The impact struck squarely against the side of Aldric's blade.

The weight was brutal.

Even though it was merely a hoe, brought down with full momentum.

Aldric staggered.

For a fraction of a second—long enough for his body to register something he hadn't expected.

Weight.

His sword was forced downward, his arm dragged by a force a "lowly" weapon like that should never have possessed.

"—!"

Aldric immediately leapt back, his boots slamming hard into the ground to cut the momentum. A thin cloud of dust rose.

He lowered his sword slowly.

Then he smiled.

Without giving any time—

Aldric lunged again.

His step was deeper. Closer.

Lucas reflexively twisted the end of the hoe's handle to the left, trying to shift the angle of attack like before.

Clang!

Aldric's sword kept pressing, relentlessly hunting the hoe's blade.

But—

The moment Lucas's attention locked onto the sword's trajectory—

THUD!

A brutal kick slammed into his abdomen.

"—!"

The air was ripped from his lungs instantly.

Lucas was flung backward, his back crashing hard into the ground. The hoe slipped halfway from his grip before he wrenched it back.

His jaw tightened.

His mouth remained firmly shut.

Trying not to vomit—or bite down on the potion's shell.

Among the spectators—

Healer Mae froze.

Her eyes snapped straight to Lucas's face.

The body-enhancement potion—was it still being held back?

Mae's brow furrowed.

His mouth…

Is he keeping it in his mouth?

Beside her, Lina unconsciously clenched the hem of her clothes.

She didn't know who she was supposed to support. She didn't understand duels. She didn't understand technique. To her, Lucian Voss was an entity to be avoided—rotten at his core. The only good thing she had ever heard about him was Mae's assumption that the Young Master was in love with the silver-haired knight and was desperately trying to draw that knight's attention.

But the image of two gold coins surfaced in her mind.

Two coins that had allowed her to eat—warm soup, better quality bread.

Coins that had let her grandmother sleep without enduring hunger ever since the coins had fallen into her hands.

"…Young Master," she murmured softly.

In the arena—

Lucas rolled halfway, one knee touching the ground.

His breathing was heavy.

He planted the tip of the hoe into the earth and slowly stood.

His gaze lifted.

Aldric was already waiting.

The silver sword was raised, held low, ready to pounce again.

The smile was still there—

as if he intended to break his opponent's spirit first before executing him.

Lucas tightened his grip.

Just a few more minutes, he thought coldly.

Lucas had only just straightened his body—

He hadn't even had the chance to properly steady his breathing.

Aldric did not retreat.

Instead, he stepped in.

His leg lifted.

A brutal kick slammed into Lucas's face.

His head snapped to the side, his body staggering half a step before he managed to brace himself by driving the hoe's handle into the ground.

Cheers exploded.

"OOOOH—!"

"IT LANDED—!"

"NOW THAT'S A DUEL!"

Both the Baron and the Baroness jolted to their feet.

"Aldric!" the Baron shouted instinctively.

The Baroness gripped the armrest of her chair, her eyes widening.

On the other side of the arena—

The common folk cheered even louder.

The kick was clear. Brutal. Dominating.

To them, it was entertainment—perfect entertainment, watching the young man who had always been oppressive toward them finally get struck down hard.

Among the spectators—

Geralt stood rigid.

His hands clenched at his sides.

He did not cheer.

He did not shout.

Only a low murmur slipped from his lips.

"…Come on, lad. Evil lad… come on…"

His breath caught.

"…you have to win. No— you will win."

Beside him—

"Observe… Observe…."

Anya tugged on Geralt's arm with both of her small hands.

"I want to watch! Observe!"

Geralt winced slightly. "My lower back hurts, Anya…"

Anya immediately pouted.

"Observe… Observe…" she repeated stubbornly.

Her head snapped left and right, quick and stiff—

like a wary chicken.

---

Lucas wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

No blood dripped.

But his jaw trembled faintly.

Damn— it cracked! he cursed inwardly, as the pill-like object in his mouth broke and began releasing its liquid. I can't swallow it yet, he continued, staring straight at Aldric.

Aldric was grinning broadly now.

"Still standing tall?" he said lightly. "Ahaha… the Young Master is impressive, isn't he?" he mocked.

Lucas lowered his hand.

At the edge of his vision, the numbers kept ticking down.

Silvara, standing beside the Baroness, clenched her fists.

Come on… she urged silently, wishing time would pass faster.

Hold on until your late buffer activates, she thought.

---

Aldric grew increasingly aggressive.

His sword continued to hunt the hoe's blade—pressing, sliding, cutting angles—

but now his legs joined in.

