"If you want to leave intact, I suggest you walk away now."
Rae's voice cut through the air, sharp and cold, carrying a weight that silenced the murmurs of the gathered crowd. A suffocating pressure radiated from her petite frame, heavy and oppressive, like a storm about to break. The villagers who had been watching from the sidelines shifted uneasily, their instincts screaming at them to step back. Even the seasoned guards flanking Count Greythorne stiffened, their hands twitching toward their weapons. Rae's crimson eyes glowed faintly, sharp and unyielding, locking onto Oliver Greythorne's with an intensity that dared him to defy her.
Oliver, the fourteen-year-old son of Count Greythorne, faltered. For a moment, the confidence he carried like a mantle cracked. It was absurd—a girl, barely eleven years old, standing against him, a prodigy of swordsmanship and heir to one of the most powerful noble houses. He had been hailed as a genius, a mid-tier four Spirit Blade already, destined to reach the rank of tier six Sword Saint before his seventeenth birthday. His victories were celebrated across the kingdom, his strength unmatched among his peers. Yet, the girl before him didn't flinch. She didn't waver. Her stillness was unnerving, her stance radiating a lethal precision that set his instincts on edge.
What Oliver didn't realize was that Rae was no ordinary opponent. She was already a low-tier five Aura Sentinel—an elite warrior whose mastery extended beyond just weapons. Spearmanship, swordplay, daggers, hand-to-hand combat—she excelled in them all. Her aura, though faintly visible, carried a weight that marked her as someone far more dangerous than her young age suggested. But to Oliver, blinded by arrogance and the expectations placed upon him, Rae was just a child—one he would teach a swift lesson.
Rae, however, had no intention of being underestimated. Her resolve had been forged in the fires of grief and defiance. She had refused to bury her mother's body, clinging to the belief that magic could undo death. With meticulous care, she had built a magical refrigerator to preserve her mother's corpse, hiding it in a secluded cave where no one could find it. It was her rebellion against fate, her refusal to accept finality.
Her father, Baron Harold, had tried to dissuade her. He begged her to let go, to grieve properly, but in the end, he relented, hoping it would give her peace. His own heart was heavy with this loss.
They never found Merle's body, and the assumption was that she was consumed by the monsters that had ambushed them. The adventurers who perished in the ambush—including Merle and Crystal—were to be honored in a ceremony for the village and the Barony, but Rae refused to attend. Closure didn't interest her. She hadn't anticipated, however, that Count Greythorne would arrive uninvited, his presence disrupting the fragile peace of a grieving people.
The Count had waltzed onto their lands with pomp and arrogance, his son in tow, trampling over the solemnity of the moment. The banners of the Barony hung limp in the still air, villagers clad in mourning black moved with quiet reverence, and yet the Count ignored it all. His disrespect was palpable, an insult to Baron Harold and his people. Harold, worn thin by grief and weighed down by the arranged marriage the Count was forcing upon him, lacked the strength to confront the man. But Rae didn't.
"This is not your place," Rae said, stepping forward. Her voice tempered steel cutting through the silence. "Leave now and let us grieve in peace."
The Count sneered, his expression dripping with disdain. "A child speaks for the Barony now?" He waved a dismissive hand, his condescension palpable.
The subtle hum of Rae's aura flared, sending a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd. Her hands clenched at her sides, her patience thinning. She couldn't let this stand. The honor of her family and the dignity of her home demanded action. "If you refuse to leave," Rae declared, her voice steady and razor-sharp, "then I challenge your son to a Lumley Duel."
The crowd stirred at her words. The Lumley Duel was not just a simple contest—it was an ancient tradition born of rebellion and autonomy. The tale of Lindsley Lumley, the eldest daughter of the Lumley County, had become legend. Betrothed to a Duke's son but in love with a knight, she had proposed a duel between the two suitors. The winner would claim her hand. Though the knight lost, her defiance set a precedent. The duel became a way for women of noble birth to challenge unwanted betrothals, ensuring their honor and protecting their freedom.
Oliver smirked, stepping forward with practiced ease. "A duel, is it?" he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Very well. Let's end this quickly."
Rae's crimson gaze remained locked on him, unflinching. "You'll regret that," she said softly, unsheathing her daggers. The blades gleamed in the sunlight, their edges sharp enough to split hairs. Her movements were fluid, precise—the stance of someone who had fought countless battles.
