Valeric let out a quiet breath.

Quite surprising, he thought.

In the arena—

Aldric had truly lost his patience.

His jaw tightened. His breathing grew heavy.

His pride—as a Regional Knight—had just been trampled by a farming tool.

"Damn it…" he muttered. Mana surged violently, pressing down on the air around him.

On the other hand—

Lucas grinned.

Adrenaline surged.

Euphoria crept through every joint.

So this is what it feels like…

Fighting with a hoe in a fantasy world.

A thin stream of mana seeped into the blade of the Great Hoe.

Aldric charged again.

This time—without any pretense.

A straight slash.

Lucas met it—crossing the Hoe at the perfect angle.

CLANG!

A heavy force crashed into him, but Lucas was not blown away.

He channeled power into his legs, planting his feet firmly—holding.

A second strike. A third.

Because Hoemanship was active—his movements felt light and precise.

Mae's body-enhancement potion worked flawlessly; his muscles responded faster, his joints obeyed without hesitation.

For a brief moment—

Lucas moved like a trained knight.

He stepped back half a pace, then advanced again.

Aldric noticed—and it only fueled his anger.

"You think you can imitate me?!" he shouted.

Lucas did not answer.

His smile widened slightly.

As he prepared to block Aldric's next slash—

He twisted the hoe's handle, shifting its weight at the last instant, just before the vastly different blades met—then pushed back.

CLANG!!

The violent impact shattered Aldric's rhythm.

Valeric narrowed his eyes.

Not a coincidence.

The boy is controlling distance, tempo, and weapon weight.

He's reading Aldric.

In the arena, Aldric let out a low roar.

"Absurd!"

The arena was utterly silent.

No cheers.

No shouting.

Even the sound of breathing felt too loud.

The roar born from the commoners' collective bravery was completely extinguished.

Their earlier certainty—that the Young Master would lose and die—vanished.

The shared fantasy of joy collapsed the moment Lucas's chance of victory became visible.

The commoners began thinking of themselves again. Some were already prepared to accuse the friends who had been cheering beside them if they are who talkshit earlier, not them.

Those who had shouted the loudest earlier were now ready to bow and shove the very people next to them and accuse if he's only followed them to cheer, not have any mean to belittle the Young Master.

Dozens of pairs of eyes were locked onto the center of the arena—

not one of them dared to blink.

Silas swallowed.

What is this…

This makes no sense.

His hands, folded beneath his robe, slowly clenched into fists.

The duel should have been over by now.

Aldric should have won decisively—without any room for surprises.

There's no way… he can win, right?

Silas's thoughts raced.

The tomato fields.

Contracts.

All of those plans—

suddenly felt unstable.

He shook his head slightly.

No.

It's not over yet.

Aldric was still standing.

The Rosevelt sword was still in his hand.

As long as it had not fallen—

the outcome was not decided.

On the other side—

Boran was already outside the crowd.

He was no longer watching the duel directly.

His steps slowed, then stopped.

Boran glanced back, his brows knitting together.

"Why did it suddenly go quiet?" he muttered.

His thoughts immediately leapt to the worst possibility.

Did Sir Aldric go too far?

Is the boy already—

He let out a long breath.

"They're probably shocked by that madman's brutality," he hissed quietly, unaware that the commoners were silent simply because each of them was now thinking about their own fate.

----

Before the common rabble who behaved themselves only because they lived in poverty—

The battle erupted again.

Sword steel and the iron Hoe clashed without pause, their ringing overlapping, shattering the suffocating silence. Dust rose once more, fresh gouges carving themselves into the ground.

Lucas moved.

Fast. Precise.

There was no trace left of the feeble youth once known for crude, directionless brutality.

His footwork was clean.

His spacing was measured.

Every swing of the Hoe had intent.

He did not fight like a reckless man—

he fought like someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Aldric pressed.

Lucas answered.

There was no beautiful form to Lucas's movements; he focused solely on impact and momentum.

The spectators realized it, unease creeping into their chests.

This… wasn't luck.

This was skill.

But the most disturbing part—

was Lucas's face.

He kept grinning.

Not the arrogant smile of the old Young Master Voss—

nor the uncontrolled, savage expression from before.

As if he were enjoying every collision.

Every pressure.

Every second at the edge of danger.

Lucas's eyes gleamed.

Not with anger.

Not with hatred.

But with a cold exhilaration—

the kind of joy felt by a man who finally succeeds after decades of poverty, then chooses to take revenge by ruining those he despises, turning them—and their children—into the eternal unemployement by making every companies blacklisting their data.

—

Aldric felt something off about Lucas's grin.

The sly knight grew uncomfortable with the delighted expression now facing him.

At the seat of honor—

The Baron frowned, watching in silence.

His eyes followed every movement Lucas made.

Not the swings of the Hoe—

but the way he read his opponent.

Did Lucian inherit his mother's talent…? he wondered.

The corner of the Baron's lips lifted slightly.

He let out a quiet chuckle, barely audible.

"But still…" he murmured inwardly,

that sharpness in his eyes—surely it comes from me, he added, letting out a breath.

For the first time since the duel was announced—

the Baron could finally exhale with a smile.

Beside him—

The Baroness watched the arena, her breath held tight.

From the beginning, she had wanted Lucas to concede.

To withdraw.

To give her room to carry out a safer plan.

Yet every time—

The Hoe struck.

Every time Lucas's hands endured the clash with the Rosevelt sword—

her chest felt a little lighter.

He's strong…

The Baroness slowly closed her fingers.

There was anxiety.

But woven between it—

was a small sense of relief

she had no desire to voice aloud.

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