CHAPTER 132

  THE NIGHT GAZING DOWN

  Rudolf saw Theodred still hanging on. “I’ll stop holding back, kid.” As all his aura poured into his domain.

  The dome of lightning sealed the world around. Trying to break from the arena to the bystanders.

  In a flash, the arena vanished into stormclouds and lightning, something that was visible, now turned into a pitch-black cloud.

  The audience swallowed in a haze of ozone and thunder. Only the static beneath their boots remained real—and even that cracked and buckled beneath Rudolf’s wrath.

  Nimbus. This was the true Nimbus, the domain of Rudolf that had earned him his title Alastor— the destruction.

  Every breath Theodred drew carried the tang of copper and smoke. Bolts raked the ground around him, each strike closer, louder, a drumbeat of inevitable death. His wings shed sparks of light as they took blow after blow. His swords were blurred halos, intercepting flashes that could turn a man to ash.

  But the storm pressed on, endless.

  Rudolf advanced through the chaos, a titan wrapped in living thunder. His armour glowed where lightning crawled over it, his eyes, now pits of red stormlight. The lightning was changed from purple to deep red.

  This meant Rudolf had let go of the moral barriers.

  He swung Thunderclap, and each strike fell like skies hurled downward.

  Theodred’s hammer manifestation shattered upon meeting. He staggered, knees threatening to break with every parry. The sword’s gravity clawed at him, bones creaking, muscles screaming.

  Yet he did not yield.

  He spun again into motion, blades carving invisible scars across the battlefield, unseen threads of light cast like a net. Each missed stroke etched a hidden death into the storm, waiting for Rudolf to draw near. Theodred danced on breaking legs, not confronting, not matching power—but weaving traps.

  The crowd could not see it. To them, he looked like a boy fleeing a god.

  But Rudolf knew what was waiting for him. Remember Alastor, the slashes you miss will come to haunt you—he remembered Dijkstra’s warning.

  This was the second time he was going to face these ghost strikes. Last time he did not give him much time to prepare, but it seemed this time Theodred was adamant on snaring him. He fervently struck anywhere he could.

  So, Rudolf pressed harder.

  “Stand, boy! Do not cheapen the top ten with tricks and cowardice!” His voice cracked like thunder, words lost beneath the roar of the storm. —Maelstrom— Lightning erupted from his blade, lengthening into a colossal flail, each swing collapsing stone walls, breaking mountains in the arena, scattering fragments like meteors. Destroying the ghost town prepared far, far away inside the arena to give it an urban look.

  Theodred darted between the sweeps, light aura blazing, wings snapping open and closing in to twist through impossible gaps. Twice the flail caught him—once across the ribs, shattering bone, once grazing his leg, numbing flesh to uselessness.

  He bit down on the pain, pressed forward. His swords sang. Invisible threads laced Rudolf’s path.

  The Thunder Knight sneered.

  “You’ve no breath left. No tricks to endure the storm any longer.”

  He raised his blade skyward. The clouds churned, answering.

  Astrapē.

  The heavens split. A single lance of divine lightning, wide enough to erase cities, descended like the will of the gods.

  Fuck—he is gone mad. Theodred’s body screamed at him to flee. But instead, he planted his feet with his main sword, Kindness. And his both hands, holding the hilt of the light sword. “Ha! It might be my last strike—so this is as far as I can go with my strength—not bad—not bad at all.”

  Stepping his left foot, he crouched in the stance of drawing the blade from the scabbard. Phew! He breathed the visible breath. “Let’s see—MOUNTAINSLASH—” a perfect imitation of Rudolf’s very own skill to the bones.

  As if someone had poured oil on fire, the light sword engulfed into a gigantic sword. And an upward strike met the descending Astrape.

  Hmf. Rudolf smirked. “I’ve told you numerous times—when your opponent is bigger than you—if you lack the strength, then don't just counter, deflect! Use your opponent's strength to your advantage! Your childish swings are not heavy enough to face me head-on! You never learn, Squeaky.”

  The explosion devoured the arena.

  When the smoke cleared, a crater smoked where once was ground and in it lay Theodred, bare back, his wings spanned in the ground flickering.

