Harold rolled his shoulders, loosening the stiffness from the wait. The hour had dragged like lead, giving him too much time with his thoughts. A duel, rules, witnesses and judges. All neat lines drawn by people who didn't understand what fighting meant. Or created so monsters could fight without killing everyone they care about around them.

Fights should never be fair. If it's fair, you've already made a mistake. You don't fight to match blades—you fight to win. To end it before the other guy even knows it's begun.

His hand drifted to the haft of his axe, thumb running along the wood like it was an anchor. This isn't how I prefer it. I'd rather strike from the dark, stack the odds, bury him under weight until he breaks. That's what war is—making sure you don't give the other bastard a chance. But this— he exhaled through his nose —this is a stage. They think rules make it clean. Good thing I'll break them as soon as I can.

The heir had made it easy. In his pride, he would allow class skills instead of just pure skill. He had to—his reputation demanded it. And once the duel began, Harold's class came with him. The Brands, tactical recall. Kelan, Lira, Hal, Jerric, the wolves—every branded ally that stood with him became part of the fight the moment he called. The heir thought this was one man against another. He had no idea.

The heavy doors groaned open, iron hinges shrieking against the weight. The arena roared like a living thing as the Matriarch entered with her heir, her barons, and her retinue. She walked calm, regal, her hand still resting on the man's shoulder, restraining his fury until the last possible step. They crossed the sand in silence, taking their place at the far side of the pit.

Harold stepped forward into the light, boots sinking into the freshly raked sand. The crowd surged at the sight—cheers, curses, wagers shouted, the smell of sweat and ale rolling down from the stands. He felt the weight of eyes from every tier of the city. The weight of the crowd was palpable. This was a fight that hadn't been seen in thousands of years. Calamities hadn't been seen and were things of legends but here he was.

Two sides, one arena. No walls, no alleys, no tricks to hide behind—at least, not the ones they could see. Harold's fingers tightened around his axe. It's time.

The roar of the crowd thinned into a hushed murmur as the Matriarch's voice carried across the arena. Her crimson eyes fixed on Harold, sharp and steady, her heir at her side straining against her grip.

"You called for a duel, Calamity Harold," she said, every syllable rolling like iron across the sand. "By the rules of Ascension, the challenged sets the conditions. Do you understand?"

The words echoed, heavy with ritual weight. The barons at her back stood motionless, the heir vibrating with barely-contained fury, and the crowd leaned forward, eager to hear what came next.

Harold shifted his axe against his shoulder, the sand crunching under his boots as he met her gaze without flinching. He didn't answer yet. He let the silence draw just long enough for the crowd to stir, for the heir to bare his teeth in impatience.

The Matriarch's gaze lingered on Harold a long moment before she gave the smallest incline of her head. "You understand, then."

She turned slightly, her voice rolling out to the stands as much as to him. "As the challenged, I may name a champion—one closer to your level of strength. So that Ascension itself will adjudicate this duel fairly."

Her hand slid from her heir's shoulder, and he stepped forward with a sharp, eager smile. The boy's eyes burned with that hunger Harold had counted on. The Matriarch's words cut through the roar of the crowd like a knife.

"My champion will set the terms for the duel," she said. "In whatever way he chooses."

The heir's lips peeled back from his teeth, his voice booming across the sand. "And I choose this—no restraints, no coward's limits. Class skills allowed. Dao allowed. Fight with everything you have, Calamity… because I'll enjoy breaking it."

The crowd erupted, half in cheers, half in jeers, the taste of blood already thick in the air.

Harold felt the surge of noise from the crowd wash over him like heat from a forge. The heir was smiling too wide, teeth bared, ready to tear into him. Pride, rage, desperation—it all burned off the boy in waves.

Harold let out a slow breath, forcing his pulse to steady. Good. Let him showboat. Let him think it's power that wins fights.

He shifted the axe against his shoulder, eyes never leaving his opponent. "Agreed," Harold said simply, his voice carrying across the sand.

The Matriarch inclined her head once. She turned, gathering her barons and elders with her, crimson cloak trailing as her contingent withdrew from the pit. The heir remained, shoulders rolling, flexing his fingers like a man preparing to tear down a door.

The arena rumbled as the formations woke. A low hum shivered through the stone, runes along the walls flickering to life in pale light. Then the barrier snapped shut with a ripple like water struck by a stone, sealing the sand in a dome that shimmered faintly against the sun.

