Novel Full Chapter 826: Son of the Commander (2)
Chapter 826: Son of the Commander (2)
Lucavion moved.
—FWOOOSH!
A blur. A breath.
And then—
—CLANG!
Steel rang as Lucavion’s estoc collided with Rowen’s blade, not in testing jabs or measured exchanges, but in a ruthless, full-committed thrust angled high toward the shoulder joint—an opening most would never think to exploit so early.
Rowen stumbled half a step, his sword sliding back just in time to parry, sparks spraying in a sharp arc across the marble. His heels scraped as he righted himself, muscles tensing, face contorting—not in panic, but in surprise.
The crowd flinched.
Lucavion didn’t let up.
He spun low, the estoc curving around as he twisted on his heel—
—SHHHK!
—a horizontal slash aimed to disarm, not kill, but it came with enough force to rattle Rowen’s wrist and send vibrations up his arm.
Rowen’s eyes sharpened.
“—Tch!”
He dropped his stance instantly, weight sliding into his back leg, sword drawing a tight crescent through the air.
—CLANG!
This time, the blades locked.
Rowen’s technique flared to life like a second heartbeat—disciplined, efficient, no excess. The Drayke footwork: small steps, sharp angles, his body never out of alignment, his blade always ready to flow into the next parry or riposte.
Lucavion’s eyes flicked down, reading it. Measuring.
Then he smiled.
’There it is. Now we’re speaking honestly.’
Rowen shoved forward, breaking the bind.
—THRUST!
His blade shot toward Lucavion’s midsection like a drawn line of silver fire—fast, clean, practiced.
Lucavion twisted—
—FWIP!
—his coat tearing as the edge grazed along the fabric but not flesh.
And then—Lucavion stepped inside.
“Too clean,” he muttered.
—CLANK!
Elbow to wrist. The maneuver struck Rowen’s dominant hand just as he reset his stance, forcing a minor delay—a stutter.
It was all Lucavion needed.
He pivoted.
—SWOOSH!
The estoc came upward in a reverse arc—toward Rowen’s neck.
—CLANG!
Blocked. Barely.
Rowen’s breathing grew sharper. But his eyes didn’t waver.
In that next second, something shifted.
Rowen exhaled. One breath. One pivot. His form compressed—centered.
And then—
He moved.
—CLANG—CLANG—SWISH—CLANG!
A storm of technique. Form Three of the Drayke Flow: four rapid, low-power strikes chained together, each feeding into the next. Lucavion deflected the first three, but the fourth—
—CHHK!
Scraped the outer line of his arm. Not deep. But enough to draw blood.
Lucavion blinked once. Then grinned.
“Now you’re taking this seriously.”
Rowen didn’t answer.
He stepped in again, this time rotating on the ball of his foot, shoulder leading—bringing his blade down in a signature vertical cut honed by generations.
Lucavion’s estoc met it head-on.
—BOOOM!
The force cracked through the tension like thunder.
Their swords locked again—face to face now. Eyes narrowed. Breaths uneven.
And yet—neither gave ground.
From the terrace above, whispers raced like wildfire.
“…He stopped that?”
“Drayke Form Seven—did you see?”
“But Lucavion’s speed—”
They weren’t wrong.
In this clash of rhythm and instincts, Rowen was no fraud.
He was clean. Controlled. Deadly.
But Lucavion?
Lucavion was alive.
Their blades stayed locked, caught in a tension that rippled through the marble beneath them.
Lucavion leaned in, voice low enough for only Rowen to hear.
“You’ve held that sword for years, haven’t you?”
His gaze flicked down, assessing the blade—not the metal, but the wear on the hilt, the precise marks of repetition, the polish of diligence.
“Trained hands. Disciplined grip. But…”
Lucavion’s smirk widened.
“…it lacks the scent of battle.”
Rowen’s eyes narrowed—but he said nothing.
Lucavion tilted his head, the glint in his eye sharpening.
“I’ll get serious now.”
His estoc shifted, barely a twitch—but the pressure snapped like a bowstring.
“If you want to hold… give your all.”
—FWOOOSH!
He vanished again.
No warning. No mercy.
Lucavion struck with terrifying precision—his estoc weaving between defensive lines like a predator’s fangs in open flesh.
—CLANG! CLANG! SHNK! FWIP!
The blade came low—Rowen parried.
Then high—Rowen blocked.
A feint right—Lucavion’s elbow crashed into his guard—THUD!
And then came the twist.
The estoc stabbed, not with elegance but intent. No flourish. Just death.
Rowen stumbled back, teeth clenched, forced onto his heel—
—CLAAANG!
Their blades collided again, but this time, Rowen felt it.
His forearms burned from the impact. His breath caught in his chest.
What in—
’His physical strength…!’
Lucavion pressed in, driving his weight down the locked blades. The sneering smirk still curved on his face.
“You’re a five-star, aren’t you?” Lucavion asked casually, his tone conversational even as his sword carved arcs meant to kill. “You were supposed to end me with strength alone.”
—SWISH—THRUST—SLICE!
Another barrage.
Rowen barely ducked, parried, turned his hip to avoid the last one.
But his lungs burned.
He hated it—
—but he was being cornered.
This speed. This pressure.
It made no sense.
Lucavion’s strength wasn’t supposed to reach this level. In the exams, he had registered as a peak four-star. A tier lower. Measurably weaker.
And yet—
He parried again.
—CLANG!
Their blades locked—but his footing faltered.
Lucavion didn’t back off. Didn’t give him room. He stepped into the bind, shoulder against Rowen’s chest, pushing him off balance again.
“You’re hesitating,” Lucavion murmured.
“You thought this was a duel.”
His estoc slid off the lock, twisted sideways—aimed straight for Rowen’s ribs.
Rowen blocked—barely. But even that deflection scraped steel across his vambrace with a teeth-grinding shriek.
—SKREEE—CHNK!
Rowen slid back two paces, panting now.
He gripped his sword tighter.
But inside, something twisted.
’This guy’s sword…’
It didn’t move like the techniques Rowen knew. It didn’t align with any school or form taught in the Empire.
It was fast.
Unorthodox.
Savage.
There was no flourish. No signature stance. No regard for elegance or honor.
It was an ugly, overwhelming flood—crafted not in gardens of prestige, but in the filth of necessity.
Fitting of a man like Lucavion.
A dog, Rowen thought bitterly. A mongrel pretending to stand among knights.
But that didn’t change the truth.
He was being pushed.
Rowen’s grip tightened. His fingers dug into the leather wrap of the hilt as if trying to choke the truth out of it.
He hated it.
Hated him.
This mongrel with a grin like a blade, this bastard who didn’t follow the rules. Who didn’t honor the craft. Who didn’t earn his place by walking the centuries-worn stones that Rowen had bled across since childhood.
He had thought—no, assumed—that this would be enough. That his technique, his rank, his name, would be enough to put Lucavion back in the gutter where he belonged.
But the pressure… the weight of Lucavion’s strikes… the truth in them—
It was unbearable.
’He’s forcing me to draw it out.’
Lucavion lunged again, estoc coming in with a slicing arc to the flank—measured to cripple, not to tease.
Rowen didn’t dodge.
His eyes narrowed.
—CLAAANG!
Their swords collided again—but this time, Rowen didn’t yield.
The force rebounded, and then—
—WHUUUMMMMM—
A deep, resonant hum rippled out from the clash.