CHAPTER 20: A DUEL OF CONCEALMENT

The private training chamber was deep in the academy’s sublevels. A place for elite students. And for settling... sensitive matters.

The room was a perfect circle. The walls, floor, and ceiling were forged from the same seamless, obsidian-like stone as the containment cell. A sterile, soundproof box. An arena for a duel. An abattoir for an examination.

Jack stood in the center. A picture of serene, deadly grace. He had shed his white robes for a practical, high-collared tunic. In his hand, he held his weapon.

A longsword. Its blade was slender and elegant. Forged from a shimmering, silver-like metal. It seemed to radiate its own faint, clean light. Runes of purification glowed with a soft, azure luminescence. This was no practice sword. It was a blessed, consecrated weapon. An instrument for cleansing corruption.

Edward stood opposite him. His heart was a slow, steady drum. The Inquisitor’s holy aura was amplified in the enclosed space. A constant, abrasive pressure against his soul. He had been ordered to come. To refuse would have been an admission of guilt.

So he stood there. A janitor facing a high priest. A predator forced into a performance.

This was not a fight he could win. That was not the objective.

The objective was to survive. And survival depended on concealment. He had to be strong, but not too strong. Skilled, but not impossibly so. He had to present a version of himself that was plausible.

He had to walk a razor’s edge. A performance where a single misstep meant his immediate, violent purification.

"The rules are simple, Mr. Ross," Jack said. His melodic voice echoed. He gave the silver sword a casual flourish. "We will spar until one of us yields. You may use any abilities you deem... appropriate. Please, do not hold back. The purpose of this assessment is to see what you are truly capable of."

The invitation was a trap. They both knew it. If Edward used his most powerful abilities—Soul Rend, Petrifying Gaze, his partial transformation—he would be signing his own death warrant.

So he had to fight without them. He had to rely on his raw, physical stats. His Speed. His Dexterity. The cold, hard numbers that might just look like a once-in-a-generation martial prodigy.

He drew the Shadowfang Dagger. The black blade seemed to drink the light. A sliver of pure void against the shimmering silver of Jack’s sword.

Jack smiled. "An interesting choice of weapon. Dark. Efficient. I approve."

The duel began without another word. Jack did not charge. He glided forward. A symphony of perfect, textbook swordsmanship. His silver blade was a blur.

Edward met the attack. His body exploded into motion. A shadow. A whisper of movement. He didn’t try to block the holy-infused strikes head-on. That would be suicide. He deflected. He parried. He dodged.

Clang!

His dagger met the silver sword. A precise, angled touch. The Inquisitor’s blade slid harmlessly past his shoulder. The impact sent a jolt of burning, holy energy up his arm. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain.

The chamber became a whirlwind of silver and black. A deadly dance. Jack was the aggressor. A relentless, flowing assault. A master of his craft. He was trying to overwhelm Edward. To force him into a mistake. To push him to reveal the true, monstrous nature of his power.

Edward was a ghost. Pure reaction. Pure instinct. He relied entirely on his crippled but still-superhuman Speed and his unnerving precision. He didn’t attack. He simply... wasn’t there. He flowed around Jack’s assault. The Inquisitor’s blade was always a hair’s breadth from his skin. Never quite connecting.

He was putting on the performance of a lifetime. A desperate, cornered fighter. A boy with an incredible talent for evasion. Clearly outmatched. He let himself get nicked. A shallow cut on his arm. A graze on his cheek. He had to make it look real.

Jack disengaged. His breathing was calm. His serene expression unchanged. But a flicker of something new was in his eyes. Frustration. He was a grandmaster of chess. His opponent was a slippery piece that refused to be pinned down.

"Remarkable," the Inquisitor said. A low, thoughtful murmur. "Your reflexes are... anomalous. They exceed the theoretical limits for a boy of your physical development. Almost as if you can anticipate my movements."

He was getting too close to the truth. The whispers from the Shadowfang Dagger were a faint, constant feed of tactical information.

"You must understand my position, Mr. Ross," Jack continued, circling him slowly. "The energy signature you radiate is one of a Soul Devourer. It is a contagion. A spiritual plague. My sacred duty is to eradicate such threats. And yet... you do not fight like the mindless beasts described in the archives. You fight with skill. With restraint." He paused. "It is a fascinating puzzle. Are you a monster pretending to be a man, or a man cursed with the power of a monster?"

This was the heart of it. The question his life now revolved around.

Edward answered with action. He broke his defensive pattern. He went on the offensive.

He lunged forward. A blur of motion. The Shadowfang Dagger was a black streak. Aimed not at Jack’s heart, but at his sword hand. A disarming maneuver. The move of a duelist, not a soul-eater.

Jack, surprised, was forced to parry. The duel became a frantic, close-quarters exchange. The high-pitched ring of silver on shadow-forged steel echoed. A battle of pure skill. Edward pushed his physical body to its absolute limit. His crippled stats were a constant, burning handicap.

He saw his opening. Jack parried a low thrust. His guard was open high for a fraction of a second. Edward pivoted. He didn’t go for a strike. He brought the pommel of his dagger up in a tight, vicious arc. He slammed it into the Inquisitor’s wrist.

A sharp crack of bone. Jack let out a hiss of pain. His fingers spasmed. The blessed silver sword clattered to the floor.

Silence.

Edward stood there, panting. The black dagger was held steadily at Jack’s throat.

He had won. He had defeated a high-ranking Inquisitor in single combat. By a hair’s breadth. Through what looked like nothing more than sheer, improbable skill. He held his breath. He hoped it was enough.

Jack didn’t look defeated. He didn’t look angry. He looked down at his broken wrist. Then back up at Edward. A slow, cold smile spread across his lips.

"Remarkable," he said again. His voice was a soft, chilling whisper. "Truly, a masterful performance. You hide it well. The skill, the discipline... it’s almost convincing."

He met Edward’s gaze. His eyes, for the first time, lost their serene, analytical calm. They were replaced by a look of absolute, zealous certainty.

"But the corruption..." Jack whispered, his smile widening into a predatory grin. "I can smell it on your soul."