Albert stood in the middle of the throne room, feeling the golden medal on his chest still warm from the ceremony, Alena's gaze still burning in his memory. But before words could leave his mouth, King Wilhelm leaned back on his throne with an unreadable smile.
"I've heard much about your fighting style," the King said, his fingers tapping the armrest. "Lord Harald tells me you have unconventional methods. The soldiers call you a Demon. But I prefer to trust what I see with my own eyes."
He raised his hand. From the side, a man stepped forward.
He was tall—perhaps a head taller than Albert. Short black hair, a strong jaw, calm grey eyes. His armor wasn't ceremonial—it was genuine battle armor, with scuffs in several places that indicated its wearer didn't merely stand in throne rooms. At his waist hung a longsword with a simple, unadorned hilt.
"This is Captain Aldus," the King said. "Commander of the royal knights. He's fought in three wars, won twenty-seven official duels." The King smiled again, broader this time. "I want to see just how formidable the Black Sword Demon truly is."
Whispers rippled through the gathered nobles. Some laughed softly, others held their breath. Behind Albert, someone murmured, "That boy is about to be crushed."
Albert didn't move. He looked at Aldus. The man stood calmly, neither arrogant nor dismissive. Simply waiting with quiet patience.
"I don't have my sword," Albert said, his voice flat. Wurzel was still with the baggage train, with Luise.
The King waved his hand. A servant hurried out, returning minutes later with a blade. Not Wurzel—a training sword, wooden blade, iron hilt. Its weight was unfamiliar. Albert took it, feeling the difference in his grip.
Across from him, Aldus accepted an identical blade. He spun it once, testing its balance, then nodded.
"Rules?" Aldus asked. His voice was deep, measured.
"First to fall," the King said. "Or yield."
No one objected. Albert understood—this duel wasn't about winning or losing. It was a test. A spectacle. And he had no choice.
They took their positions.
Albert steadied his breathing. His body was still exhausted—the long journey, insufficient rest, wounds not yet fully healed. But those were excuses. On the battlefield, no one cared about excuses.
Aldus struck first.
No warning. No threat. One moment he stood still, the next his blade was already slashing toward Albert's shoulder. His movements were fast, but not wild—controlled, efficient. The speed born of thousands of repetitions.
Albert parried. The crack of wood echoed through the vast chamber. His hand went numb—Aldus was stronger than him. He retreated a step, creating distance.
Aldus didn't pursue. He stood his ground, sword half-raised, waiting.
"Not what I expected," a noble whispered behind Albert. He didn't catch the rest.
He advanced again. This time he attacked. A slash to the left—Aldus parried. A slash to the right—Aldus parried again. A thrust toward the chest—Aldus twisted his body, the wooden blade passing close enough to brush his sleeve. Close, but not enough.
Aldus countered. A swift vertical slash. Albert raised his blade, but Aldus changed direction mid-swing, shifting to a low strike aimed at his knee.
Albert leaped back. The wooden tip grazed his knee—just a touch, but enough to make the room murmur.
"First blood," someone said.
Albert didn't hear. He was watching Aldus. The man still stood calmly, unhurried. Like someone who knew time was on his side.
They exchanged blows again. Fast. Hard. Wooden blades clashing in an erratic rhythm. Albert could keep up—but only for moments. Aldus was stronger, faster, more experienced. Every time Albert found an opening, Aldus had already closed it before the strike could land.
Three minutes. Five minutes.
Sweat began soaking Albert's back. His chest rose and fell heavily. The old wound in his shoulder—which should have healed by now—began throbbing. Aldus still looked fresh. His breathing was even, his steps unhurried.
Around the room, the nobles began whispering.
"He's losing..."
"I expected more..."
"But they said he was—"
Aldus attacked again. A combination of three strikes—left, right, thrust. Albert parried two, dodged one, but his foot caught on the edge of a carpet. He fell to one knee.
The room went silent.
Aldus stood before him, sword raised, waiting.
"Yield," Aldus said. Not a taunt. Genuine advice.
Albert stared at the wooden blade in his hand. His hand trembled—from exhaustion, from pain, and from something else. Something he had been trying to bury, trying to control, trying to forget.
Crash!
In the corner of the room, Alena clutched her skirt.
She watched Albert on his knee. Saw the sweat streaking his face, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly. Saw his opponent standing calmly before him, waiting. And for a moment, she felt afraid.
Not afraid that Albert would lose. But afraid to see him like this—exhausted, forced, paraded on a stage for the amusement of nobles.
She wanted to shout "enough." But her tongue was frozen.
Albert rose.
It wasn't a graceful recovery. He pushed his body upward, knees still unsteady, hands still trembling. But he stood.
Aldus frowned. He didn't understand. This boy was exhausted, beaten, clearly outmatched. Why wouldn't he yield?
Albert didn't answer the unspoken question. He simply raised his sword.
The first attack came fast. Not an ordinary slash. He stepped forward, dropping low, his blade sweeping upward from below. Aldus parried, but his movement was slightly slower—caught off guard, not expecting a dying opponent to attack with such speed.