  He stood, or tried to, but Astrape didn’t kill him; it was his luck or mercy of the man who recognised who he was fighting with.

  He stood, one knee down, blades buried deep into stone, feathers falling from wings, tattered and dim. His skin was charred, his armour gone, but his eyes burned with something new—wide, unblinking, pupils ringed with gold, sharp as a ruler of the skies looking at his prey. A gaze piercing the dark.

  The Nimbus faltered for a moment.

  Frowning Rudolf, his certainty fracturing for the first time. “What—”

  Theodred surged.

  He shouldn’t have any aura left yet he was burning something. His swords blazed brighter than before, dual arcs leaving afterimages that cut the storm apart. He leapt forward with impossible speed, weaving through bolts, slipping past Rudolf’s colossal swings as though guided by unseen hands.

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  The hidden scars carved earlier awakened as Hans was pushing him towards.

  Rudolf stepped—and lines of light erupted across his arm. Cuts he had not seen, had not felt, split open all at once, blood spraying in sheets. His sword arm buckled.

  Hans blades now crossed.

  With a scream of steel and light, he aimed at the same hand of rank nine and cleaved his hand clean from the wrist.

  The Thunder Knight staggered, Thunderclap falling from his grasp. Hans caught its hilt and in an arc he swung hard for Rudolf’s neck. The sword shrieked as it almost touched its owner’s neck, discharging a blast that rattled the heavens—but without Rudolf’s grip, its power faltered, sparks dimming.

  Damn it. You went easy on me.

  The crowd gasped, then roared, the sound like a tidal wave crashing over the arena.

  Rudolf, pride bleeding out with his hand, dropped to the ground with Hans still resting ThunderClap in his shoulders by the neck.

  His aura flickered, storm unraveling into nothingness.

  Theodred swayed, nearly collapsing himself. “Hold it tight, boy, don’t let go. You somewhat had me this time.”

  “How did you know—”

  “How can I not— I raised you with the very same hand you dismembered.”

  “Grandma will sew it back in no time—”

  “Yeah—if you can survive her wrath without exposing yourself—you fooled Reina for good, kid. Stole all her skills. If she finds out later— I want to see her smug face churning.”

  “This victory was not the way I wanted.” Hans mumbled. “I lost—”

  Rudolf laughed thunder. “I lost.” He declared.

  As those words came from Rudolf’s mouth. The cheer erupted in a magnanimous scale. Several crowned in riches while many lost their livelihoods in the gamble. This wasn’t what many had expected but many hoped for.

  Rudolf took his sword back, while Hans bowed with utmost respect for the senior knight. He flicked the sword high, tearing through the skies. Going back to its original place. “Go higher, kid.” Shouted the warlord in acknowledgement.

  Theodred, with a nervous chuckle, picked up his sword, Kindness, a symbol of Swans. He raised it high. It flickered, light guttering. His breath came ragged, each one heavier than the last.

  But he forced himself upright. Blood ran down his chin, his body shaking, yet he lifted his gaze to the audience stand.

  “I—” his voice cracked, but he pressed on, each word torn from broken lungs—“I will… climb… higher.”

  Then he collapsed, body hitting the cracked stone like a corpse.

  Silence swept the crowd, broken only by the echo of his words. Then, slowly, the roar returned—wild, fevered, disbelieving. The miracle had come again.

  The committee announced the schedule, voices stern despite the madness:

  “Theodred of the Atelier clan—victor. By the rule of the Convention, his next duel shall be held… in two days.”

  Above the arena, the storm finally broke, sunlight piercing through the clouds. It fell not on Rudolf, bleeding and broken, but on the boy lying unconscious at the centre.

  The boy who had shattered the storm and conquered Alastor.

  The arena did not sleep.

  Long after the duel had ended, the air still smelled of lightning and burned stone. Markets swelled, voices rose, and coin clinked. Every tavern table and street corner became a battlefield of wagers and boasts.

  “The boy’s odds are climbing again—fifty against Rudolf and he won. Against the Eighth, I’ll stake my purse.”

