The night passed without incident.

That, more than anything, annoyed me.

It wasn't that I wanted to fend off an assassin, foil a poisoning attempt, or catch some trembling cutpurse halfway through lifting my door latch. But Karhile's silence was insulting in its own way. A man of Bast, a baron no less, reduced to waiting passively for the sun to grant him permission to act?

It suggested two possibilities, neither of them flattering. Either he lacked the means, or he lacked the imagination. And neither spoke well for the man who had sworn to reclaim his honor from me.

By the time the faintest pre-dawn light bled through the curtains, I had dressed fully and ensured my Gloss was active. Wallace, Fractal, and V took their positions as I stepped into the hall. The palace corridors were quiet save for the muffled tread of servants preparing for the day.

Karhile was waiting in the outer garden—no mask now, his jowled face bare in the dim light, the heavy folds of his cloak settling about him like a shroud. The faint frost clinging to the hedges painted the air between us in white mist.

"Prince Duarte-Alizade," he said, the words flat, almost curt.

"Lord Karhile." I inclined my head, not so much in deference as in acknowledgment. "I was almost expecting to greet you earlier than this. Perhaps sometime between midnight and the first bell."

His mouth twisted, as though he'd bitten into something bitter. "You were hoping for treachery?"

"I was hoping for initiative," I said plainly. "The great houses of Bast have many tools at their disposal, yet you chose to sit idle until the dueling hour. Tell me, is that restraint born of honor… or of hesitation?"

The muscle in his jaw jumped. He took a step forward, the frost crunching under his boots. "You have a sharp tongue for someone who has yet to prove himself with the blade."

"And you have a short memory for someone who calls himself a lord," I replied, letting the words hang just long enough for him to remember the ball, the barons watching, and his forced consent to the duel. "Today will be more than a contest of arms, Karhile. It will be a reckoning—one I hope you are ready to face without the aid of excuses."

His glare told me I'd struck where it hurt. Good. The duel would be cleaner if he came into it already bleeding pride.

By the time the sun was cresting the far hills, the frost had melted into fine silver dew across the dueling green. It was not a field chosen by chance—the Bastian court loved a spectacle, and the terraces overlooking the grounds had been arranged like the tiers of an amphitheater.

They came in twos and threes, all of them draped in the colors of their houses: Barons whispering in low voices, Marquesses adjusting their jeweled gloves, Viscounts holding their plumed hats just so, Dukes taking their places with practiced dignity. Three Princes of foreign courts lounged like panthers at the edge of the crowd, speaking through sly grins. And among them, a rare thing indeed—five Queens, each with their own retinue and their own unspoken reasons for being here.

Every rank present meant another dozen spies hidden in plain sight, another hundred subtle observations to be sent home in letters before nightfall.

The murmur of conversation was constant, threaded with soft laughter and the sound of coins exchanging hands. Bets were made with all the politeness of Bastian society—smiles sharp as razors, wagers wrapped in compliments.

"Even odds, I hear," said one Marquis to a Viscount beside him. "Though I wouldn't wager against the boy. He seems… deliberate." "Deliberate can get you killed," the Viscount replied, tucking away a note of silver. "Karhile's temper will drive him forward. That has a way of ending duels quickly."

I ignored the noise. It was meant to distract.

Karhile stood opposite me now, his earlier frostbitten civility replaced with something more ceremonial. We met in the center, each accompanied by a single witness—Wallace for me, and a hawk-faced steward for him. The witnesses exchanged brief bows before stepping back.

"Weapons," Karhile said, voice clipped. "Standard military regulation?"

I gave the barest shrug. "Naturally. Steel, well-balanced, no poisons or concealed mechanisms. I've no interest in making this unclean."

"Arte usage?" His tone made it sound like a challenge.

"Permitted within reason," I replied, my eyes holding his. "Anything intrinsic to the duelist may be used freely. Arte-extensions requiring permanent environmental damage or involving civilian endangerment will be considered forfeiture."

That earned me a mutter from one of the Dukes on the balcony. They knew what I was doing—forcing the duel into a framework where Karhile's more destructive options were now politically dangerous to employ.

