"Valkas Urr wagers 37 Contribution Points."
"VS"
"Ash Heath wagers 2 Contribution Points."
It was rare enough for a newcomer to the "pit"—the affectionate nickname for Broken Lake Prison used by its death row inmates—to participate in back-to-back death matches. Rarer still, their opponent this time was Valkas, a so-called "noble." Naturally, the news had drawn a massive crowd.
Even those who didn't frequent the Deathmatch Club gathered to watch, packing the stands to capacity. The entrances were crowded with curious onlookers jostling for a view.
"Both are using swords... a duel of swordsmanship? It's been a while since we've seen one of those. Swordsmen leave such fragrant trails of blood behind."
"Kill that elf, human!"
"What kind of grip is that? Has he ever even touched a sword before? Probably picked it up out of fear after seeing the noble grab one."
"If you can't use a sword, don't! A spear would be much better for a beginner—long reach, easy to use."
"Bah! A battle axe is better! One swing and everything, sword or not, turns into paste."
"You... you're spouting nonsense! Spears are the superior beginner's weapon!"
"I... I'm not spouting nonsense! Axes are the way to go!"
Ash added yet another reason to his list of motivations for escaping: he'd rather listen to crude insults than endure the sight of two burly men with booming voices bickering like bashful schoolgirls.
"They're so loud," he muttered.
"This pit is full of buzzing flies," Valkas replied, his gaze fixed on the iron sword in his hand. He flicked its blade, the clear metallic ring slicing through the noise.
"Maggots don't turn into butterflies," Valkas continued, his tone indifferent. "And even true butterflies are just oversized flies in this cesspit."
Ash grinned. "You seem very inspired by prison life. Ever thought about writing a book?"
Ignoring the jab, Valkas ran his fingers along the blade and settled into a textbook-perfect sword stance.
"Ash Heath," he said calmly. "I apologize."
The moment the arena's energy barriers activated, Valkas vanished in a blur, his sword extending like a bolt of lightning to pierce the air.
Ash, despite being on high alert, barely managed to evade a fatal blow. Darting to the right, he felt the edge of Valkas's blade bite into his shoulder, slicing away a piece of flesh.
The sharp pain forced a gasp through clenched teeth, but Ash had no time to pause. Valkas was already closing in.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Ash didn't retreat. Instead, he charged into Valkas's guard, forcing the fight into dangerously close quarters.
His reasoning was clear: Valkas was taller, with longer limbs, giving him a significant advantage at mid-range. But at point-blank distance, Valkas's sword became a hindrance rather than an asset.
"You haven't learned a single proper technique, have you?"
A shiver of dread ran down Ash's spine as Valkas's tone sharpened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elf flip his grip, switching to a reverse hold.
Clang!
The sudden shift let Valkas block Ash's thrust with ease. Then, taking advantage of his height, Valkas drove an elbow into Ash's forehead with brutal force.
Back! Back! Back!
Dazed, Ash stumbled backward, his vision swimming. Yet even as unconsciousness threatened to take hold, the strange energy within him—the "mana" he'd discovered in the Void Realm—stirred. A soothing chill coursed through his veins, snapping him back to clarity.
As his vision cleared, a flash of cold steel filled his view.
Boom!
Ash rolled frantically, his instincts screaming not to let his back hit the ground. The spot he'd just vacated exploded into shards of stone, courtesy of Valkas's devastating strike.
Ash stared at the cracked wall, his heart pounding with fear.
The swords weren't supposed to be sharpened!
Prison regulations prohibited giving death row inmates fully functional weapons. Valkas's earlier slash, which had cut into Ash's shoulder, was already absurd. But this? This was madness.
"Is that... a miracle?" Ash muttered, his voice shaky.
Valkas chuckled. "You look surprised."
"Using miracles in combat is expected of a mage, isn't it?"
"But the prison hasn't lifted the mana restrictions—"
"There are things that cannot be bound. Even shackled, they find a way to soar. The knowledge I've mastered, the miracles I've forged—they're mine alone. Even without mana, they remain my strength, turning every mundane act into a moment of wonder."
Ash exhaled deeply, his clothes growing heavy as blood soaked his shoulder. His strength ebbed with every drop spilled.
Unlike fistfights, sword duels were unforgiving, swift battles of life and death.
Yet despite the mounting odds, Ash felt an odd clarity. The mana within him buzzed, sharpening his focus, dulling his pain.
"If one of your strikes lands cleanly, I'm done for, aren't I?"
"Most likely," Valkas admitted. "I've never fought with full force before."
"Am I the first?"
"And the last."
Boom!
Valkas's blade barely flicked the ground, yet the reinforced arena floor shattered, cracks racing toward Ash like a serpent.
"Elven swordsmanship... Earthbreaker?"
"He's really using a miracle!"
"Unbelievable!"
The audience erupted in shock, pressing against the invisible barrier to catch every detail.
Igula, too, leaned forward, his expression grave. Though he'd seen Valkas's prowess before, this was different.
Miracles were leagues beyond simple spellcraft. They required not just multiple synergistic abilities but an intricate harmony of mastery and will.
For most mages, casting a single miracle in their lifetime was a rare achievement. Even among elites, miracles were the exception, not the rule.
For Valkas to unleash one here, in the mana-restricted prison, was nothing short of extraordinary.
"That's it for Ash," Igula thought grimly, watching the arena quake under Valkas's assault.
Amid the destruction, however, a strange murmur began to ripple through the crowd.
"Why isn't he dead yet?"
"Even with the miracle's power reduced, it should've crushed him by now."
The inmates' gazes snapped to Ash, who darted and dodged through the chaos like a cornered animal.
Though battered and bruised, his movements became increasingly fluid, his swordwork more precise.
"What the hell..."
Someone whispered, "Just like yesterday's fight against the beast-man."
Igula's mind raced, recalling how Ash had grown stronger during their bout, adapting with terrifying speed.
Could he be... learning swordsmanship mid-fight?
For a moment, the whispers of Ash's alleged past—a leader of the enigmatic Four Pillars Cult—felt less like rumors and more like prophecy.
In the dim crowd, Ronna tightened his grip on his partner, a strange light flickering in his eyes as he watched the man who refused to fall.