He stalks forward.

  I don’t meet him in the center.

  I step laterally instead, circling, forcing him to adjust. The marble under my boots is solid, textured, reliable. The club’s weight is reassuring. I keep it low, loose, like I’m not planning to commit to anything.

  Galor’s eyes track me, narrowing. He’s used to people squaring up and bracing, used to the game where you plant your feet and prove you can take what he gives.

  I don’t plan to take anything.

  He lunges without warning—fast for someone that size—bringing the wooden slab down in a two-handed chop meant to rattle bone through a training weapon.

  Sidestep again, the blade smashing into marble with a crack that echoes off the yard walls. He yanks it free with a grunt, already turning, already pressing.

  He swings again. Wide. Meant to catch me even if I evade. Meant to force me to block.

  I let the club come up just enough to redirect, guiding the blow past me rather than catching it head-on. The impact still travels through my arms, but it doesn’t slow me down. I’m already moving as the plank passes, already sliding out of reach.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Quit dancing,” Galor growls, grin still there but strained at the edges.

  Behind him, Thalos whoops like a madman. “YEAH! GET HIM MOVIN’!”

  Thalienne laughs, bright and sharp. “Oh, this is already better than I expected. Its like he is playing with him.”

  Galor surges forward again, faster, heavier. He’s not pacing. He’s trying to overwhelm the space, turn the platform into a corner. He wants me planted. He wants me forced into a trade. He wants to stand his ground and let his endurance do what it does.

  So I refuse to give him ground to stand on.

  I feint left, then snap right, and when he commits to follow I don’t retreat—I cut past him, letting him feel for the first time what it’s like to miss me instead of collide.

  He pivots hard, boots scraping, and that pivot is the first crack in his rhythm. Just a fraction. Just enough.

  I strike once—clean, ugly, decisive—bringing the squared club into his ribs where armor isn’t present because this is supposed to be safe.

  The wood thuds against him with a sound like a drum hit.

  His breath catches in his throat and he takes a step back, grin gone now, eyes bright with something hungry.

  “Oh,” he says, voice low, pleased in a way that makes my skin prickle. “There you are.”

  And then he comes at me again—harder, faster, like the hit woke something up in him.

  The moment he surges, the whole platform seems to shrink. In the way a predator narrows a field into a tunnel. Galor wants me inside his reach. He wants the fight to become a simple equation: weight plus momentum equals ensured victory.

  I keep it complicated.

  He comes in with a horizontal sweep meant to take my legs out from under me. The wooden greatsword howls through the air, the edge broad as a plank, the force behind it enough to shatter ribs even without steel.

  I hop the line of it, boots leaving marble for a heartbeat, and land light—one step, two, sideways—never backward in a straight line.

  He immediately follows with an overhead chop, turning the sweep into a chain, trying to catch me as I reset.

  I rotate with it, sliding past his right shoulder as the weapon slams down and bites the stone. The impact cracks through the yard. Bits of grit and powdered marble jump.

  Galor rips the blade free with a roar.

  “Stand and fight,” he snaps, breath already heavier, from anger that his first plan isn’t working.

  I don’t answer. Words are fuel too, and Im not going to give him fuel for his fire.

  

  [Carapace_kid]: he’s not swinging back

  [VioletVex]: he’s MAKING him miss

  [GainsGoblin]: bro galor is burning stamina like crazy

  [ProteinPrincess]: this is infuriating to watch and that’s the point

  [Archivolt]: Momentum favors restraint here.

  Instead I keep my club low and my posture loose, letting my shoulders stay relaxed while my feet do the actual work. The ashwing doublet moves with me—supple leather, layered, fitted to my torso like it was made for flight rather than war. It will soften a glancing hit. It will not save me if he lands clean.

  Galor’s plate is a different story. Heavy, lacquered, built to ignore the kind of blunt trauma I’ve been using to dissuade him. I don’t need to break that armor.

  I need to break him.

  Victor’s warning sits behind my eyes: don’t trade blows. Make him move. Make him reset.

  So I keep giving him targets that vanish.

  He feints left—quick for his size—then snaps right, trying to cut off my angle. His boots scrape, the marble dusting under his soles. He’s learning. He’s trying to adapt.

  Good.

  Adaptation costs him focus, and focus is what I’m going to steal.