Lucas blocked a slash.

A kick swept into his ribs.

Lucas was dragged half a step, not even given time to stabilize his footing—

Aldric was already back in.

Fast. Rough. No pause.

A low slash at the hoe—forcing a parry.

Then his shoulder drove in.

BAM!

Lucas was tackled hard, his body slamming heavily into the ground. His breath caught, dust bursting beneath his back.

The hoe slipped free—then was hauled back with effort.

Aldric stood over him for a fraction of a second.

Close enough for a finishing blow.

But—

He stepped back.

One step. Then another.

His sword stayed raised, yet the attack was withheld.

His smile widened.

As if deliberate.

As if he wanted this duel to last longer.

In the stands—

The cheers swelled, wild.

"KEEP GOING—!"

"GET UP AGAIN—!"

"HAHAHA—LOOK AT HIM GASPING!"

Some of the crowd screamed hysterically, laughing too loudly, too freely—

watching Lucas pant, stagger to his feet, his knees nearly buckling.

"Don't die yet!"

"This is still fun!"

Aldric rolled his shoulders casually, his gaze pressing down on Lucas from head to toe.

"Come on," he said lightly.

"Stand up again."

Lucas planted the hoe into the ground and rose slowly.

His breathing was ragged. His chest heaved.

Aldric furrowed his brow.

Just slightly.

Not from fatigue—

but from curiosity.

"Hm?" He tilted his head. "How strange."

He walked slowly in a circle around Lucas, his sword held low, ready to cut at any moment.

"Why are you so quiet today, Young Master?" he asked lightly.

"You usually like to talk, don't you?"

Lucas did not answer.

He merely regulated his breathing, adjusted his footing, the tip of the hoe still lightly planted in the ground.

Aldric chuckled.

"Ah," he said. "Do you regret it?"

One step closer.

"Regret challenging me? Regret standing in this arena, O Young Master?"

There was no response.

That made Aldric's smile spread wider.

"Then allow me to explain," he continued casually. "Your life today—its value isn't worth more than your tomato field."

He gave a slight shrug.

"Pathetic."

Among the spectators—

Silas watched with narrowed eyes.

Then laughed softly.

"Hahaha…"

How pitiful.

Greed glinted in his gaze.

If he falls, that field… will be mine.

The mockery was not directed openly.

Yet every word landed clearly—

like knives gently thrown, one by one.

Back in the arena—

Aldric began to toy with him.

Not full attacks.

Just small thrusts.

Shallow slashes.

Light touches of the blade that forced Lucas to move, to shift, to defend.

Clink.

Clang.

Trank.

Trivial strikes—

enough to disrupt rhythm, enough to gnaw away at dignity.

Lucas retreated half a step.

Then another.

His breathing grew heavier.

At the Rosevelt seat of honor—

Sir Valeric, Highblade of Rosevelt, narrowed his eye.

Is his power… merely a jest?

His gaze dropped to the hoe.

To the way Lucas defended.

Poor lad, he thought.

Yet a moment later—

He released a quiet breath.

Even so…

Your courage is still worthy of respect.

Valeric leaned back in his seat.

His eyes never left the arena.

---

Minute by minute passed without notice.

Insult after insult came in succession.

The pressure kept piling up.

Then—

[Hoemanship – 00:00:00]

The corner of Lucas's lips lifted.

He grinned.

Gulp.

He finally swallowed the potion.

Lucas wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"Ahhh…"

He let out a long, deep breath.

His posture changed.

No longer panting.

No longer unsteady.

Aldric furrowed his brow.

"Why do you look… happy?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"Have you finally gone mad?"

Lucas didn't answer—and instead laughed.

In the stands, an uproar broke out.

"What is he doing—?"

"Why is he smiling?"

"HEY—WHY IS HE LAUGHING?!"

The crowd looked at one another, confused.

That smile made no sense.

On the spectator side—

Geralt smiled.

Thin. Full of conviction.

"That face…" he murmured.

"That evil face."

"…that confidence."

He nodded slightly.

"You will win."

---

Lucas lifted his head.

His eyes were clear. Sharp.

He smiled broadly at Aldric.

"Enough," he said calmly.

Aldric frowned.

"What?"

Lucas slowly rotated the hoe's handle.

"You dared to hit my Great Hoe again and again." He said calmly.

"I won't let that slide."

He smirked.

Aldric narrowed his eyes,

"…Hmph, what a phrase..."

He raised his sword slightly.

And at that moment—

The ground beneath Lucas's feet creaked.

The air around him grew heavy.

And—

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.