"Skillcubes?" he pressed.

"One each," I said without hesitation. "No more. And they must be declared aloud before activation."

A ripple went through the audience. Limiting the number was one thing—forcing declaration was another. I wanted the duel to be as much about maneuvering as about strength, and now everyone present would hear exactly what we intended to use before we used it.

Karhile's nostrils flared, but he nodded. "Agreed."

We turned and stepped back to our starting marks, Wallace taking my discarded cloak. I could feel the weight of every gaze on me, from the lowliest Baron to the highest Queen, their whispers weaving together like threads of a tapestry.

I was handed a long, lacquered box of dueling weapons to choose from, each laid out with ceremonial precision. Polished steel, fine wood, and burnished alloys gleamed under the morning light. Most watching probably assumed I would reach for Lunarias, my skillcube bow, and forgo the official armaments entirely—leaning on what I was known for.

But I had a different plan. One that would humiliate this fat boar in front of every Baron, Duke, and Queen present.

I lifted a metallic recurve bow from its velvet bed, running my fingers along the smooth curvature, feeling the tautness of the string. The attendant handed me a quiver of one hundred safety-arrows—tipped in blunt steel to prevent instant kills but still more than capable of breaking bones, shattering pride, and making a point. I strapped the quiver to my hip, where I also concealed my little surprise.

Across from me, Karhile made his selection with a grunt of satisfaction. He chose a steel flindbar—one long, polished sheet of hardened metal with a shorter, softer iron segment tethered by a length of thick cord. The weapon was part whip, part mace, part statement of brute force. A peasant's cudgel elevated for a noble's duel—just enough flourish to be considered legitimate, but entirely built for bludgeoning the opponent into humiliation.

The murmurs of the audience swelled, and then fell silent as the arbitrator stepped forward. Duchess Y herself.

She needed no introduction in Bast, nor in Marr. Her presence meant this duel's result would be carved into the bones of law. A tall, graceful woman in deep violet silk, her every motion precise, she carried a black fan inlaid with silver script—the physical embodiment of her Arte, Contract Manipulation. When Duchess Y officiated, the terms became reality. Breaking one was not just illegal, it was impossible.

"This," she announced, her voice cutting through the air like the point of a rapier, "is a duel of honor and rights for the territory of Everis Hills. As this is a territorial duel, the stakes are as follows: If Rain-Maker Karhile is victorious, he reclaims Everis Hills in full, with all associated assets, rights, and holdings. If Prince Alexander Duarte-Alizade prevails, he shall not only retain Everis Hills, but claim the entirety of Rain-Maker Karhile's lands, wealth, and properties. Furthermore—" she paused, allowing the gathered nobles to savor the silence, "—Karhile Rain-Maker will be stripped of his noble rank, and his name recorded in the annals of dishonor."

There was no outcry. No murmured objection. Just the delicious sound of dozens of nobles exchanging glances like cards in a gambler's hand.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

I smiled faintly.

The High Queen hadn't just approved this duel—she had entrusted me to win. And by placing Duchess Y at its center, she'd made sure the victory, once earned, could never be taken from me.

The arbitrator's eyes bore into me, her black fan flicking open with a sharp snap. "The duel begins on my count. You may use your weapons and Artes as agreed."

I nodded and drew a deep breath. The air was thick with expectation, the crowd's gaze burning holes into my skin. I knew every Baron, Marquis, Viscount, Duke, the three Princes, and five Queens were watching—some openly betting with whispered wagers, others folding their arms behind their backs, calculating.

"Begin!" Duchess Y's voice rang out.

Karhile snarled and immediately cracked his flindbar like a whip, sending a metallic thud echoing across the courtyard. His weapon sang through the air, brutal and raw—designed to overpower, not finesse.

I raised my bow, but instead of nocking an arrow, I drew back my hand and called out clearly, voice steady and ringing, "[Paper and Pencells!]"

As the duel unfolded, whispers began to trickle through the courtyard once more, as the nobles' Gloss devices picked up the spectral echoes of the battle

First, I forced him into a relentless battle against hundreds of Chimera Flies—horrific, shifting creatures born of magic and nightmare. But I gave them a cruel twist. Each took the fragile, innocent form of small children—female children, no older than five to eight years. They fluttered and darted about, their wings buzzing faintly, their faces pale and blurred like faded sketches.

