Sir Renquell's restraint finally snaps. He shoves a few nobles gathering in front of the mirrors, looking distraught. Then, he goes and grabs Lord Clearwater by the arm, his voice low and urgent.

"You have to open the gate. That Elf is about to break every code of our dueling law. You know what happens if he unleashes that technique—he could cripple himself. You can't just stand here and let the High Court blame us when the Elves send someone for knighthood and we send him back in pieces."

Lord Clearwater watches Veyl's body, which shakes with surging power, and he barely glances at Renquell. He stands as still as a statue, but his jaw clenches tight enough to crack a tooth. When he finally speaks, his words scrape out cold and even.

"This is Clearwater's land. Our customs come before any Elven code. I won't be the Lord who ended centuries of tradition because the Elf decided to gamble with his life."

Sir Renquell's eyes narrow.

"He's going to kill the boy. Jacob won't survive what's coming and he might cripple himself in doing that. Is that what you want written in the record?"

LordClearwater surveys the nobles crowding behind him, their faces drawn, every eye fixed on the ring below.

He sees what is plain: nobody is just watching a duel between Jacob Cloud and an Elven Champion anymore. They see a war of Human against Elf, Clearwater against the world. He nods once, grim and resigned, his voice rising enough to carry over the murmurs.

"The fight stands. No one will interrupt a lawful duel on Clearwater's soil."

The nobles hush at that. Some exchange anxious looks, but most accept the ruling. They know what it means if a Lord bends for foreign pressure. They know what it means if the duel ends now. All eyes return to the ring, where Veyl trembles at the edge of madness.

* * *

Lightning cracks the air. Red arcs of power crawl up Veyl's arms and crawl across the battered stones. The sky itself seems to ripple above the summit, black clouds warping under the pressure of the forbidden Skill that rips through Veyl's veins.

The ground splits, stones bursting outward, earth scorched black where the lightning meets the remnants of flame.

I stand unmoved in the storm.

Hell's Sword is steady in my right hand and Dark Blade gleams in my left, their edges bright with a heat that is colder than ice, their weight as familiar as my own heartbeat.

I watch Veyl scream, his face twisted in pain and fury.

Blood drips from his arms, and the lightning greedily laps at the wounds. I can feel King Baalrek's presence, heavy behind my thoughts, his judgment as sharp as any blade.

He's burning his life away, Baalrek rumbles, voice low as thunder and twice as final. This is no Skill you pick up from a scroll. He's sacrificing himself. I saw this thousand of years ago. That Elf will burn bright and die empty if he fails. You are in real danger now, boy. If you do not treat him as a true enemy and give everything you have, you will not leave this place alive.

You're worried now? I ask mentally.

I'd be happy if you died at my hand, failing a trial meant for an Infernal. But to an Elf? After you got our people's veins? Do NOT disappoint me, boy.

King Baalrek pauses for a moment.

Give him hell.

"I will," I mutter under my breath, narrowing my eyes.

Veyl's mouth pulls wide. He bellows, voice broken and animal.

"You're a fraud! You're nothing but a thief who stole power you don't deserve! You're not even a real Infernal! But you're about to witness the might of a true Elf!"

Red lightning bursts from his hands, the first strike thick as a man's torso, shrieking through the air and lancing straight for me.

I see the path of power the Grimoire highlights, every flaw shining with a hateful light. I dive straight into the bolt, Hell's Sword burning with Architect's Insight, and I cleave the red lightning at its core.

Power screams in my bones.

The heat rushes up my arms and threatens to swallow my mind, but the Grimoire allows me to dispel it.

But then, something happens.

I feel a terrifying power entering my body, the aftershock.

I try to use the Grimoire, but my mind is now dazzled by the pain caused by that energy.

Residual lightning is about to enter your veins, King Baalrek says. Redirect your Mana through your Main Heart Veins and then push against it. Circle loops through your spine while you do or his energy will shut your entire system down.

I grit my teeth and follow King Baalrek's directives.