The noise of the crowd sharpened, suddenly brighter, contained by the barrier. The sand under Harold's boots felt heavier, hotter, as the duel became reality.

He rolled his shoulders once, mind sharpening, plans unfolding. Not my kind of fight. Rules, witnesses, boundaries. But rules are just lines waiting to be crossed. He's already given me what I need.

Across the arena, the heir sank into a stance, blade gleaming, aura flaring to life. Harold shifted his grip on the axe, eyes narrowing.

The duel had begun.

The heir exploded forward, blade flashing silver, aura tearing the sand with every step. The crowd roared as he closed the distance.

Harold didn't lift his axe. He shut his eyes for the briefest instant and pulled.

Mana surged through him like molten iron, flooding his veins, clawing at his soul. He reached for the Brands—Kelan, Lira, Hal, every bond carved into him—and pushed the call outward.

The barrier resisted. The arena's formation pressed back with crushing weight, a lattice of runes drinking his power and smothering the connection before it could stretch. The Brands caught at the edges of his soul and faltered, like voices muffled behind stone.

Harold's teeth bared as the pressure mounted. No. Not here. Not like this.

He forced more into it—not just mana, but Freedom itself. His Dao bled into the skill, stripping away the latticework that told him "no." He bent the rules until they screamed, funneled everything he was into the cracks. The barrier shuddered.

His soul groaned under the strain. It wasn't pain exactly—it was worse. Threads pulling taut, like they might snap. His body shook, veins burning, every heartbeat a hammer blow in his chest. Still he pressed harder. No walls. No rules. No chains.

The heir was nearly on him now, sword raised high, eyes blazing with triumph.

And then—

The barrier split like glass under pressure.

Kelan burst through first, hammer blazing, armor burning with fort-mana. Lira snapped into existence beside him, staff in hand, aura already flaring with light. Hal and his pack followed in a rush, frost exploding across the sand as the wolves howled. The Umbral Stalker slipped from the shadows like it had always been there.

All of them, at once—every Brand answering, not piecemeal but in a single eruption that cracked the air and sent the crowd into a frenzy.

The heir skidded back a step, eyes wide, blade trembling with the force of his own halted swing. "Impossible—"

Harold opened his eyes, axe rising in a steady hand, the echo of his soul still groaning from the strain. "You said class skills," he rasped.

And now the duel truly began.

The Brands hit the sand running.

Kelan crashed forward like a boulder loosed from a cliff, hammer blazing with mana, his aura swelling as his Dao of the Mountain rooted him with every stride. Beside him Lira's staff spun bright, threads of healing light woven into each strike, her movements sharp and desperate as she fought to keep the hammer-man from being overwhelmed.

Hal roared, frost spraying from his jaws, the ground icing in jagged sheets where his paws struck. The heir's blade cut a burning arc, searing through frost and light alike, forcing Kelan back a step, Lira two. His blood and fire Dao flared around him, armor of living flame, each swing an eruption of heat and force. He was stronger, faster, tougher—a high baron built for close combat, every ounce of him sharpened for killing.

The pack pressed him from the flanks, darting in and out with fangs bared, led by the frost wolf alphas. For a moment they held him contained, snarls and howls rattling the barrier's dome. Then the heir's lips peeled back in a grin and he swept his blade in a savage arc. A wave of searing blood-fire exploded outward, cutting down the harriers where they stood. Ash and steam filled the sand. The alphas howled, one staggering back with a charred flank, the rest forced to the edges.

"Keep pressure!" Harold barked, forcing his will down the Brands' link, his voice steady even as his soul still groaned from the summoning. No breathing room. No gaps. Smother him.

Kelan slammed forward again, hammer ringing as it clashed against the heir's blade. The impact cracked the sand, sent sparks flashing in the air. Lira's staff struck his side in the same heartbeat, a flare of healing light turned into force, but the heir twisted, shoulder slamming into her with the weight of fire, and she staggered back bleeding. Hal pounced in, fangs sinking deep into the heir's armored forearm, frost hissing against bloodfire, but the heir laughed, twisting free with a spray of sparks.

It was pressure, yes—but the balance wasn't holding. They were taking wounds. Kelan's armor was scorched black, his hammer-arm bleeding at the elbow. Lira's lip was split, blood running down her chin. Hal's flank was cut deep, fur scorched and wet.

Then Jerric raised his hands. His eyes gleamed wild, mana coursing through him as he called his strongest summon. Sigils flared bright on the sand, carving a wide circle that shook underfoot. The crowd screamed as the light built to a blinding glare.

