The courtyard bustled with excited chatter as guests gathered to witness the duel, their faces illuminated by flickering torches. Whispers and murmurs darted from one group to the next, each rumor about Kento Salvatore's fighting skills more outlandish than the last.
"Kento Salvatore in a duel? He's never lifted a sword in his life," one nobleman muttered skeptically to a friend.
A woman nearby chuckled, raising a brow. "Maybe he's hiding more than we think. And that rapier…there's magic in it, isn't there?"
Kento, standing at the center of the courtyard, let the crowd's gossip wash over him. He waited with a loose, casual stance, one hand resting lazily on his hip. He didn't need to force a smile—this was entertaining in itself. Erik Larson finally swaggered forward, his face red, his steps wobbly but full of drunken confidence.
"Well, Salvatore," Erik sneered, his words slurred. "Think you can charm your way out of this one, pretty boy?"
