A Duel of Honor

Adrian Delarose.

The name shattered the frozen silence among the guests.

The banquet hall erupted into a clamor as the nobles began to speak all at once.

Their voices mingled into a chaotic din, like a muddy, surging river, pushing the atmosphere to a new height.

When Duke Wenser had first announced the prince’s proposal, the southern lords had been rather sullen.

This was not only because they had heard of the prince’s outrageous behavior at the banquet, but also because these southern lords were proud to their core and held a certain disdain for the royal family, with whom they had little contact.

Duke Wenser was their true leader.

After all: “My lord’s lord is not my lord.”

Although the two marquises supported the marriage alliance with the royal family, the other lords would have surely voiced their displeasure had the Duke truly forced Ilisia into it.

As for this Adrian fellow—

People had long heard of the strange eldest son of the merchant family, but they bore him no ill will.

Some lords didn’t dare harbor any, as the Delarose family was, in fact, their creditor.

An alliance between the Duke and the Delarose family might even bring these lords benefits like debt forgiveness or better terms.

Who would argue with money?

Observing the expressions of the crowd, the Duke stroked his chin and gave a slight, inscrutable nod.

Beside him, Ilisia swallowed hard.

She lowered her head in embarrassment, a pang of regret striking her for her sudden decision.

Unfortunately, it seemed Adrian was not in attendance tonight.

****

“Ilisia, have you gone mad?”

Cassius rushed to Ilisia’s side, his voice an accusation.

He believed she should have chosen him.

“That man is the son of a lowly merchant, a sickly weakling who can’t even lift a sword!” Cassius declared.

At his shout, all eyes in the hall snapped back toward Ilisia.

Ilisia did not shrink from the attention.

“At least he was by my side when I was in danger,” Ilisia said coldly, “and not in some farmhouse, carrying on with some strumpet from who knows where.”

“No, no… What are you talking about…” Cassius looked utterly stunned, as if he’d been struck by a blunt object.

The atmosphere in the banquet hall grew tense once more.

****

Adrian had no idea what had just transpired.

He didn’t know why, upon stepping into the banquet hall, everyone at the long table turned to stare at him.

Their gazes were difficult to read.

Adrian was a little baffled.

‘Damn,’ he thought. ‘Is being late such a grave offense?’

Adrian scratched his head and, feigning obliviousness, started toward his seat.

Unfortunately, a handsome young man with a classical air blocked his path.

The young man looked furious, veins bulging on his neck and his eyes wide with rage.

‘His name is… Cassius, was it? Why is he looking at me like I murdered his entire family?’

Adrian quickly searched his memory, trying to recall when he might have offended the man before him to warrant such fury.

‘Could it be that my plan for Ilisia to string him along has been exposed?’

Adrian gave an awkward smile, but Cassius’s next action was even more dramatic.

Cassius forcefully threw down the white napkin he had been clutching in his hand.

The napkin traced an arc through the air before landing softly on the floor in front of Adrian.

Before everyone’s eyes, Cassius had challenged Adrian to an unrestricted duel.

The kind where someone could die.

Adrian stared, bewildered, at the napkin resting on the floor.

Nearly every eye in the great hall was fixed on Adrian and Cassius.

“If you’re any kind of man, you’ll pick it up!” Cassius said.

He glared at Adrian, his fury practically spilling from his eyes.

Adrian’s gaze swept over the assembled lords before finally resting on Duke Wenser.

His eyes seemed to ask:

‘My lord, what’s happening? What should I do?’

Duke Wenser set down his knife and fork and sat up straight.

“For your honor, Adrian,” the Duke said.

The Duke’s gaze was calm and profound, yet it seemed to hold a hint of expectation.

“Father!” Ilisia cried, shocked and confused by his decision.

She had expected him to end this farce with a wave of his hand.

But Duke Wenser had given his tacit approval, and Ilisia’s heart sank.

Her fingertips turned white, her palms slick with sweat.

She looked anxiously at Adrian.

Deep down, she naturally hoped Adrian would pick up the napkin, fight for her, and defeat Cassius.

But that was simply impossible.

Cassius was a rare sword-fighting prodigy, highly skilled from years of practice since childhood.

As for Adrian, not only had Ilisia never seen him practice for a single day, but the last time they were in danger, he had been a blubbering mess, begging the bandits on her behalf.

He hardly seemed like someone confident in his own martial prowess.

Ilisia took a deep breath.

‘He’ll surely refuse,’ she thought. ‘But then he’ll be utterly humiliated, and in front of so many of my father’s vassals.’

‘I’m so sorry. It was all my fault, my impulsiveness… I never thought it would come to this…’

Ilisia lowered her head, clasping her hands before her chest in silent prayer.

After a moment’s thought, Adrian swallowed and bent down to pick up the napkin.

Cassius smirked in triumph, the mix of mockery and rage an ugly mask on his handsome face.

Attendants brought forth swords for the two men.

They were to conduct a duel with minimal rules, its outcome seemingly foregone, under the watchful eyes of Duke Wenser and his lords.

The weapon handed to Cassius was a longsword.

Its scabbard was adorned with intricate patterns, and the exposed hilt was wrapped in fine leather.

When drawn, the blade was flawless, its silver edge gleaming coldly in the candlelight, looking as if it could sever anything it touched.

In contrast, the sword in Adrian’s hand was quite plain, making one wonder if he had borrowed it from a guard on the spot.

The two men took their positions in the open space before the long table, ready to begin.

Adrian gave the blade a few light swings before its tip came to rest, pointed steadily at Cassius.

Several high-ranking nobles and skilled swordsmen among the attendants frowned.

They had never seen such an opening stance; it was unexpectedly strange and casual.

“Did the boy learn some clumsy, third-rate technique somewhere? Has he come here just to make a fool of himself?” Marquis Vonder scoffed.

“No, Edmond. There’s more to that boy than meets the eye,” Marquis Stavin said in a low voice.

Marquis Stavin’s brow was tightly furrowed, his gaze fixed on Adrian.

He was perhaps the only person present who recognized that opening stance.

Many years ago, when Marquis Stavin was still a young soldier, he had seen it on the battlefield—

It was the swordsmanship of the Eastern Qi.

A style designed for one purpose: to kill!

An involuntary shudder ran through Marquis Stavin.

He had initially thought a duel between two boys from prominent families wouldn’t have any serious consequences.

But now, he found himself breaking into a cold sweat for Cassius.

Under the lights, Cassius raised his sword as well.

His movements were precise and steady, his grip firm, the point of his blade aimed forward.

It was the most fundamental opening stance of the kingdom’s swordsmanship—simple, swift, and used countless times by swordsmen in tournaments.