With a roar like glaciers breaking, a massive frost bear shouldered its way into the dome. Its fur was rimed in ice, claws longer than a man's arm, breath misting in clouds that froze where they fell. A low baron, Tier 4—and every ounce of it raw, brutal strength.

The heir's grin faltered for the first time.

The frost bear lumbered forward, each step shaking the sand. It swiped once and the heir's flaming blade caught it, sparks showering, but the beast didn't stop. Kelan and Lira surged in alongside it, blows landing harder as Kelan's Dao of the Mountain rose within him, every strike carrying the weight of stone, the inevitability of falling rock.

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The balance shifted. The heir was still fire and fury, still bleeding power into every blow, but now every strike he took mattered. Frost and hammer and staff rang against his bloodfire armor. And for the first time, the crowd saw him stagger.

The duel tilted hard.

The frost bear pressed like a mountain of ice and fury, every swipe of its claws rattling the barrier, its breath freezing the sand where it fell. Kelan and Lira pressed in at its flanks, blows landing harder now—Kelan's hammer carrying the weight of the Mountain, every strike a landslide, while Lira's staff crackled with sharpened life mana, no longer just healing but flaying.

Hal and his pack circled tighter, snapping in bursts, harrying the heir from every angle. The Umbral Stalker's eyes burned violet, darting in and out with cuts that dragged shadows across his wounds. For the first time the heir faltered, his armor scored, his stance shifting under the relentless tide.

He snarled, reached to his belt, and pulled free a blood-red talisman. Before Harold could bark a warning, the heir crushed it in his fist.

The sand detonated in a roar of bloodfire. Wolves yelped and howled as the explosion tore through them, frost and ash filling the air. Two of the pack went down instantly, smoking heaps on the sand. Another staggered, flank torn open, legs buckling. The children watching from the stands screamed, the crowd half-cheering, half-shrieking.

"NO!" Lira shouted, hand outstretched, but the cost was too high. Her mana was already burning to keep Kelan upright, to stop Hal's blood from spilling out of him. She had nothing left to spare—no healing, no revivals. The wolves lay still.

The heir laughed, a cruel sound, blade dripping bloodfire as he turned in a circle to face them all. "Pathetic. You think mutts and toys will stop me? I'll cut through every one of you and mount your Calamity's head above my door."

The frost bear bellowed, shaking the dome, and barreled into him. The heir met it head-on, blade screaming through the beast's shoulder. Flesh sizzled, bone cracked—but the bear kept pushing, driving him back, trading the wound for ground. Its claws raked the heir's chest, tearing the last of his armor to shreds, leaving raw flesh beneath.

Kelan came down behind it, hammer ringing with the weight of the Mountain, smashing into the heir's ribs with a force that bent him sideways. The crowd roared at the sound of bone breaking.

Lira struck next, her staff crackling into a whip of bright green mana. She lashed it across his exposed torso, the whip biting deep, life mana flaring as it burned away the blood-Dao healing that clung to him. The wound festered instead of closing, the flames inside him smothered under the purity of her strike.

The heir reeled, blood and fire spilling from him in equal measure. His grin returned, feral, twisted through the pain. "Good," he spat, dragging his blade up to meet them again. "Bleed me harder. It won't matter. You'll run out before I do. And when you do—I'll carve you down one by one, until all that's left is your Calamity choking on his failure."

Harold's knuckles whitened on the haft of his axe as he watched the fight unfold. Every clash sent new ripples through the Brands' link, every wound bled into his mind as a tug, a weight, a demand. He breathed slow, forcing himself to think, to see the pattern beyond the chaos.

Options.

Hal was still pacing the edge of the barrier, frost rising in shrouds around him. Harold could recall him in an instant—Teleport him in here, let his weight hit the heir like a falling glacier. But that would leave the pack leaderless, and the heir's bloodfire had already shown what it could do to wolves packed too tight.

The bear. He glanced at Jerric, who was half-crouched, arms shaking, veins lit with mana. "Jerric," Harold snapped through the bond, can you summon the bear again?

The thief's jaw clenched, eyes wild. I can try, he sent back, voice ragged in Harold's mind. But it'll drain me to the bone.

