The year flew by.

  Between lessons, sweet moments with my family, and hard training, we finally reached the promised date.

  I got up at 8:00 AM and ate a basic breakfast: two sausages and an egg, with a slice of very soft white bread. I loved that meal—especially when Aura, the new head of the maids, prepared it.

  Alda, Ingrid, and Mother ate with me, but they didn’t say a word. The tension in the air was heavy. They had helped my opponent to make things fairer, and in this entire year I hadn’t had a single close interaction with Ronaldo.

  Our training schedules never matched, and my contact with the newest Royal Guard, Lady Nora, had been minimal. I’d barely seen her at her knighting ceremony and in the occasional hallway encounter, so I had no idea whether Ronaldo Black Vase had truly become a decent fighter or not.

  “I’m going to prepare for the duel,” I said, wiping my lips. “Are you going to watch the fight?”

  “Yes,” the girls answered.

  “I won’t. I have things to do. But I wish you luck, son—may your plan work perfectly.” Mother sighed in resignation. She wanted to attend, but honestly… losing a valuable workday just to watch two children hit each other with wooden weapons wasn’t exactly productive.

  “Thanks. Then I’ll see you there.”

  I stood and headed for the training yard, where the duel would take place—the duel meant to restore the honor of the Black Vase family. To servants, soldiers, and courtiers, it was a children’s game that nobody took seriously.

  But for Ronaldo and Yuka, it was a matter of life and death—just as important as the trial by combat Gutiérrez had demanded against Sir Marte.

  Because of our ages, and to avoid permanent injuries, Lady Nora suggested we wear padded brigandines reinforced with small steel plates, and closed helmets so we wouldn’t injure our faces.

  Not the best protection against fine steel—but against wooden weapons, it would be enough.

  “Let’s put the armor on…”

  It took me an hour to gear up. Honestly, it was harder than I’d like to admit. Putting on the brigandine required help from a loyal servant who happened to be nearby.

  No matter what happens, I have to give everything. Ronaldo has worked hard, and for that reason I’ll fight at the absolute limit of my ability. A gifted victory would insult this entire year of constant dedication.

  Once dressed, I walked to the dueling ground and waited for my opponent to arrive.

  Yuka, Lady Nora, Ingrid, and Alda were already seated on wooden chairs at the edges of the ring.

  Now that I think about it, our audience is all women.

  The iron helmet made me hot. I preferred closed helms, but my shoulders still weren’t strong enough to carry the full weight of a plate greathelm.

  “I’m here,” the challenger said.

  Ronaldo still looked sturdy, out of shape, and already winded. The brigandine fit him tight, and his face looked almost comical inside the helmet. We hadn’t even started, but he was sweating buckets.

  A moment later, our referee arrived: Sir Marte Hogan, captain of the Royal Guard and my personal master-at-arms. He wasn’t armored and didn’t carry a weapon. Instead, he wore a light gambeson and yellow hose—the typical attire of an official.

  “All right, Ronaldo. Anything to say before we begin?”

  “No, Your Highness.” The boy’s expression was a poem—fear, determination, and a thousand emotions flashing through his mind, none of them truly enough to beat me.

  “Sir Marte, state the rules, please.”

  “As you command.” My mentor bowed politely before continuing. “Young Ronaldo wins if he strikes King Ulric five times. Ulric wins if he knocks Ronaldo out, or if I judge the battle to be over. I will not accept complaints from the audience. If anyone interferes on behalf of either contestant, that contestant will be declared the loser. Any questions?”

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  “No,” we answered.

  “Good. Then take your weapons.”

  “Fine…”

  I chose a wooden longsword—heavy and a bit awkward, but not very different from the training blades I used in practice. Ronaldo’s choice surprised me: he didn’t choose a sword at all, but a two-handed wooden axe.

  “An axe, huh?”

  “Do you have something against it, Your Highness?”

  “No. Works for me.”

  “Duelists, to your corners.”

  Sir Marte’s voice rang out. We moved to opposite ends of the field, about the size of a volleyball court—plenty of space for close combat.

  “You may begin!”

  I advanced slowly, without any preplanned charge. I’d sparred countless times with my sister in controlled bouts. But this was, officially, my first real duel.

  At first glance, it didn’t look easy for me: Ronaldo was a head taller, and his body was physically thicker than mine. But in technique, speed, and endurance, my superiority was overwhelming.

  I didn’t like arrogance or showing off, but honestly… the gap was undeniable.

  “Come on,” I taunted him—and just as I expected, Ronaldo bit.

  He charged in with the axe and immediately threw a downward strike at my helmet.

  Straight for annihilation, huh? Interesting.

  I waited a heartbeat before evading, measuring exactly how much distance his brutal rush consumed. Then—

  I took a small step back. The axe slammed into the ground with a crash that was louder than it was powerful. From that close, it was easy for me to smash his wrists with my wooden blade.