Karhile didn't hesitate. His flindbar crashed through the swarm, shattering wing and form alike, each strike a brutal, indiscriminate blow. His rage was raw, and he swung with blind fury, smashing these fragile figures without a second thought.

I watched from the peak of the ancient clocktower—the highest point in Pendell's ruined square—hidden but all-seeing. I saw how his jaw clenched, how his breath shortened with every strike, how his eyes flickered between anger and confusion. Did he even realize what shapes he was destroying? Did he care? I wasn't sure, nor did I care.

The beauty—and cruelty—of this spectacle was that every noble with a Gloss, every observer back in the courtyard, witnessed it in real time. The law of the Continental Alliance was clear: a duel of this nature must be public, transparent, and unfiltered.

As his flindbar struck another fragile child-illusion, I willed the Chimera Flies to multiply, their forms shifting and reforming endlessly, taking the shapes of more children, more innocents. The air buzzed with their eerie fluttering, filling the labyrinthine city with an almost unbearable tension.

To the watching nobles, it was a test of character disguised as combat. Here was Karhile—a seasoned lord, a military man—swinging mercilessly against innocent forms. What did that say about his heart? About his honor?

The murmurs in the galleries grew louder as the scenes played out. Some gasped; others murmured curses or warnings. This was no ordinary fight. It was a trial by fire—a psychological crucible that exposed the very essence of a man.

Karhile's rage intensified, but so did his desperation. His flindbar's swings grew wilder, less controlled, more brutal. Yet the Chimera Flies evaded and reformed, their numbers unending. The battle was a dance of cruelty and futility, and I was the choreographer.

All the while, I remained silent, watching, controlling the battlefield with the cold precision of a writer shaping a story—each move and image crafted to reveal the truth beneath the veneer of power.

It was a statement to the Barons, Marquises, Viscounts, Dukes, the Princes, and Queens alike: strength without wisdom and mercy is hollow.

And with every shattered child-illusion, Karhile's standing unraveled just a little more—visible not just to me, but to every eye, every mind, every whispered wager in the grand halls of Bast.

Whenever Karhile dared to approach my vantage point atop the shattered clocktower, I shifted the cube beneath us—turning it, twisting it, reshaping the very geometry of the labyrinthine ruin. The world bent to my will, folding and unfolding like the pages of a dark tome. Here, in this broken city of Pendell, I was sovereign. My laws were absolute.

Law One: Karhile will lose.

Could I inscribe that law into the very fabric of this world, bending reality itself to guarantee his defeat? No—not in the ultimate sense. But could I ensure that, through relentless design and circumstance, it became inevitable? Absolutely.

Unlike him, I understood the Chimera Flies—not just as maddening pests but as living weapons forged in fire and despair. They could coalesce in an instant into blades sharper than any steel—swords that could slice, cleave, sever limbs, and devour flesh. Their swarm was infinite, an unceasing tide of death and terror.

These flies were the scourge that had laid waste to Pendell during the war, the very reason the city had been razed, scorched in hellfire until nothing but ruin remained.

And though I had not personally wielded the pyre that consumed Pendell, I had lived through its echoes, felt its scars etched into my soul. This wasteland was more than rubble and ash. It was my castle—my domain forged in the crucible of memory and power.

He was my prisoner.

Every time Karhile sought to close the distance between us, the cube responded—shifting, twisting, rearranging the streets and alleys beneath his feet, forcing him to stumble, redirecting his charge into swarms of buzzing blades.

I was the architect of his torment, the master of this spectral battlefield. His flindbar, mighty as it was, became little more than a tool to slash at shadows.

And with each failed attempt to reach me, his frustration deepened, manifesting in ragged breaths and flashing eyes behind his mastiff mask. The longer he fought, the clearer it became: this duel was not merely for territory or honor, but for the soul of a man trapped in a labyrinth of his own making—desperately lashing out against forces he did not understand.

