The next morning, Lucas woke earlier than usual.

He stood in his room, pulling his shoulders back before starting a light stretch. He slowly rolled his neck, twisted his waist. His joints let out faint sounds.

"Hm…"

His movements looked relaxed, but his mind wasn't entirely calm.

…Today was the duel.

He reached for his coat—then the door opened.

"Lucian."

The Baroness stood there, already dressed, her gaze immediately drawn to Lucas's body as he continued stretching lightly.

"You're up early," she said.

"Habit," Lucas replied shortly.

The Baroness stepped closer. Her eyes traced his shoulders, his posture, his breathing.

"You're nervous."

Lucas clicked his tongue softly. "A little."

The Baroness crossed her arms.

"Remember," she said, her voice calm but firm, "if you—"

"Yeah, yeah. I know," Lucas cut in, waving a hand.

The Baroness stopped walking.

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then she let out a quiet sigh.

—

The morning at the field felt quiet.

Too quiet.

The leaves were still wet with dew, the soil dark and damp.

No Geralt.

No Edric.

No Anya.

He had told them all to take the day off.

Lucas walked between the rows of plants. His eyes assessed the field unconsciously.

Leaves.

Stems.

Young fruit.

…Good.

That was all he needed.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

"You're still fussing over the field?"

Lucas didn't turn.

Silvara stopped a few steps behind him.

"You have a duel today," Silvara continued. "And this is what you're doing?"

Lucas finally turned. "I just came to water it today!"

Silvara raised an eyebrow.

"…That's it?"

"Yeah."

Silvara clicked her tongue.

She stepped a little closer, staring at Lucas sharply.

"You're acting like this field is going to fight in your place."

Lucas gave a thin smile. "In a way, it is."

Silvara shook her head slightly. Then she said flatly, "What a strange man."

Lucas let out a short chuckle. "Yeah, I am strange."

He straightened up, summoned Loticentra, and handed it to Silvara.

Silvara took it with visible irritation.

"On a day this important," she muttered. "Still doing things like this…"

Lucas nodded and turned away—

The day moved slowly toward noon.

By the time the sun had risen high enough, Lucas and Silvara had already returned to the manor.

They stood in the open training yard.

Lucas held the Great Hoe casually at his side.

Silvara clicked her tongue at once.

"Grip it tighter."

Lucas tightened his hold slightly.

"Not like that," Silvara said flatly. "Firm, but not stiff. If your hands get rigid, you'll lose fast."

She walked slowly around Lucas.

"Your stance," she continued. "Lower your center of gravity. Widen it a bit. This isn't a sword."

Lucas adjusted his footing, planting himself more firmly into the ground.

Silvara stopped directly in front of him.

"Remember—Rosevelt's fighting style relies on agility," she said. "Fast entry. Fast exit. Constantly changing angles of attack."

She tapped the shaft of the Hoe twice with her fingers.

"That means you can't treat this weapon as always heavy, or always light."

Lucas narrowed his eyes.

"Every second," Silvara continued.

She demonstrated a movement—a short swing that anchored firmly, followed by a smooth, quick transition.

Lucas tightened his grip, then loosened it slightly, feeling the weapon's balance shift.

Silvara nodded once.

"Good."

She raised her weapon.

"Again," she said. "From the beginning."

Lucas took a breath, corrected his stance, and lifted the Hoe.

This time, his body was lower.

More stable.

And when he swung—

The movement felt different.

---

The day finally shifted toward evening.

As the appointed time for the duel drew near, the Baron and Baroness invited Lucas to ride in a wagon. The vehicle was far more luxurious than their usual carriage—fine metal ornaments, thick upholstered lining, and the Voss crest clearly engraved on the side of the door.

The atmosphere inside the wagon was awkward.

There was no long conversation.

Only the soft creaking of wheels rolling over stone roads.

Upon arriving at the location, the Baron and Baroness disembarked first.

Lucas lingered inside the wagon for a moment.

His hand slipped into the pocket of his coat. He took out a small glass vial given to him by Healer Mae. Inside, a tiny pale pill remained submerged in a thin layer of liquid.

Without hesitation, Lucas opened the vial and slipped the pill-like thing into his mouth.

"Ten minutes," he murmured softly.

He closed the vial, put it away—and stepped down from the wagon.

Outside, the scene was already lively.

Several special seats were lined up neatly, arranged to face a square arena in the center of the town. The common folk of Voss Town filled the surrounding area. Whispers, low cheers, and the sound of footsteps blended together.

The crowd parted as the Baroness stepped forward.

"Lady Isabelle!"

"Baroness!"

The townsfolk quickly made way. The Baron walked at her side, Lucas followed half a step behind. Silvara kept her distance, trailing behind with a flat expression.

When they reached the center of town, Lucas frowned slightly.

Its surface was slightly elevated, neat and pristine—far too clean for something placed right in the middle of the town. It had clearly been prepared recently.

The Baron and Baroness took their seats side by side in the seats of honor.

Someone was already there.

Matruska Grimhelt.

She sat calmly, her back straight, her expression cold. Beside her sat a broad-shouldered man with an eyepatch covering one side of his face. The aura of the two was immediately distinct from that of ordinary nobles.

…Quite the spectacle, Lucas thought.

Before he could observe further—

Heavy footsteps sounded.

Aldric emerged from the side of the arena.

And at that very moment—

A bluish light flared.

A square boundary formed around the arena. Intricate sigils appeared in the air, spinning briefly before vanishing one by one.

The field was now completely isolated.

A man stepped into the center of the arena.

His attire was simple, but his presence was firm. His voice rang out clearly, amplified by magic.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "I am the referee for today's duel."

He turned to one side.

"This duel pits—Aldric Rosevelt, Blade of Rosevelt."

A small cheer rose.

Then he turned to the other side.

"Against—Lucian Voss, the rightful heir of the Voss lands."

Another cheer followed, louder and more mixed.

The referee raised one hand.

"This duel is witnessed directly by Our Ladyship, Isabelle Voss, and Our Lordship, Alaric Voss."

He paused briefly—then continued in a heavier tone.

"This duel is further distinguished by the presence of the honorable Crownblade, Lady Matruska Grimhelt."

Many eyes immediately turned toward the seats of honor.

"And the representative of the Highblade of Rosevelt—Sir Valeric Rosevelt."

The eyepatched man did not react.

The arena fell silent for a moment.

The referee lowered his hand.

"Thus," he said firmly, "the duel will now begin."

Cheers began to rise from the crowd.

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