Harold's gaze flicked to the curse shaman Jerric had called once before. Would that help? Weaken him, rot his footing? The thought was tempting, but already the arena floor was thick with fire and frost. Too many bodies in the sand. Crossbowmen? A volley to break his rhythm? Harold dismissed it as soon as it came—there were too many allies in the way, no clean lines of fire.

"What else do you have, Jerric?" Harold muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on the duel. "What else can you give me?"

On the sand, Kelan staggered under another blow, his hammer arm dripping blood—but the dwarf branded to him surged in at his flank. He was small and stocky, hair braided back, his hammer lighter but quick. He darted in behind the heir's guard, slamming a blow into his knee before retreating, her strikes setting up Kelan's heavier, mountain-weighted swings. The pair moved in tandem, battered but unbroken, their combined rhythm forcing the heir to give ground with each exchange.

The heirs blade struck out carving pieces off Kelans armour, striking him down to his flesh. The only thing keeping him alive was Lira with her constant healing. Kelan saving her from many strikes as he attempted to move around and end her.

Harold's mind raced, intuition firing with every heartbeat. Hal from above. Bear again. Curse shaman. Or something new. Think, Harold. This isn't about trading blows. This is about breaking him before the weight of his blood can turn the tide.

His eyes narrowed, the beginnings of an idea sparking like flint in the dark.

Harold's breathing steadied, his mind locking into rhythm. Every movement of his Brands, every flare of mana, every heartbeat of the duel—it all threaded together like a drumbeat only he could hear. This is the pace. My pace. Push him. Break him. Don't let him breathe.

Hal lifted his head and let out a howl that rattled the barrier walls, low and rolling, a sound that curled into bone. The heir's swing hitched for the barest moment, his eyes flashing as the primal fear wormed its way past blood and fire. Harold seized it.

"Bear—forward!"

The frost bear thundered in, shouldering aside fire and pain, taking a savage cut through its chest that split hide and muscle. It didn't slow. Its claws raked the heir's side, tearing through what was left of his armor and leaving bloody rents across his ribs.

"Kelan—now."

The world twisted. Kelan vanished and reappeared behind the heir, pickaxe raised. He brought it down with mountain-weighted force, smashing into the side of the heir's skull. The sound cracked through the arena like stone breaking. The heir staggered, blood spraying.

Hal surged in from the side with the ashen pair at his flanks, frost and shadow mixing in a blur of teeth. One of the ashen wolves caught a blow full-on—a bloodfire slash that nearly cut her in half. She yelped and crumpled, smoke rising from the wound, barely alive. Hal answered with fury, his jaws snapping into the heir's shoulder, crushing down until blood ran thick over his fangs. The heir roared, ripping himself free with flesh torn loose.

Lira's whip lashed out, snapping tight around his torso. Life mana surged through it like burning thorns, searing every inch of his body, dragging more screams from him as it tore at his blood-Dao healing, unraveling it thread by thread.

The heir's aura exploded.

A blast of qi and fire mana erupted in a storm, a hurricane of blood and flame. It slammed into everyone—bear, wolves, Kelan, Lira—driving them back across the sand. Even Harold felt the heat claw against his skin through the link, his soul rattling with the backlash. The frost bear staggered, howling in pain. Wolves scattered. Lira's whip snapped apart, her body flung against the ground with bruising force.

"Kelan!" Harold snarled, already shaping mana. The warrior blinked again, flashing forward in a teleport meant to end it.

But the heir was ready.

He spun, blade a blur, and his strike landed clean across Kelan's chest. The hammer-man's breath left him in a sharp grunt, his armor split, flesh burning. He dropped to one knee, blood pouring, hammer slipping from his fingers.

"No!" Lira cried, rushing forward. Her staff blazed bright as she poured every shred of mana she had into him, hands trembling as she fought to keep his heart beating.

The heir straightened, fire dripping from his blade, his grin savage and red. He licked the blood from his lips and spat it into the sand.

"You can't save him," he sneered, eyes locked on Harold. "Not from me. Not from what I am."

The heir's grin widened, blood-slick teeth flashing as he pulled more talismans from his belt. One after another, he hurled them into the sand, each shattering in a bloom of bloodfire. Wolves screamed as the blasts tore through their ranks, smoke and frost mixing in the air. Two went down writhing, another limped, half its flank blackened.

A pair of talismans arced toward Kelan, the hammer-man barely conscious, his chest still bleeding under Lira's desperate healing. Lira threw herself over him, staff blazing, barrier flaring green as the blasts struck. The shield cracked but held—barely. She staggered, coughing blood, still clutching Kelan tight.

