Devourer's Legacy: I Regressed With The Primordial Crest-Chapter 18: Duel (2)

'How did I get myself into this mess?'

Zain's thoughts were bitter as he stood in the training hall, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Across from him stood Renard, looking more like a child-playing soldier than a real opponent. The sword in his hands was ridiculously large, making him appear even smaller than he was.

'All this because I forgot to call him "young master." Nobles and their pride...'

Zain wanted to laugh at how Renard held the massive blade - it looked more like a farming tool than a weapon. The boy had it tilted to his left side, its point facing back—like he'd never held a real sword before.

'I'll just let him land a few hits. That should satisfy his ego.'

It seemed like the smartest move.

No point in actually fighting a noble's son—that would only lead to trouble. Better to put on a show and take the loss.

With that thought, Zain drew his sword, the steel singing as it left its sheath.

"I am Zain, Bloodhound in service to House Grim," he announced, following the ancient custom of the sacred duel. Every knight knew: that before crossing blades you had to name yourself and your allegiance.

"Renard Grim, Son of Lord Grim and heir to Tiara Castle," the boy replied, his voice steady despite his size.

No more words were needed. They nodded once, and then-

"...?!"

Zain's world exploded into motion.

Renard crossed the space between them like a striking snake, his oversized sword swinging up from his left side like a blacksmith's hammer. Zain barely got his blade up in time—

-CLANG!

The impact shot through Zain's arms like lightning, driving him backwards. His mind reeled, unable to process what just happened. Then he saw it—Renard's blade, whistling straight for his throat.

'Too fast!'

Pure instinct took over. Dodging was impossible now—instead, Zain raised his sword in a desperate cross-guard. Steel met steel with a screech. In that instant, Zain twisted his blade, causing Renard's sword to slide off and slam into the ground.

Zain leaped backwards, putting distance between them. His heart hammered in his chest as he watched Renard calmly raise his blade again, completely unfazed by his failed attack.

"Do you still think you can go easy on me?" Renard's voice cut through the air like his blade.

Zain couldn't find words to answer. Every nerve in his body screamed danger, his senses sharpened to a razor's edge. His guard was up now—truly up—for the first time in this duel.

'He is no child.'

The truth hit harder than any blow. They said a knight's sword revealed his true nature, and Renard's sword spoke volumes. It was unpredictable, unexpected, and most terrifying of all—there wasn't a hint of hesitation in those strikes, no uncertainty. Each swing came with the confidence of hundreds of battles, each movement with the surety of countless hours of practice.

Zain had been a fool.

This wasn't some spoiled noble brat playing with swords. This was a beast in human skin, a predator who had simply been waiting to bear its fangs.

"I apologize for my rudeness, young master." Zain's voice carried newfound respect, maybe even a touch of fear. "I will fight with my all from now on."

And so they danced.

Steel sang against steel, neither fighter holding back. Without essence - forbidden, since Renard was supposedly unawakened—it was pure skill against skill, strength against strength. Their blades drew silver arcs in the air, each clash echoing through the training hall like thunder.

Zain had forgotten about ranks and titles. Forgotten about noble and commoner. There was only the next strike, the next parry, the next breath. His world had narrowed to the space between their blades.

A slow smile crept across Renard's face as they fought, growing wider with each and every exchange. His eyes blazed with joy, with purpose.

'Yes, this is it!' his expression seemed to say.

This was the sword of honor he had been seeking—a pure battle of skill and will.

Their blades moved faster, each fighter reading the other's rhythm, anticipating, countering, adapting. It was beautiful in its deadliness, graceful in its violence.

Metal sang against metal. Sweat dripped down Zain's face. Each breath burned in his lungs as he watched Renard move, that massive sword flowing like water in his hands.

The change in Renard's face struck him.

Gone was the noble's mask. In its place burned something wild, something true.

His smile grew with each clash of steel, his eyes blazing.

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This wasn't about pride anymore. This was about the sword and skill.

No essence. No magic. Just the pure language of blade against blade.

And then, it happened.

Renard's guard dropped. His left side opened.

Zain's body moved on instinct and his sword darted forward.

Too late, he remembered—this wasn't a death match. This was training.

He tried to pull back the sword, but the blade had already pierced through cloth and flesh. Blood bloomed on Renard's white shirt. A single red drop fell, striking the wooden floor like a bell.

The battle haze shattered.

Zain's sword shook in his grip as reality crashed down on him.

He'd drawn blood in the sacred duel! That too a noble's blood.

But Renard? He kept smiling, even as his blood marked the floor between them.

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