The second strike followed. A slash toward the shoulder. Aldus raised his blade—but Albert changed direction mid-swing, twisting his wrist to redirect toward the chest. The wooden tip nearly touched him.
Aldus retreated. The first step backward in this duel. A step born of instinct.
The nobles stopped whispering.
Albert didn't stop. He attacked again. And again. Each slash faster than the last. Each movement wilder, more unpredictable. No longer clean technique. This was something else—something unleashed.
In his head, the voices returned.
Klaus. Stefan. Lukas. Gerold. Gerda. Thousands of faces who had died under his command. Thousands of hands reaching from black water.
He couldn't win. But he wouldn't lose. Not here. Not in front of all these people. Not in front of Alena.
Aldus's sword slashed toward his head. Albert didn't dodge. He stepped forward, moving inside the arc, letting the blade pass beside his ear—so close he felt the wind of it—and thrust forward.
A brutal thrust, efficient and fast.
Aldus twisted his body, the wooden blade catching his arm. Not a wound, but enough to make the man feel something he hadn't felt since the duel began.
Pressure.
Albert kept attacking. Each slash carried his full body weight, each movement left gaps in his defense. A swordsman would call this reckless. Suicidal.
But Aldus couldn't exploit those gaps.
Because every time he tried to counter, Albert's strike arrived first. Not because he was faster, but because he was unreasonable. Attacks that shouldn't be possible from certain positions—he made them possible. Movements that shouldn't be sustainable—he sustained them.
Like a man who no longer cared about his own body. Because every move would wound its user.
In the corner, Alena clutched her dress tighter. In her eyes, Albert still looked the same—damp blonde hair, the green Götthain cloak, a wooden sword in his hand. But something was different.
His eyes.
Usually, Albert's eyes were cold. Like ice—deep, unreadable. But now, beneath that cold surface, something stirred.
Something darker. More dangerous.
Something that slowly drowned him.
She had seen eyes like that before. When she was young, in Lanser's library, in a book about mental illness she'd opened by accident. The eyes of a soldier who had spent too long on the battlefield. Eyes that had seen too much death to know if they were still alive.
A chill ran down her spine.
Aldus felt it too.
He had fought for over twenty years. He knew when an opponent was dangerous from training. He knew when an opponent was dangerous from desperation. But this boy... this boy wasn't desperate. He didn't see desperation in those eyes.
What he saw was something that shouldn't exist in an eighteen-year-old.
Albert attacked again. A slash from the left, but mid-stroke he spun, converting it into a thrust from below. Aldus parried—but his hand trembled slightly. Just slightly, but enough.
In that room, no one was laughing anymore.
The nobles who had whispered earlier were now silent. They watched the young man who had nearly lost, who had knelt with trembling hands, now standing in the center of the room, wooden sword in hand, and something in his eyes that made them not want to look too long.
Captain Aldus stepped back. Not to reset the distance. To get away.
"Captain Aldus," the King's voice came from the throne. "Are you retreating?"
Aldus didn't answer. His eyes never left Albert.
Albert stepped forward. One step. Two steps. His gait was unsteady—his body still exhausted, his wounds still aching. But in his eyes, nothing changed.
Aldus raised his sword. For the first time in this duel, he attacked first.
A swift horizontal slash. Albert parried. A second slash followed from above—Albert's right hand, gripping his sword, dropped under the pressure. Instinctively, his left hand moved on its own, catching Aldus's wrist.
Aldus was startled. No one grabbed an opponent's wrist in a duel. Never. It was unsporting. Against the rules. This was—
Albert pressed.
His fingers clamped around Aldus's wrist, squeezing, twisting. Aldus winced—not from pain, but from shock. His right hand weakened, his sword nearly fell. In the same instant, the wooden blade in Albert's right hand was already raised, its tip aimed at Aldus's chin.
No one moved.
Aldus stared at the blade's tip. Then at Albert's eyes.
Those eyes were empty. No victory there. No pride. Only a weight so heavy that anyone who looked at them wanted to look away.
"Let's stop here," the King said. His voice sounded too loud in the suddenly silent chamber.
Albert lowered his sword. Released Aldus's wrist. They stood still for a moment.
Aldus exhaled. "Well fought. You are truly... unpredictable," he said.
Albert didn't answer. His hands still trembled. His breath still came in ragged gasps. And in his eyes, something slowly dimmed. Like a fire running out of fuel.
In the corner of the room, Alena felt something strange in her chest. Relief that Albert wasn't hurt. But beside that relief, something else stirred. Something that made her want to approach, to hold his hand, to ask what had happened.
But she didn't move.
Because before all these nobles, before the King, before Captain Aldus who still stood with an unreadable expression, Albert was a hero who had just matched the commander of the royal knights. And she was his betrothed, expected to be proud.
But she didn't feel pride.
What she felt was something deeper. Fear.
King Wilhelm clapped his hands. Slowly. The applause prompted the nobles to follow, a thunderous ovation filling the throne room.
"Extraordinary," the King said. "Extraordinary!"
Albert stood in the midst of the applause, wooden sword still in hand, body still trembling, eyes still empty. And in the corner of the room, Alena watched him.