Arthur countered with a textbook Zornhau—a wrathful, descending diagonal cut with enough power to split a helm clean through. The motion was elegant in its ferocity, a technique honed to perfection.
Lucien dipped under it like water slipping past a jagged rock, his body coiling low before snapping upward with serpentine grace. His blade surged in a rising thrust, aimed cleanly at Arthur's exposed flank—sharp, sudden, and surgical.
Arthur twisted away just in time, the steel brushing across his forearm. A shallow cut bloomed instantly—a thin ribbon of red unfurling like a thread on fine fabric. He hissed through clenched teeth, pain igniting across his nerves, but turned the recoil into a tight riposte, his blade darting toward Lucien's throat like a silver viper.
It was a brilliant move—clean, fast, decisive.
But Lucien smiled.
He stepped into the strike.
With shocking precision, he angled inward, catching Arthur's blade on the inside curve of his crossguard. The bind locked tight with a metallic snap. In the same fluid motion, Lucien surged forward and drove his knee into Arthur's stomach.
Arthur gasped, the air punched from his lungs, and stumbled back a step.
The crowd erupted—some in awe, others in dismayed cries, a cacophony of reactions that swept across the plaza like wind across tall grass.
Lucien didn't press the advantage. Instead, he stood still—his blade once more low, shoulders relaxed, his stance poised and unreadable as he watched Arthur regain his breath.
"Am I living up to your expectations?" Lucien asked, a teasing grin curling his lips. "Or do you need more demonstrations?"
Arthur wiped a trace of blood from the corner of his mouth, his breath ragged, but his posture never faltered. The pain hadn't shaken his spine.
"No," he chuckled, voice rough but steady. "You surpassed it quite easily."
Lucien tilted his head, eyes narrowing with quiet interest. "That quickly?"
"I'm already bleeding," Arthur replied dryly, rotating his shoulder with a wince. "That answers your question quite easily."
For a moment, everything stilled. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if the world itself were watching.
Lucien moved.
This time, he didn't hold back.
He surged in like a storm breaking over the mountains—two strikes in rapid succession, one high, one low, the movements a blur of steel. Then came the third: a precise half-sword thrust aimed not for the chest, but at the narrow seam where the shoulder met the torso.
Arthur blocked the first, barely caught the second—but the third—
The third struck home.
Arthur cried out, staggering as the blade pierced flesh. His sword nearly slipped from his grip as agony shot down his arm, fire lancing through muscle and bone. Blood splashed onto the dirt, vivid red against the ghost-pale chalk lines and scattered rose petals.
Lucien stepped back into his low guard, calm as ever.
"One last chance, Marquess," he said, his voice level, almost cold. "Yield."
Arthur looked up, his face lined with pain, and in that moment Lucien saw not a knight, not a symbol, but a man—tired, stubborn, and too proud to fall easily.
"We just barely started," Arthur rasped. "And besides… our reputation is on the line, don't you think?"
Lucien hesitated.
And in that breath of hesitation—Arthur moved.
One last, desperate thrust. No longer elegant, no longer noble. Just raw defiance distilled into motion.
Lucien reacted before thought could form.
He pivoted, fast and clean, catching the hilt of Arthur's sword in one hand. In the same turning motion, he brought his own blade around in a brutal arc—not the edge, but the pommel.
The strike cracked against Arthur's temple with a sickening thud.
The Sword Saint dropped.
Silence fell like a drawn curtain.
Lucien stood over him, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. His blade trembled slightly in his grip, more from tension than exertion. He looked down at the fallen knight—the man once heralded as his equal, perhaps even his better in stories—and saw only a relic of a fading ideal.
Blood trickled from Arthur's scalp, staining the dust. But he was still breathing.
Lucien stepped back, blade lowering in quiet respect.
The crowd remained hushed—until one voice cried out, clear and cutting through the silence:
"He's alive!"
Then came the roar—cheers, gasps, applause, and disbelief all colliding in a thunderous wave. Emotion thickened the air.
Arthur, still lying prone, let out a short, ragged laugh. "No wonder why you earned that nickname…" he murmured between pained breaths, his voice rough but tinged with satisfaction.
Yet despite his injuries, he didn't look broken—only winded. This was a man born and raised for war, and mere wounds would never be enough to undo him.
Lucien extended a hand toward him, smiling faintly. The sunlight blazed behind him now, casting his form in golden silhouette—deliberate, theatrical, majestic.
All planned. All orchestrated.
Arthur squinted up at him, eyes crinkling as he laughed. "You know… for a man called the Bloody Duke, you sure don't act that cruel."
Lucien's smile deepened, just enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes.
Arthur accepted the hand and rose with a slight wince, wobbly but steady. He clasped Lucien's hand in a firm shake, their grip strong, unflinching.
"Well," Arthur said, brushing dust from his shirt, "you were far more entertaining than I expected."
Lucien gave a short, amused nod and planted his blade into the dirt with a quiet thunk, the gesture final.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
And with those parting words, the crowd erupted again—this time in raucous celebration, a moment of living history burning itself into memory.
Two legends from opposite ends of the empire, clashing blades, trading respect—and perhaps, just perhaps, the start of an alliance.
Even the bards who'd been scattered throughout the festival now drifted toward the center, pulling out ink and parchment, gathering every whispered detail and witness account.
Let them spread it. Let the world hear.
Good... let them spread this incident.
Lucien thought, releasing Arthur's hand with a nod, his eyes already scanning the horizon beyond the crowd.