CHAPTER 56: THE RED DUEL

"So, as I was saying..." The figure’s voice slid across the clearing, smooth, unfazed, as though the mage’s death had been nothing but a preamble. He let the tip of his sword drag lazily against the dirt, sparks hissing where it struck stone. His grin never left his face."Let’s talk."

The swordsman narrowed his eyes, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip. "About what?"

The figure chuckled low in his throat. "About you handing me your points."

The spearman spat, lowering his stance. "How stupid do you think we are?"

"I don’t," the figure replied, tilting his head. "I think you’re smart. Strong. Capable. That’s why I’m offering to talk instead of killing you outright."

The swordsman ground his teeth together, trembling with restrained fury. Even from Avin’s hidden vantage, he could see the man’s shoulders shaking, his body screaming for vengeance. The spearman tapped his arm lightly—a signal, a plea for control. Then he stepped forward. His knees bent, feet planted firmly into the soil, spear tip aimed at the enemy’s chest like a drawn bow.

His voice was cold steel. "We can’t do that. I’m afraid."

The figure sighed, his mockery turning sharp. "I wanted to avoid this." He let the words drop heavy, then raised his head. His eyes had changed. Crimson, darker than blood, burning like twin coals ready to burst. "But I suppose you two are idiots after all."

He moved.

To Avin’s eyes, it was as if the air ripped. One heartbeat he was standing, the next he blurred across the space, blade slicing down in a strike meant to bisect them both.

The spearman saw it—barely. With a guttural roar, he lashed out with his leg, boot slamming into the swordsman’s ribs to shove him clear. The same kick carried him backward, just enough to drag his body out of the arc.

Steel cleaved empty air. Bark exploded from a tree in the wake of the missed strike.

The figure landed, smiling wider. "You’re quick."

The spearman snarled and lunged. His spear cut toward the figure’s ribs in a deadly thrust.

The figure twisted away, amused, but his grin faltered when the swordsman appeared at his back, blade whistling down. Steel met steel as the figure whipped his sword behind him without even looking, catching the strike with impossible precision. Sparks burst in the air, the clang rattling the clearing.

"Predictable," he sneered—only to hear the whistle of air behind him. The spearman had pivoted his stance, spear cocked back like a javelin. With a roar, he hurled it straight toward the figure’s chest.

For a heartbeat, triumph shone on the figure’s face. If he dodged, the spear would run the swordsman through instead. But when he turned—

The swordsman wasn’t there.

His eyes widened as he caught sight of the swordsman already stepping aside, as if they’d anticipated this.

The spear streaked past the figure’s ribs. He dropped low in a crouch, muscles coiling, avoiding a killing blow by inches. The swordsman followed instantly, slashing downward. Desperation drove the figure’s block—steel shrieked against steel, the clash so violent it ripped his weapon from his hand. His blade spun through the air, embedding itself deep into the ground with a metallic scream.

"Shit." His curse hissed between his teeth.

He glanced toward it, eyes widening with hope—then froze.

The swordsman was above him. Already in the air, descending like a falling star, sword raised overhead, ready to cleave him in two.

With an animal grunt, the figure dropped his hand to the dirt, arched his spine, and kicked up. His body snapped backward in a brutal backflip, heels cutting the air as he rolled away. He landed hard, knees bending, feet skidding through grass and soil as he shot toward his fallen weapon.

Fingers outstretched—only to recoil in pain as a spear-tip grazed his knuckles, close enough to draw blood.

The spearman’s eyes blazed with fury as he pressed the attack, forcing the figure back.

"Damn you!" the figure spat, stumbling.

The swordsman came at him from the flank, blade slashing in a vicious arc aimed at his neck. The figure staggered, jerking back, the edge grazing past his cheek close enough for him to feel the wind.

Then came the fist.

The spearman’s punch blurred forward, raw power behind it. The figure ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow—but his hand shot out, seizing the spearman’s wrist. He twisted, using the man’s own momentum to spin him violently, planting a foot in his path. The spearman tumbled, crashing into the dirt.

The figure lifted his boot, aiming to crush his skull—

—but the thunder of footsteps behind him forced him to roll aside. The swordsman’s blade bit into the soil where his head had been.

Panting now, sweat dripping down his temple, the figure scrambled upright, retreating a step. Across from him, the two men steadied themselves, bruised but unbroken.

Avin, pressed against the tree, could barely believe what he was seeing. The coordination—their instincts—it was like watching water split around stone. Every move countered, every blow anticipated. And yet the figure was just as terrifying: quick, ruthless, and grinning all the while.

"Impressive," the figure admitted between breaths. "You’re better than I thought."

He crouched low, then surged forward. The wind howled as he blurred between them, streaking for his fallen blade. They moved instantly, predicting him.

His hand closed on the hilt—but too late. He kicked it instead, boot smashing against the steel, launching it skyward. The weapon spun violently, glinting as it cut through the air.

The swordsman’s strike came in from the side. The figure bent backward, spine arching, hair brushing dirt as the blade passed above him. He popped back upright as the spearman thrust. The figure’s fist came down hard, smashing into the haft of the spear. Wood cracked. With a splintering snap, the weapon broke in two.

The spearman froze, staring at the jagged stump in his hand.

The swordsman’s sword cut next. The figure raised his elbow, absorbing the strike with a wince. Blood welled on his arm, but it hadn’t been deep enough. Before the swordsman could recover, the figure shoved hard, sending him stumbling back.

The spearman lunged with his broken weapon, rage blinding him. The figure sidestepped, seized both his wrists, and stomped brutally on his foot. The spearman cried out in pain as his body locked in place.

The figure leaned close, smiling into his face. Then he looked upward.

Confused, the spearman followed his gaze.

Above them, spinning faster and faster, the figure’s sword plummeted down.

The blade pierced straight between his eyes.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then blood sprayed, his body convulsing once before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Damn it—!" The swordsman’s voice cracked, horrified. His body trembled, and then he planted his stance, forcing his power to rise. His feet dug deep into the earth as he gripped his sword with both hands. Energy coalesced, a translucent golden blade forming, larger than himself, blazing brighter with every breath.

The same strike that had slain the beast.

The figure’s smirk faltered. His eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, no."

He reached into his side pocket, fingers flashing. A dagger spun through the air.

It struck the swordsman in the skull with a sickening thunk.

The golden aura shattered. His sword dropped limp. His body collapsed to its knees, then fell face-first into the dirt.

Light bloomed. Both men dissolved, glowing blue, their forms disintegrating into dust that drifted upward and away.

The clearing fell silent again.

The figure stood alone. Breathing hard. Sweat streaking his temple. A victorious grin stretched across his lips as he looked over the battlefield of ash and blood.

Then he turned his head. Slowly. Directly toward Avin’s tree.

"Did you enjoy the show," he asked softly, "you behind the tree?"

Avin’s heart thundered in his chest, louder than the roars of any beast he’d faced. His vision swam, his breath caught in his throat.

He knows.

Words tumbled from his lips in a broken whisper.

"...I’m fucked."