I watched, detached yet intimately connected—because this ruined city, these Chimera Flies, this merciless maze—they were extensions of my will.

He growled—a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the ruined city—before shouting his challenge to the very air: "Radiant Hellfire!"

Almost immediately, the world around us began to shift. Thick, viscous oil seeped from the cracked stones beneath our feet, oozed from the walls and dripped from the fractured ceiling. Then, as if summoned by his command, oily droplets began to pour from the sky, darkening the air with a heavy, suffocating sheen.

I smiled, cold and certain. He was about to make the mistake I'd anticipated from the start.

I knew the skillcube he would choose—long before this duel began. The very cube that embodied his arrogance and overconfidence.

***

"Wallace, I acquired these lands due to a foreclosure by the Queen against Wilstead Karhile—lack of developmental progress was his failing. The lands were granted to me. I know he will duel me soon, hoping to rally support for the imperialist faction he belongs to. What should I expect from him in combat?"

Wallace's gaze hardened, his voice steady with practiced knowledge.

"Wilstead Karhile—'Rain-Maker' to those who fear him—relies heavily on skillcubes that manipulate weather phenomena to produce liquids. He's altered his cubes to generate oil instead of water, enabling him to summon rain—not of life-giving water—but of flammable, burning oil.

"He wields this with his Arte, Rain Manipulation, which lets him control and amplify the liquid he conjures. He can douse flames he starts to keep them contained or push further, shaping oil rain into precise, deadly weapons—streams of flame, bursts of burning rain. It's devastating and difficult to counter."

***

The oily rain hissed as it hit the ground, smoke rising in thin plumes. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of burning fuel and imminent destruction.

Karhile's eyes glinted with savage delight, believing he'd trapped me in a fiery tomb of his own making.

But I was ready.

The rain was a double-edged sword—and I knew precisely how to turn it against him.

The acrid smoke curled in the heavy air as the oily rain hissed around us, a suffocating curtain of impending doom. Karhile's sneer was barely hidden beneath the mask, his voice a low, venomous growl that barely carried.

"Star-Writer... you'll regret ever touching my lands."

His words barely crossed his lips before I let loose an arrow—silent, swift, precise. It whispered through the rain, striking the arm of one of the Chimera Flies that had just emerged from the cracked earth nearby. The swarm hissed, momentarily disoriented by the loss of its proxy, and Karhile's eyes flickered with frustration.

"You think your little tricks will save you?" he spat under his breath, words dripping with contempt.

Another arrow sailed, aimed this time at a shadow flickering near his feet. The arrow found its mark—an unholy creature shaped like a small girl, barely more than a child. The body dissolved into writhing black insects, the Chimera Flies scattering only to reform moments later into another small child, then another—each one a grotesque mirror of innocence.

More and more bodies emerged from the ground, each one a hollow shell buzzing with the relentless swarm inside. The eerie procession crept closer, their childlike shapes a cruel mockery.

Karhile's scowl deepened, the strain evident. He gripped his flindbar tighter, swinging it wildly to smash the nearest swarm—swats of metal and fury that shattered some, but only scattered the flies briefly before they reassembled into new forms, even more unnerving and numerous.

"You'll pay for this! I will burn you to ash!" he snarled, voice cracking as the relentless swarm closed in.

Another whisper—another insult, bitter and seething—and another arrow struck true, piercing the swarm that shielded his legs.

But the relentless tide of Chimera Fly children kept advancing, their forms multiplying faster than he could strike them down. His breathing grew ragged, panic seeping into his eyes beneath the mask. The grandeur of the duelist gave way to the desperation of a man trapped in his own nightmare.

Then, chaos broke loose.

In a flash too fast to follow, one of the smallest "children" darted forward, a black swarm coalescing into a jagged blade. With a swift, brutal motion, it severed Karhile's head from his body.

His mask tumbled across the scorched ground, rolling like a fallen trophy.

The room was silent but for the faint buzz of Chimera Flies settling back into the cracks beneath the ruined city.

Karhile's head, eyes wide in terror and madness, rolled to a stop near my feet.

I looked down, voice steady, unwavering.

"Law One remains: Karhile will lose."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.