  I let him think he’s cornered me near the edge of the platform. I let my steps tighten, my distance compress. I let him see my shoulders square as if I’m finally going to do what he wants—plant and brace and prove something.

  His grin returns, just a sliver of it.

  He surges.

  I drop low and slide under the path of the greatsword, not trying to be graceful—just efficient. The weapon passes above me close enough that I feel the wind of it. I come up behind his lead leg and tap the club into the back of his knee. Not enough to injure, but enough to make him stumble.

  He catches himself with brute strength, armor clanking, muscles coiling like cables of metal. He whips around, face flushing dark with irritation.

  “You’re playing games,” he snarls.

  I meet his eyes for the first time and let my expression stay empty.

  “I’m ending one,” I say.

  Behind the ring, Thalos is a walking amplifier.

  “Ohhhhhh!” he shouts, throwing both arms into the air like he’s conducting a crowd. “HE’S TALKING NOW! HE’S TALKING!”

  Thalienne laughs again, but there’s a sharper edge to it this time, like she’s starting to realize the shape of what I’m doing.

  Sethryn doesn’t laugh at all. She watches Galor with a cold focus, bruised arm folded tight across her ribs, like she’s memorizing every mistake he makes.

  Galor steps in again, faster, and this time he doesn’t swing immediately. He presses close, trying to crowd me, force my movement into smaller, worse options. His greatsword comes up not as a strike, but as a barrier—wood held horizontally to cut off escape routes.

  He’s trying to make the platform my cage.

  I pivot, slide to his outside, and he tries to follow with his body rather than his blade. He leans into me. Uses his mass like a shove.

  If he connects, I’m off the platform.

  I let my shoulder brush his armor and roll with it, using the contact to rotate rather than resist. The leather of my doublet squeaks faintly against his plate, then I’m past him again, boots tapping quick on marble.

  His head whips as he tries to keep me in front of him. The greatsword lifts, swings, lifts again—each strike a demand for obedience, but I’m not here to obey. He wanted this to be another spectacle for his fans, and me making a fool of him is making him get sloppy.

  He starts overcommitting.

  His frustration has begun to drive him. He wants the satisfaction of impact. He wants to feel me stop. When that doesn’t happen, he starts swinging wider, chasing the idea of me rather than my actual position.

  That’s the crack I’ve been waiting for.

  I let him throw three more heavy strikes that never land.

  A sweep that misses by a foot.

  A chop that bites stone and sticks for a fraction too long.

  A backhand that turns his shoulders too far.

  And on the fourth, I bait him.

  I let my movement slow. Just a hair. I let him see it.

  

  [VioletVex]: oh he’s MAD mad

  [Carapace_kid]: chasing instead of cutting

  [Archivolt]: Overextension. He’s forgotten his center.

  [GainsGoblin]: yeah that’s the tilt

  [Sandseer]: Rage narrows vision. Narrow vision invites endings.

  Galor’s eyes flare. He commits everything into one brutal forward step, bringing the wooden greatsword up and across like he’s trying to cut the world itself in half.

  The blade comes for my head.

  I duck under it and move into his space. Close enough that his weapon becomes useless for a heartbeat. Close enough that the only thing he can do is body-check or grab.

  He tries to grab.

  His gauntleted hand reaches out, fingers spreading for my collar like he’s going to yank me back into range.

  That’s the first time I hit him hard again.

  I drive the club into his forearm.

  Still controlled, still not aiming to shatter bone, but hard enough that the impact echoes through his plate and makes his grip fail. His hand jerks away, and the greatsword’s tip dips.

  I’m already moving past his shoulder, not stopping to admire the opening.

  He whirls, furious, and his weapon comes back up too late, trying to swipe at my back.

  The wood clips my side.

  Not clean. Not a full hit.

  But enough.

  Pain lances through my ribs, hot and immediate, and the breath in my lungs stutters. The ashwing leather absorbs some of it, but the force still gets in. My vision pinpricks for a second.

  I swallow it down and keep my feet moving anyway.

  Galor sees the effect and smiles like he’s tasted blood.

  “There,” he says, voice thick. “Now you feel it.”

  I don’t answer. I just widen my circle again, making him cross more ground, making him turn more often, making his armor do what armor always does—turn protection into weight.

  His breathing deepens. His strikes become less patient. More violent. More demanding.

  Thalos is practically bouncing at the edge of the yard.

