The Final Duel in Ainuwail
The early dawn still clung to the world when Muran’s voice pulled Vesta’s gaze from the distant horizon.
“You’re up early.”
It was barely morning. Vesta turned toward the Sword Saint.
“Still sleeping in, huh?”
Muran’s teasing tone carried no real malice. Anyone who didn’t know her would have thought she was scolding a peer. “Wouldn’t call it sleeping in if I’m fighting today,” Vesta answered, pressing his cheek to the cool ground.
“Habit since the old days. Always up before a match.”
“Then you’re tense.” “Guilty.”
She had no reason to pretend otherwise. “Understandable. A gladiator’s life is life or death.”
Muran’s eyes softened as she recalled his title. “The arena for you isn’t just a fight—it’s the moment death and survival decide everything.”
Vesta knew the truth. “If I’m the one stepping onto that sand, I don’t get to sleep in.”
A man who fought for his life couldn’t simply rest.
“I knew this wasn’t the Imperial Capital,” he said calmly. “But the habit stuck.”
Muran snorted. “You never left the arena, did you? The chains are still there.”
Direct. Unforgiving. She always hit the mark without hesitation. Vesta gave her a sidelong glance.
“…I know.”
“You’re in Ainuwail now.”
“I do know.”
The wind carried a different rhythm here. The people around him were different. The things the Empire couldn’t touch were right here, beside him.
“No, you don’t get it,” Muran continued, voice steady as if reciting ancient truth. “This is Ainuwail. We stand on the vast steppe. People call that land the Prairie.”
She listed the facts as if they were obvious. “There’s nothing sadder than being chained to the land you’re born into.”
Vesta stayed silent. He had never expected Muran to offer counsel. During their training she had always been an eccentric swordsman obsessed with the blade itself. But now she looked like a wandering sage who had walked the endless steppe for decades, and her words carried the weight of ancient wisdom.
“Master Muran.”
“Noona.”
“Sister Muran.”
“Go on then.”
“Will I win today?”
Vesta hesitated. The question felt wrong in his own mouth.
*This isn’t like me.*
What would he do if she predicted defeat? Would he throw the match like a coward? Or the opposite?
*Can I actually win?*
The unease stirred, and he shoved it down hard.
*I don’t believe in those superstitions or prophecies.*
He had survived without them.
“No,” he answered.
“What? You stopped in the middle of talking?”
“It was pointless.”
“Hmm. Want to guess what I was about to say? Thinking someone else would win?”
Vesta grimaced. Her instincts were too sharp; talking to her felt dangerous.
“Want me to tell you?”
“No.”
Vesta cut her off cleanly. “Victory and defeat are both mine. I’ll carry the weight myself.”
Muran’s gladiator’s stubbornness made her smile. *
Vesta had not entered another tournament since toppling Altangherel Tei. No more victories were needed, and no one had challenged him.
His record remained nine wins, no defeats.
“This is the last one,” he muttered, fists clenched. Yes. This would be the final fight at Ainuwail—either he carried the flame forward or it burned out.
Before strapping on his helmet, he swept sweat from his neck. The beads were heavy, proof of how tight his muscles already felt.
Odd. Nothing was at stake—no life, no grand mission. His only goal had been to bring Tei down. Yet the tension had only grown tighter.
*Why is it worse now?*
He understood. *Facing Attila… is that what scares me?*
Clashing with a warrior of Attila’s size meant more than bruises. *So why am I still here?*
Not for glory, not for coin. Still, he stepped into the arena.
“Maybe you just want to crash into him…”
Vesta had never been the kind of gladiator who lived for the clash itself. Accepting a duel for the sake of impact alone felt impossible. There had to be a deeper reason.
“…Forget it. It doesn’t matter now.”
He forced his mind clear and pulled the helmet over his head, striding toward the sand.
“Baatar! Baatar! Baatar!”
The stands were already roaring. Elves cheered his name with fierce pride. A surprising number of centaurs joined in, stamping hooves and shouting.
Vesta raised a hand in thanks to them, then walked straight toward his opponent— the largest male he had ever faced, larger than any centaur he had met.
Attila.
*
“I’ve been waiting to see that little runt’s nose get broken,” Orion growled, chewing dried meat. “Guess today’s the day.”
“What?” Lycaon raised an eyebrow. “Your face looks a little dull today.”
“Maybe so.” Orion’s tone matched Lycaon’s dry expression. Unlike the man who always watched Vesta with hungry eyes.
“I don’t know much about swords, but my eyes see things. That kid’s skill is real—young, but dangerous. Still… he can’t beat the boss.”
Lycaon gave no agreement, no denial. “Bet again?” Orion asked. “Same stakes?”
“No.” “Why? Losing your nerve? Face is all wrong, and ‘not today’ doesn’t even make sense.”
“Must be a misunderstanding.”
Lycaon spoke without inflection. “I don’t know what my face is doing, but it’s not because I don’t expect the fight. Or because I can’t predict the outcome.”
He stroked his chin, eyes gleaming. “There’s something else.”
“Something else?”
“Both of them aren’t ready to clash yet.”
*So the match won’t happen?*
Lycaon’s gaze held an odd certainty. It looked like madness to Orion.
“What nonsense? They’re standing in the arena right now. The fight’s already started.”
“We’ll see.”
Orion turned his attention back to the field, expression puzzled.
*Both fighters remain undefeated! Power that subdues, strength that demands respect!*
The announcement was reaching its final line. The referee would declare the bout beginning at any moment.
“Look, it’s starting,” Lycaon said.
He didn’t agree.
“No, look up.”
Before Lycaon could finish, a shadow fell across the entire arena.
*
“Dragon!”
A creature that defied every label—monster, beast, or predator. A separate species all its own.
Massive wings. A snake-like body. Yet unlike a snake, it possessed sturdy legs and arms. Huge. Long. Thick. Dense. Hard. Tough.
A fire dragon.
“Why a dragon?” The humans who could kill orcs with their bare fists couldn’t hide their fear. Women who could fell horses with a single arrow felt small.
One fact alone proved it: the dragon was flying low.
A life that looked like a miracle in its own right beat its wings, stirring a storm of wind.
“Archers! Draw!”
Ashtien narrowed her eyes, Keshik loyalty binding her soldiers to the order. She knew the dragon’s purpose was unknown—even to elves, it was an alien life. Compared to the gap between human and elf, it meant nothing.
Ashtien planned to strike the instant she saw claws or jaws aimed at the ground. *Must not let it open its mouth.*
One breath of flame would end everything. Among everything she knew, nothing on this earth could withstand a dragon’s fire.
*
“An aerial dragon.”
An old orc patriarch watched the beast from the shelter of a rock cave.
“It’s time.”
He turned his gaze back inside the cave. Another orc sat there, cross-legged. A strange, formidable figure—scarred beyond recognition, yet unbroken.
The worst scars were the burns. They still looked raw, as if still smoldering.
A human woman knelt beside him, massaging his shoulders. The orc accepted her care in silence.
The patriarch spoke. “The time for flight has come.”
Lead your people. The Wolf King.
“Narinhoon.”
---
Flame Barrier Formation
Vesta’s blood ignited. Not the flame of ordinary fire, but a spirit flame born of his own life force.
He poured every drop into the circle, sweat and blood mixing on the sand as he stood inside the roaring barrier.
The heat clawed at his skin. His heart hammered against his ribs, threatening to shatter.
One moment longer. One more step.
Then the Spirit Princess’s gentle light broke through the chaos, saving him before heart failure claimed him.