My Infernal Veins drink the energy and pulse after I channel the mana through my Heart Veins and create a sort of protective barrier around my spin.

My horns ache, the flame around my shoulders growing, my vision narrowing until the world becomes a tunnel of violence.

Every step forward feels like wading through the storm that wants to tear me apart, but I push through, step by step, never pausing.

Each footfall lands with intent.

I refuse to run or flinch.

Veyl hurls another blast, this one thinner but ten times faster, a flicker that would have killed the old me.

I twist my body, let the Grimoire mark the channel of his spell, and drive Dark Blade through it. The lightning shatters on contact, the shards flying harmlessly past me.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

* * *

He's growing, Baalrek mutters to himself. His Infernal Veins are not just keeping up. They're expanding, feeding off the duel. He's using your own attack to fuel his evolution, Elf.

* * *

Veyl's face, slick with blood and sweat, twists as he pours out another wave of red lightning. His voice breaks.

"You're an abomination! I am the true Champion!"

He lifts his hands, palms outward, and lightning fans out in a web that blocks out the sun. Every bolt targets a different path—legs, chest, throat, wings. The summit shakes under the force.

I do not yield. I step forward, cutting them down with the Dark Blade.

I catch the weak points in Veyl's technique, the imperfect joins between each bolt, and with every swing, I snap the Skill's channels apart.

I use Fire Shield as a punt against my back to keep upright.

I gain more ground on him and his face contorts in disbelief as he realizes he cannot push me back.

* * *

The nobles fall silent. They see not just a duel but a storm made flesh, two monsters locked in struggle. Some forget to breathe. Sir Renquell stands at the rail, his hands white-knuckled on the stone, eyes fixed on every move. Lord Clearwater does not sit. He stands tall, watching, as the fate of his city hangs on the edge of two blades.

* * *

The sky boils above the summit. Black clouds twist tighter and tighter as Veyl raises both hands, fingers hooked and bleeding, and the air splits with a sound that leaves every noble clutching their ears. The light that gathers between his palms is not red, not silver, but a dense, pulsing black, so thick it turns the world dim, so intense it makes every torch on the cliffs gutter out. Sparks coil in the air, streaks of lightning racing up his arms and down his chest, veins visible beneath his skin, glowing with a mad, poisonous light.

The storm roars. The cliff beneath us trembles as cracks race outward from Veyl's feet. The stones themselves vibrate, some splintering, some sinking as if the weight of the power would drive them into the earth.

Above Veyl's head, the black lightning gathers in a writhing spear, as thick as an ancient pine, so dark that even the shadow it casts seems to eat the sunlight. The air grows thin and cold. My wings fan open, each feather burning with its own fire, my horns shuddering as if the storm tries to tear them from my skull.

King Baalrek hisses, a rare sound of alarm in my mind.

You need to finish this now, or he'll burn out half the mountain. If you don't, you'll both die. This is your test, boy. Show them who you are.

I feel the heat rising through my Infernal Veins.

My horns pulse, flame shrouding my shoulders, my wings stretching wide.

I plant both feet, the ground splintering beneath me. I fuse the two swords, locking them together into one large, long, and heavy blade, much larger than the one I summoned against the snake, the edge dark as midnight and rimmed with Black Flame.

The bolt thickens. The lightning's surface ripples, crawling with veins of purple and streaks of dull gold, as if the essence of every mana type Veyl ever touched is being burned to fuel this one, final strike. The spear grows, its tip churning, sucking in stray embers and shreds of shattered stone, until the head of it hovers right above his hands. The sky groans with it.

I feel the air being pulled away from my lungs, the pressure threatening to flatten me to the ground. For a heartbeat, I see Felisia slumped at the edge of the cliff, body limp on the throne, hair lifted by static. If that bolt drops uncontrolled, she will burn before she even wakes. I clench my teeth. I will not let her die. I will not let him have this.

I take a step forward.

The Grimoire blooms behind my eyes—its vision overlays the world, mapping the flow of energy. Lines of force spiral from Veyl's hands to the base of the bolt. Weak points glimmer in blue and gold, faults in the lattice where his mana control slips, where channels cross and threaten to implode.