  “Oh my god, Galor’s getting mad!” he yells, and then, louder, like he’s broadcasting to the whole world, “YOU SEE THIS? THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T START SHIT WITH THE BUG KING!”

  Thalienne calls something back at him, delighted. “He’s not even letting him touch him!”

  “Right?!” Thalos cackles. “It’s like watching a bear try to catch a mosquito!”

  Galor’s head snaps toward the sound for half a second, glare cutting in Thalos’ direction.

  Half a second.

  But it’s enough for me to see the opening line up.

  The back of his neck. The gap between the collar plates. The place where even heavy armor has to allow movement.

  Victor’s message comes back, clearer than before: hit him hard enough once to knock him out.

  Not a dozen little strikes. Not a slow grind.

  One clean shutoff.

  I adjust my stance without making it obvious. Shift my grip on the club. Not a wind-up. Not a telegraphed swing. Just a subtle readiness.

  Galor turns back to me and charges.

  He doesn’t feint now. Doesn’t try to trap. He just barrels forward like he can crush the problem by being bigger than it.

  He swings low to high, trying to scoop the greatsword up into my body and lift me with it.

  I step inside the arc, tight enough that the blade passes behind me instead of through me. I feel the air of it against my back, close enough to raise goosebumps.

  Galor’s momentum carries him past me.

  For the first time, he overshoots.

  His feet have to reset—one heavy step, then another—and his shoulders turn as he tries to drag the fight back into front-facing dominance.

  That reset is everything.

  In that half-beat, his head dips.

  His collar opens.

  I move.

  No flourish. No dramatic slow motion. Just a quick step and a rotation of hips and shoulder, turning the squared club into a guillotine of blunt force.

  I bring it down onto the back of his neck.

  Hard.

  Clean.

  The impact lands with a wet, awful thud that isn’t bone breaking, but system breaking—like flipping a switch. Galor’s entire body seizes for a fraction of a second, armor rattling as his knees go soft.

  His eyes go wide.

  Then they roll white.

  He drops to his knees like a puppet whose strings were cut.

  The greatsword slips from his hands and clatters on marble.

  For a heartbeat he stays upright, swaying, trying to will himself back into the fight by sheer spite.

  Then he tips forward and hits the ground face-first.

  Out.

  Silent.

  

  [Carapace_kid]: WAIT—

  [ProteinPrincess]: NO WAY

  [GainsGoblin]: CLEAN

  [Archivolt]: Cervical interruption. He could have killed him there if he had wanted to.

  [Sandseer]: The song ended mid-note.

  [Thrumline]: Finally the brute is quiet.

  The practice yard goes still in a way that feels unnatural, like the villa is the only place in existence.

  Thalos makes a strangled sound that’s half laughter, half shock.

  Thalienne’s mouth is open, and for the first time her expression isn’t playful. It’s impressed—genuine, involuntary.

  Sethryn lets out a slow breath, shoulders lowering as if she’s been holding tension since the moment Galor and her fight ended.

  I don’t celebrate.

  I don’t posture.

  I let the club fall from my hand and hit the marble beside Galor with a dull knock. Then I slide my hands into the pockets of my ashwing doublet, as casual as if I’d just finished a tedious conversation instead of dropping a king like a felled tree.

  I look down at him once, not with cruelty, not with triumph—just confirmation.

  Then I turn and start walking toward the villa doors.

  “If that’s all,” I say, voice flat, carrying just enough to be heard, “I’d like to go to bed now.”

  Behind me, Thalos finally finds his voice again.

  “Oh my god,” he breathes, reverent and delighted. “That was disgusting.”

  

  [VioletVex]: “if that’s all” ARE YOU KIDDING ME

  [Carapace_kid]: ice. cold.

  [ProteinPrincess]: he didn’t even look back

  [GainsGoblin]: that man went to bed like nothing happened

  [Archivolt]: Message delivered. Boundary established.

  [Sandseer]: Some kings need to shout to be heard. Some whisper, and the world listens.

  I don’t look back.

  I don’t need to.

  The message has been delivered.

  

  I am currently setting up a small patreon, as I have been requested to do so by a few asking where they can support the story. I only intend to have one or two tiers, at 3 and 5 USD. If you are interested in this, feel free to DM me for now. I will be getting my discord set up as well for communication so that things like the holiday chapter scheduling doesn't get lost.

  Thank you all again for making it this far! I very much appreciate it.

  ~Tesh