Rysa darted forward from the edges, green cloak flaring, her hands glowing with hasty runes. She dropped beside Kelan, slamming her palms over his chest. "Stay with me, damn you!" she shouted, her voice half fury, half plea. With her other hand she hurled vials at the heir—glass shattering against his bloodfire aura, splashing acidic smoke across his skin. "Burn in the pit, you bastard!" she screamed, a string of curses rolling out as her knives of alchemy hissed into him.

Harold stepped forward. He pulled a vial from his belt, the glass cold in his hand, and uncorked it with his teeth. The smell bit sharp—metal and rot, unfinished but potent. He smeared it along the edge of his axe, watching the steel drink it in with a faint hiss.

"I don't know if this will work," Harold muttered under his breath, eyes never leaving the heir. "This wasn't supposed to be used—a first iteration." He twirled the axe once, slow, like testing the balance. Then he spoke louder, his voice carrying over the sand:

"Men should be either treated generously or destroyed, because they take revenge for slight injuries—yet cannot do so for grave ones. So the injury we do to a man must be such that we need not fear his vengeance."

The heir sneered, blood and fire haloing his form. "Quoting dead men won't save you."

Harold pulsed. Freedom surged through him, his aura exploding outward, unraveling the invisible rules of the duel. He matched the Baron step for step, closing the distance with his axe low.

The heir's blade screamed through the air, catching Harold across the side. Pain flared white-hot, his health bar crashing toward empty. He gritted his teeth and pushed through, dragging his axe up in a savage arc. The poisoned blade cut deep into the heir's side, splitting bloodfire armor, biting into flesh. The poison hissed, smoke rising from the wound.

The heir's roar shook the dome, blood spraying across the sand as he staggered back, fire guttering around him. Harold held his axe firm, the taste of iron in his mouth, his soul screaming but his grip steady.

"Now we see," Harold rasped, "what vengeance really feels like."

The heir reeled beneath Lira's wrath, his bloodfire sputtering as the Death Dao wrapped around him like a noose. His curse screamed, his body trembling as if every strand of undeath was being peeled apart.

The frost bear, fallen on the sand in a smoking heap, suddenly twitched. Its massive chest rose once, its eyes glowing faintly with borrowed light. Death's aura tugged at it, called it back—but only to shred it. The bear's form wavered, half-rising before it collapsed again, its essence torn away and funneled like fuel into the storm crashing against the vampire.

Harold's heart lurched. He spun toward Lira, her aura whipping around her like a storm of black and violet flame, her eyes burning with hate. "Stop!" he roared. "Lira, don't give into that side of yourself! That's what you've always feared! Your aspects must remain in balance—Life and Death, together! Lira, don't!"

But she couldn't hear him. Rage had her in its grip.

Her life flickered before her eyes in an instant—

—beatings in the alleys, guards' fists and boots striking her ribs. —stealing crusts of bread, choking down foul water that made her sick. —the hand of a leering man, coins pressed toward her, the horror that came with it. —her trembling joy at sixteen, when her class awakened and she learned healing. —the terror of a kidnap attempt, her first kill, blood slick on her hands as she ran. —bandaging street kids in a clinic, giving what she could when she had nothing. —and then lightning—Harold descending into the market, chaos scattering around him. —nights of quiet tea, steam curling between them. —his pained grin after sparring, her hands glowing as she mended him. —teaching wide-eyed children letters, patience threading her voice. —Harold stumbling out of his room with numb legs, Hal snoring like a boulder on them. —the kiss, her first, fire and frost and everything she had once thought lost.

Her qi surged, her mana tore free, Death erupting in its purest form.

Harold saw it and knew. He called on the only thing he had left—Brandflare. Mana ripped out of him, what little remained, every shred of will poured into it. The flare pulsed, shattering the heir's last protections, stripping away the fragile barrier of blood and fire.

And into that opening Lira's power sank.

Her Death Dao reached inside him, unraveling the cords of undeath, tearing the vampire curse apart strand by strand. The heir screamed—not in fury, but in true fear—as his strength collapsed, his bloodfire guttering out, his body beginning to unmake itself under the weight of her wrath.

Desperation flared in his eyes. With a trembling hand, he pulled a vial from his belt—a small glass container glinting crimson in the light. Harold's stomach dropped; he knew that vial. The mark of a noble house, one of the wealthiest families in the city.

The heir's last act was to hurl it at Lira.

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