  “AAAH!” he cried, dropping the weapon and collapsing to his knees.

  “Too slow.” I kicked him in the face with the sole of my foot, then reset my grip on the longsword. Attacking someone on the ground wasn’t exactly honorable—but I’d promised myself I would show Ronaldo no mercy. “Defend yourself!”

  I struck him four more times, all to the stomach protected by the brigandine.

  “Not yet!”

  Ronaldo grabbed the axe with his left hand and swung low at my right ankle.

  If not for reflexes sharpened by relentless training, that could’ve been a dangerous hit—enough to leave me injured for at least a month.

  The wooden head whistled past, missing by inches. Ronaldo used that moment to stand and re-grip his weapon properly.

  The spectators stayed silent.

  To them, this duel was anything but a child’s game.

  “Damn it,” the chubby boy hissed.

  “You almost got me. But no.”

  I resumed the offensive. One step forward—then I lunged with a thrust straight at his right shoulder.

  Ronaldo didn’t dodge. He didn’t even try.

  He chose to take it.

  And that’s when I noticed his plan.

  My wooden blade jabbed his shoulder and shoved him back a few inches, but he endured it. Then he brought the axe forward and tapped me in the stomach with the flat.

  I didn’t feel it through the brigandine.

  It barely even pushed me back.

  “O-One…” Ronaldo muttered. “In the bet, we never said the hits had to be strong. I just have to touch you four more times and I win.”

  “Fine. Let’s continue.” This was no different from sport fencing.

  In my world, points were scored by a touch—not by intent to kill.

  So technically, Ronaldo wasn’t wrong.

  “AAAH!” Ronaldo charged again, swinging his big (child-sized) axe—a simple rush with no strategy behind it. He wanted to bridge the skill gap with raw physicality. Not a terrible idea… but it wouldn’t help much against me.

  I slipped left, then right, then back. Three swings kissed nothing but air.

  To break his rhythm, I landed another strike to his helmet—right on the forehead. He staggered, dazed.

  “Too slow. Come on… you can do better.”

  “I can, and I will!”

  Ronaldo drew strength from somewhere. His eyes held a determination that would’ve been impossible a year ago.

  “Go, Ronaldo!” Alda shouted. “Do what we practiced!”

  “Alda’s right, Ronaldo—focus!” Lady Nora urged.

  He took that encouragement and changed his grip.

  He no longer held the axe at the bottom. Instead, he slid both hands to the middle of the handle, increasing speed and control—at the cost of a lot of reach.

  The middle grip… Lady Nora taught him a high-level technique. I never thought Ronaldo could use it.

  I smiled in genuine approval.

  An easy victory didn’t please me at all.

  Ronaldo swung at my chest—faster now, but not cleaner. I sidestepped right and prepared a counterstrike to his left shoulder.

  That was the plan.

  But Ronaldo rotated his hips with the axe ready to follow through. Instinct made me pull back—and I lost my counter.

  “Huh?” And then he still hit me.

  It wasn’t strong. It barely touched.

  I underestimated the height difference between us, and Ronaldo landed his second hit.

  “Well done!” Ingrid exclaimed. “Use your height, Ronaldo!”

  Right.

  In martial arts like taekwondo, karate, and kickboxing, height mattered—reach mattered. Shorter fighters had a real disadvantage, and since Alda and I were basically the same height, I had no experience fighting someone taller.

  That uncertainty about reach gave Ronaldo his second touch.

  Damn it—this had to be Ingrid.

  Only she had the brains to identify that detail.

  “A-Almost…” Ronaldo began panting from exhaustion. Dueling demanded serious conditioning.

  Despite pain and fatigue, he swung at my head again. I saw the axe head in slow motion—and I barely shifted back a few centimeters.

  “No!” Another mistake.

  I avoided the first swing, but left myself open to a second movement.

  I blocked the follow-up with my sword, but at that close range I couldn’t slip away when Ronaldo smashed his helmet into mine.

  “T-Three…”

  That one hurt.

  I backed up a few steps to clear my mind.

  Okay. Enough.

  “You’ve hit me three times, Ronaldo. Congratulations. But now the real fight begins.” I slid both hands onto my blade, then set my left leg forward and my right behind.

  When they saw that stance, everyone stood up. Even Ronaldo stepped back on instinct—he’d seen this guard a year ago, during Sir Marte Hogan’s trial by combat against Baron Gutiérrez.

  The Murder Stroke.

  A brutal, violent style meant to break even the strongest armor.

  Reaching for it was, in its own way, respect—because I hadn’t planned to use it at all.

  “L-Let’s continue,” Ronaldo murmured—having no idea what kind of beating was about to come…