Oliver frowned, puzzled. Traditionally, the Lumley Duel allowed the woman to choose a champion to fight on her behalf. Yet Rae was stepping into the ring herself. An eleven-year-old girl was challenging him—a prodigy—to a duel. It was absurd. It was insulting. And yet...
"If you want to leave intact," Rae said, her voice low and cutting, "I suggest you walk away now." She shifted her stance, her daggers glinting menacingly. "Usually, I suppress my mana to avoid harming those around me. But just this once, I'll let you feel it."
And with that, Rae released her suppressed mana.
The air grew heavy in an instant, as if the weight of the heavens had descended upon the earth. The crowd gasped as a suffocating pressure rolled over them, dark clouds swirling overhead and blotting out the sun. Several of the onlookers dropped to their knees, unable to withstand the sheer force of her mana. The ground beneath Rae cracked, thin fissures spidering outward as the oppressive energy radiated from her. She stood at the center of the storm, a terrifying monster cloaked in the body of a child.
Oliver's pulse quickened—not with fear, but with exhilaration. His grin widened, his excitement mounting. "Amazing," he muttered, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "You're full of surprises."
Rae narrowed her eyes. "I'll give you one last chance. Leave now, or face the consequences."
Oliver's grin didn't falter. If anything, it grew sharper. The idea of breaking his streak against such a powerful opponent thrilled him. "I think I'll stay," he said, drawing his blade.
Rae sighed, suppressing her mana. The oppressive atmosphere lifted, the dark clouds dissipating as quickly as they had formed. "Fine," she said, her voice calm but cold. "Then let's make this quick. You have fifty seconds to attack me with everything you've got. If you land a single hit, you win. After that, we'll switch. I'll attack, and you'll defend—for ten seconds. I won't move from this spot, and I'll only use my aura."
The crowd murmured in disbelief. Rae wasn't just confident—she was mocking him. Oliver, however, didn't care. He was a prodigy, and he intended to prove it.
Without hesitation, he unleashed his most devastating ability: Resonance Blade. The mana-infused blade vibrated at such a high frequency that it sent waves of energy slashing toward Rae. The strikes were fast and precise, slicing through stone and earth with ease. But to Oliver's shock, none of them reached her. An invisible barrier surrounded Rae, deflecting each attack as if they were mere gusts of wind.
Rae didn't flinch. She didn't even bother dodging. She sat on the ground, leaning back as if bored. "Is that all?" she asked as the timer ticked down. Her voice carried a calm disdain that made Oliver's blood boil.
Oliver's frustration grew. He unleashed attack after attack, each more devastating than the last, but nothing broke through her unseen barrier. Time ticked away, and as the fifty seconds ended, Rae finally stood, her aura flaring faintly. "My turn."
She released a fraction of her mana, just enough to shape her intent into a crimson aura. The energy shifted and molded itself into a spectral figure—an ethereal, ruby-red silhouette of Rae herself materialized beside her. It moved with cold precision, attacking Oliver relentlessly. He barely had time to react, his defenses crumbling under the barrage. The aura figure didn't relent, striking with the force of a tempest, leaving him bruised and battered.
Rae approached him slowly, her gaze piercing. "Is that all you've got? That was barely 10 percent of my abilities... You're not worthy of me," she said, her voice like ice. Without a second thought, she reached down, her fingers digging into his left eye. Oliver screamed as she plucked it free, blood streaming down his face.
"If you desire a god," Rae said, her tone eerily calm, "then you should aim to become one yourself."
She turned and strode back toward the manor. The crowd was deathly silent, watching her retreating form in awe and terror.
Oliver lay on the ground, wracked with pain, his thoughts swirling in a chaotic mix of disbelief and awe. The little girl who had so thoroughly humiliated him—could she be a Tier Six Sword Saint? No, she had to be beyond that. Perhaps even a Tier Seven Blade King. Her mastery over mana and intent was nothing short of extraordinary, almost divine. Though he had been dragged into this arrangement unwillingly, the fear he might have felt was replaced by something unexpected—interest and admiration.
Count Greythorne stood frozen, his face pale, his arrogance shattered. Baron Harold watched from the sidelines, torn between pride and worry. The retaliation that would follow, he knew, would be severe.
But for now, Rae had defended her family's honor—and made it clear to all that she was not one to be trifled with.