The morning sun crawls across the sky, bleeding red over Clearwater Bay. Word spreads before the gulls even take flight—a duel is set, and the beach is already crowded.

Nobles pack the raised pavilions, merchants and adventurers jostle at the edges, while the servants whisper about the miner who dared to humiliate Lord Roland at the banquet.

"That's the one? The miner boy?" a merchant mutters, his voice dripping with disbelief.

"He looks like he slept in a ditch," a young noblewoman sneers, fluttering her fan.

"Maybe he'll dig us a new well after Roland buries him," an adventurer laughs, elbowing his friend.

"I heard he got his skills from shoveling shit, not training," another voice jeers, and a ripple of laughter passes through the crowd.

"His only hope is tripping and making Roland laugh himself to death," someone shouts from the back, earning a few scattered claps.

"Maybe they'll give him a pickaxe and let him tunnel under the beach when he loses," another noble chimes in, loud enough for Jacob to hear as he walks onto the sand.

I walk onto the sand with Felisia and Sir Greyson at my side.

I keep my head up. No need to show nerves. Every eye is on me, but I have done harder things than this.

Sir Roland stands in the center, his armor gleaming with his house's colors, a shield on his left arm and a duelist's sword in his right.

Behind him, Calantha sits under a white pavilion, still dabbing her scalp and glaring at anyone who even glances her way. Lord Aulus leans back in his seat, bored, but everyone knows he'll watch every move. Adrienne's retinue hovers around Veyl, who stands off to one side, not hiding his smile.

Roland's friends form a row behind him, arms crossed, making a wall between me and the nobility.

A pair of Guild officials in ceremonial sashes step forward and read out the rules so everyone can hear.

The older official lifts his voice, projecting over the sand and surf.

"This is a sanctioned duel. No outside interference, no concealed arms, no enchantments unless declared. The winner is the first to force a yield or incapacitate their opponent. No killing blows—unless both parties escalate by word or action. Should either fighter escalate, lethal force is permitted and the duel continues until death or total surrender."

The second official locks eyes with Roland, then with me.

"If either duelist crosses that line, the other is free to answer in kind. Do both fighters understand?"

Roland barks, "I'm ready. If the gutter rat escalates, I'll put him in the ground."

I meet the official's gaze and nod.

"I understand the rules," I say with a smile.

The older official raises his staff.

"This duel is recognized by House Clearwater and the Adventurers' Guild. Begin when ready."

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As I step onto the field, Roland throws back his shoulders and grins like he's already won.

"You can still apologize," he calls out, his voice carrying over the sand and the shallow waves. "A bow and a few kind words would spare you a beating."

His friends laugh. The crowd—half hoping I'll grovel, half hoping for a show—waits for my answer.

I keep my hands at my sides.

"I said I'd duel. No apology. If you wish, though, I could give you a little more wine," I make a gesture toward a random servant under a pavillion.

A few nobles snicker. Roland's face flushes. He draws his sword and slams his shield into the sand.

"Suit yourself, miner. Hope you said your prayers to the gods."

Felisia catches my arm before I walk forward. Her words are soft but fierce.

"Be careful."

I nod once. Sir Greyson's stare meets mine, solid and level.

"If he pushes for lethal, end it fast. You're better than him."

Roland might be a noble, but there's a difference between someone with a few levels over me and someone capable of clearing an Elite Dungeon. Honestly, I'm even surprised he's such an idiot to accept being humiliated like this.

Veyl, or maybe Calantha's cousin, Aulus, would be a problem.

This court jester?

Roland swings his sword through the air, making a show of the blade's edge. The crowd ooohs, a few even clap.

"Let's see what the gutter breeds these days!" Roland bellows. He salutes, slashes the air twice, and comes at me with a blinding speed.

I shake my head.

* * *

He opens with a string of family techniques, textbook and flashy—overhead slash, shield bash, sidestep and riposte, all delivered with the confidence of a man who's drilled this since childhood. I backpedal across the sand, not summoning the Hell's Sword.

I flare Veins of Fire, which empowers my body, then I just keep moving my body around while using Echo Pulse to track the attacks and Fire Walk to move faster than Roland. I keep my arms folded for the first three strikes, blocking the fourth with my forearm covered in Fire Armor and letting the fifth nick my shirt. Roland's friends cheer. The crowd jeers.

"Is that all the Crucible taught you?" Roland taunts, pressing closer, his sword flickering at my ribs. "I thought the miner had tricks!"

I focus on my footing. Roland's blade slams against my one-handed parries, every impact meant to drive me back, make me look weak.

How can he think he's winning this? Does he have brain damage?

I let him think he's winning, let the crowd see me giving ground.

"Yield, rat!" he barks, swinging for my head. "You're outclassed."

What? Is he serious?

I have the time to turn and several nobles are still cheering for him.

Are they all... stupid?

The sword whistles over my scalp as I duck. I let my heel sink into the sand, draw his charge forward, then sidestep and pivot. Roland barrels past. He rounds on me, anger rising.

"Face me, you rat!"

The crowd laughs, sensing blood. Every eye expects me to fold.

I let Roland come again, shield raised, sword flashing. He slams his shield at my face—I dodge, barely, feeling the wind off the blow. His sword comes low and hard for my thigh. I block, but the shock stings my wrist.

"On your knees!" Roland howls.

I drop to one knee, gathering my mana.

A wave of jeers breaks out at once.

"He's surrendering!" a merchant bellows, triumphant.

"Knew he'd fold!" a noble shouts, pumping a fist.

"Go on, grovel!" someone howls from the crowd, and laughter follows.

"That's it? That's the Crucible prodigy?" another adventurer scoffs.

"Some hero. Should have stayed in the mines," an older woman mutters, and a cluster of merchants snicker.

"If he begs, maybe Roland will let him clean boots instead!" a young noble laughs.

I drop to one knee—but not to yield.

I sink into the sand, plant my left hand, and draw every bit of mana I need for the next move.

The Infernal Manual's diagrams burn in my memory.

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