  “You’re a fool. Alastor was merciful compared to what comes next.”

  “Merciful? He lost a hand.”

  “And the brat nearly lost his life. You think lightning is cruel? Wait until steel without honour greets him.”

  Prices soared for Theodred’s likeness—sketches inked by hasty artists, trinkets blessed with “light aura,” charms shaped like twin blades. Merchants who’d scoffed at his name days ago now haggled to sell it.

  In noble halls, the tone was different. Voices laced with calculation.

  “He cannot last another round.”

  “Perhaps. But if he does?”

  “If he does, the balance of the top ten trembles—and kingdoms move when that happens.”

  Inside the infirmary, silence pressed thicker than storm clouds.

  Sierra knelt beside her husband, the glow of her hands knitting bone and flesh together without strain. The stump where Rudolf’s hand had been was already whole, skin smooth, veins pulsing with life. She wiped the blood away with steady fingers, her face unreadable.

  “You shouldn’t have asked it,” she said softly, though the words bit sharp.

  Rudolf’s one good hand—now both good again—rested on hers. “He fought me as few men have. That deserves not only survival but another chance.” His voice carried none of the pride that marked the duel, only respect for his little one.

  “Heal him, Sierra. If he dies from wounds now—I want to see how high he climbs—whoever he is now.”

  Her gaze flicked to the boy unconscious on the cot beside them. Bandaged, pale, breath shallow. Aura reserves nearly gone. She frowned, lips tightening.

  “You would let someone who did that to you—heal by me. You are soft—I’m not, husband. His stars must be high, I didn’t snap his neck yet.” She refused. “I’m not healing him.”

  Rudolf’s smile was weary, yet resolute. “Heal him.” He pressed on, urging. Urging

  Sierra said nothing more. She could never defy his persuasive gaze. His eyes focused this much meant she would regret it if she didn’t follow. It had happened many times, so she’d learned the lessons.

  Sighing, she gave up. Her hands traced over Theodred’s chest, and light poured into him. Bones mended. Blood ceased its slow leak. The glow sank deeper, knitting the torn edges of spirit threads themselves. Theodred stirred faintly, but did not wake.

  Night fell before another visitor came.

  The door opened without ceremony, and Reina entered like a shadow drawn by moonlight. Her elven features were sharpened by fury barely leashed. Golden hair cascaded down her cloak, her steps noiseless on the stone floor.

  Theodred’s eyes opened just as she neared—hazy, half-dreaming, yet aware. His eyes inky blue that swallowed most of the iris, shifting from a vast, unbroken disk in darkness, an intense, predatory focus, as if seeing through shadows and secrets.

  It glinted in the lantern glow.

  “You stubborn fool,” Reina hissed, her voice low so only he could hear. She stood at his side, arms folded. “You barely survived Alastor. And now you dare face the Eighth? My brother will not fight you with respect. He will kill you as a butcher kills swine.”

  Theodred swallowed against the dryness in his throat. He turned away from facing her, still uncomfortable by her worrying expressions. Words scraped raw, but he forced them out. “Then… that is how I’ll face him.”

  Reina’s hand slammed against the bed frame, trying to make him turn, to face him, but no avail. “I forbid this.” She shouted, failing. “You are my… one and only disciple, Theodred. I will not watch you throw yourself into slaughter.”

  He then turned his head, eyes locking with hers, unflinching despite the exhaustion in his frame. “This… was set before I met you. Before I learned your lessons. Even before you gave me reason to rise higher. My path does not change now.”

  The room grew still.

  Reina searched his gaze, saw the burn of conviction there, the same fire she had once seen in someone right before he became rank one. And her heart clenched—with dread.

  “You’ll die,” she whispered.

  “Then that’s next for Theodred Atelier.” His voice was barely more than a breath, but it carried weight enough to silence her.

  She lingered a long moment, torn between anger and sorrow, before turning sharply away. The door closed behind her, leaving only the boy’s ragged breathing and the faint crackle of fire in the hearth.

  Theodred lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his gaze unblinking.

  Two days.

  Two days until he faced the Eighth.

  And no miracle left to hide behind.