F-Class Swordsman, S-Class Commander

The prep chamber was quiet, the kind of quiet only stone and tension could share.

Renard sat on the edge of the bench, tightening the leather strap around his glove. His sword lay beside him, resting against the wall, its plain sheath free of family crest or decorative filigree.

Above, the roar of the coliseum rolled like distant thunder. Cheers, jeers, metal against metal.

None of it mattered.

In his head, he was already in the ring. Walking every tile. Calculating wind. Replaying Marius's previous duels frame by frame.

Big swings. Committed footwork. Half a breath slow on the pivot.

It would be over before the third miss.

He reached for his sword.

Then came footsteps.

Elric appeared, cloaked and dust-slicked, his breath short.

"They're not back."

Renard's hand paused over the hilt.

"Phantom Squad," Elric said. "No birds. No signal. No Maera. Smoke on the east ridge. Locals pulled their scouts out two days ago."

A beat passed. Only the sound of the torch crackling filled the space.

Renard didn't ask questions. Just stood.

"Two horses," Elric added. "North gate. We leave the moment this is over."

Renard nodded. "I'll make it fast."

And with that, he picked up the sword and walked into the light.

The crowd greeted him like an unwelcome rumor.

Booing. Taunts. The same recycled insults.

Marius Velcross stood in the center of the ring, rolling his shoulders, swinging his oversized greatsword in lazy arcs. His armor was gleaming, decorative. The crowd adored him.

When Renard stepped onto the field, the tone shifted.

"Is this another formality?""Go home, baronling.""Try not to trip again!"

He tuned it out.

He studied the ring.

There was a dip near the southwest edge—he could use that.

Dust patches along the north quarter—loose footing for Marius, ideal for him.

The wind favored the west.

He walked slowly to his mark.

Marius pointed his blade. "Should've stayed underground, rat."

Renard didn't answer.

Didn't even blink.

"Match Twelve: Marius Velcross versus Renard Valtierre. Begin on signal!"

The signal dropped.

Marius charged.

The first swing came down like a falling gate—overhead, full weight.

Renard wasn't there.

He'd already stepped off-line, letting the blade crack into the tile with a shower of sparks.

The second strike was wider, horizontal. A roar accompanied it.

Renard dipped under and flowed back.

From the stands, it looked like retreat.

To Lysette, seated near the back of the noble box, it looked like poetry.

No wasted motion. No panic. He's not evading.He's analyzing.

Marius advanced, hammering the ground with each step. His armor clanked, echoed. His breathing already louder than the cheers.

Renard kept moving. Not running—pivoting. Turning the ring into a spiral.

Dust lifted where he passed. Not randomly. Strategically.

He was painting the battlefield with his boots.

The crowd began to shift from mockery to irritation.

"Is he ever going to draw?!""Fight, damn you!""What kind of coward show is this?"

Marius swung again—faster this time. Sloppy.

Renard didn't even dodge. He glided. Let the blade scream past him.

He stepped closer.

Lysette leaned forward now.

He's not just bleeding stamina. He's controlling momentum.This is suppression.Each move isn't evasion—it's extraction.He's already dismantling Marius's confidence.

Another charge.

Marius committed—too wide, too hard.

He raised his sword for a final downward cleave, both hands locked on the hilt.

Renard moved forward.

Not to counter.

To end it.

His blade came up—not fast.

Not hard.

Just one precise flick.

Under the chin.

Right at the nerve cluster.

Marius didn't even cry out.

He froze.

Then toppled backward like a puppet with cut strings.

For a moment, there was nothing but wind.

Even the announcer hesitated.

Renard turned. Walked toward the tunnel exit, not looking back.

"R-Ring-out! Victory to Renard Valtierre!"

The words felt like a correction, not a celebration.

The medics ran.

The crowd didn't cheer.

They whispered.

Lysette watched from above.

They won't understand what happened.But I do.That was a kill strike disguised as luck.He pulled the blade. But he didn't pull the intent.

She stood up slowly.

And followed him with her eyes.

Outside, at the north gate, the wind carried hints of pine smoke.

Elric stood beside two saddled horses, adjusting straps.

Renard approached silently.

As he mounted, his interface pulsed to life.

[System Notification: Swordsmanship Skill Increased]Rank: E+Reason: Execution Technique Recognized (Precision Vital Point Strike)

He looked at the word again. One line glowing faintly in the system window:

Execution Technique Recognized

His breath caught.

For a moment, the weight of it pressed against his spine.

He hadn't meant to—

"Shit," he muttered, low. "He's dead."

Elric turned his head sharply, but before he could say anything, Renard clicked his reins.

They rode.

Into the wind.

Toward the pass.

Toward the silence where his squad should have been.