Barre Shepherd left Safflower Manor.
Only then did the duel that dazzled everyone draw to its conclusion.
It was not a farce.
It was more like a grand performance between geniuses.
The guests, once schadenfreude, now looked at the proud young man standing alone with stunned expressions.
Leonard Churchill stood on a tattered patch of grass, tapping the ground with the tip of his shoe, shaking off the mud that clung to his leather footwear.
He paid no attention to the onlookers, calmly straightening his tattered suit.
The jacket was in tatters, the finely spun white shirt had ripped due to his flexing muscles, and at this moment those strips of cloth could hardly conceal his sinewy upper body muscles.
The clothes were ruined beyond wearing.
He looked at his irreparably damaged attire and let out a "huff," showing a hint of an unusual expression.
As if he felt a bit of a pity.
But to the onlookers, the scene painted a different picture.