The Grimoire paints the flaw.

[Scan Completed: Mourning Bolt (Forbidden Technique)]

[Flaws have been analyzed.]

The Grimoire shows me that at the very heart of the Mourning Bolt there's a single, spinning node near the base, flickering with unstable energy, too much mana twisting in a single spot.

The Grimoire also provide the steps to destroy the Mourning Bolt.

Strike the third coil.

Sever the primary anchor.

All the force will shatter outward.

I launch myself at high-speed against Veyl, which forces him to cut the casting short and cast the terrifying spell.

Everything slows. The black lightning carves a path through the air, warping it, devouring light as it comes. I feel the Grimoire's guidance pulsing in my limbs.

I channel every last drop of power down the blade. My body locks into perfect position, every muscle aligned, every vein throbbing with Infernal mana.

NOW. Third coil. Primary anchor.

I thrust the blade forward, its edge sliding through the exact point the Grimoire shows. I drive it into the heart of the Mourning Bolt as it forms, before the spell can fully stabilize.

The blade passes through the swirling black lattice. The Mourning Bolt lets out a screech, a sound so sharp the stone cracks at my feet. The coil splits. The anchor shatters.

The Mourning Bolt unravels.

Lightning explodes sideways, bursting into thousands of threads that snap and vanish before they can find a target. The sky flashes, turning day to midnight and back again. Thunder rolls across the mountains, so loud it silences every noble on the cliffs, so powerful it flattens the grass and throws up sheets of dust and pebbles.

Veyl staggers, stunned, staring at his hands, which are now nothing but charred stumps. His face is white with disbelief. He tries to summon another spark, but the lightning is gone, his mana spent, his soul drained by the forbidden Skill.

I stand above him, the fused sword burning in my grip, the Black Flame licking at the edges. My wings spread, flames rippling down their length. The hush that follows is absolute. No one breathes. Even King Baalrek does not speak.

Veyl looks up, jaw working, terror mixing with rage. "You—you can't—no—how—?"

"It's over, Veyl. You lost. Surrender, or you'll die."

He spits blood and stumbles forward, madness in his eyes. He swings a broken arm at my face, but the blow has no strength.

I grab him by the throat, lifting him so his feet leave the ground. Infernal power floods my arm. The flame crawls up his jaw, heat scorching the skin. I squeeze, my voice cutting through the silence.

"This is your last chance. Yield."

He tries to stab me with the last bit of fused metal in his destroyed grip. He barely grazes me.

He spits in my face, a final insult.

I let the Black Flame surge through me.

The sword glows darker than the night.

I drive it through his chest.

The fire erupts out his back, and for a heartbeat, the flames spiral up, consuming everything. Veyl screams, his voice raw, then breaks into a howl, until even that is lost.

When I drop his body, only a blackened husk remains.

The summit stands, battered and broken, but Felisia still breathes, untouched at the edge of it.

The silence that follows stretches on and on.

* * *

Nobody moves among the nobles.

Lord Clearwater breaks the silence. His voice shakes, but he makes himself heard. "Bring healers. Now. Felisia and Adrienne need aid. The trial is over. Jacob Cloud stands victorious. The results of this duel will be recognized by all, under law and oath."

The nobles finally stir.

Guildmaster Dorn bows his head, eyes fixed on the ground, every bit of arrogance burned away. Other lords and ladies follow, some in terror, others in respect.

* * *

King Baalrek, deep in my mind, gives a grudging nod.

Now you're worthy of the name Infernal. But you've made more enemies than you can count, boy. You will never return to the world you knew. From this day forward, you walk another road. Remember that.

I stand above the remains of Veyl, the Black Flame sword still held high. The light from the blade casts long shadows over the ruined ring, and for a single heartbeat, I let the world see me.

I raise my sword above my head and shout, my voice ringing through the shattered summit.

Let them hear.

Let them know the name of Jacob Cloud.

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