Flashy Romance Fantasy Swordplay vs. Blood Cult Swordsmanship
Kyle hooked the sword fallen to the ground with his toe and drew it to him. Clink—it settled into his right hand. Blood still dripped from his left arm. His side wound throbbed with every movement. But a smile played on Kyle's lips.
The sharper the pain grew, the more a thick, blood-red energy writhed deep within him. He'd definitely burned through stamina in the fight with Roman. His breath came ragged, his muscles heavy. And yet his body brimmed with even more power than before.
The blood-red energy flowed along the blade. Shooo—it was still weak. His aura incomplete as well. But it was undeniably denser than when he'd faced Roman. Kyle savored the sensation and grinned.
'Nice. This is the feeling.'
Wounds were weaknesses. But for him, injuries were fuel fed straight to his strength. The more he hurt, the stronger he got. That was the power of the Blood God's Power.
A power made for battle, through and through.
Baren Kreuz lowered into stance, sword pointed forward. Unlike Roman, he didn't charge recklessly. His eyes were sharp. But beneath them lurked thick wariness. He'd seen exactly how Roman had crumbled moments ago.
Kyle flicked the tip of his blade lightly.
"What're you waiting for?"
He snickered. "Weren't you gonna show me some knightly honor?"
Baren's brow furrowed. But he forced it smooth and replied, "Such crude provocations won't work on me."
"Yeah?"
Kyle's foot pressed against the ground. Preparing to charge.
"Then come find out for yourself."
Thud—Kyle closed the distance first. Red energy spread over his blade. Baren's blue aura whipped out to meet it.
Clang!
The swords and auras collided. Baren's arm budged ever so slightly.
"……!"
His eyes widened in shock. It was utterly unexpected. By sheer aura quantity, he should have the edge. No question. And yet... something was off. Kyle's sword wasn't light. Nor was it brute force trying to smash him down.
In the instant of clash, the pressure twisted. The block he'd aimed for— the sword slipped past. The flow he'd redirected—it dove right back in.
Clang! Clang! Scraaape!
Short bursts of exchange followed. Kyle's sword ignored textbook lines. The tip grazed his wrist, then snapped toward the elbow. Block that, and it dropped to the knee. Deflect again, and it slid up the blade to cling to his shoulder line.
Baren gritted his teeth. 'What the hell is this swordplay?'
It wasn't beautiful. No elegance. But it was disgustingly dangerous.
Kyle caught his expression and grinned. "Why the face?" His blade shoved Baren's at an angle. "Not pretty enough for you?"
"Shut your mouth!"
Baren swung. Blue aura tore through the air. Plenty of power there. Kyle didn't meet it head-on. He twisted his blade, offsetting the clash point. As Baren's sword veered aside, Kyle's foot slipped inside.
Baren retreated in a hurry. Get grabbed like Roman, and it was over. Smart call. But the retreat cost him momentum.
Kyle pressed immediately.
Clang! "Ngh!"
Baren's sword wavered. The spectator seats stirred.
"Did he just... push him back?"
"Sir Baren?"
"Baren should have the aura advantage, though?"
Confusion laced the young knights' voices. Valgrim's eyes flashed from the upper seats. "Hah." He chuckled shortly. "So it's real."
Nearby elder knights swallowed hard at his words. Valgrim stroked his chin beard, gazing down at the arena. "That's how a sword should be."
He grinned in satisfaction, like he'd witnessed true swordsmanship. "It moves to cut, bends to survive. Not swung for show."
Unlike Valgrim, Roderick's face hardened. His gaze tracked Kyle's blade. Twisting, probing, flowing. Then savagely biting at any gap. It was far from the majestic swordplay expected of the famed Hartvalt knights.
Roderick ground his teeth. 'Filthy bastard.'
Karon's sword was different from that vulgar style. Straight, proud, naturally commanding respect. That was the Duke's sword, in Roderick's mind. Proper. But Kyle's? Unacceptable. No dignity. Too barbaric.
The young knights seemed to agree. "Is that swordsmanship?"
"It's straight-up thuggery."
"Fitting for a wastrel."
Jeers rippled out. Kyle heard them and just laughed. Not worth his time.
Then Baren's blade thrust straight at him. Kyle twisted his torso. The tip grazed near his side wound.
Drip—blood seeped anew.
'Perfect. Fresh fuel.'
But Kyle's eyes sharpened. He raked his blade up Baren's.
Scraaaape! The metallic screech dragged long. Baren clenched his jaw at the shock jolting his arm. Somehow, Kyle was growing stronger by the second.
"Where the hell did a street-rat hack like you learn that?!"
Kyle snickered. "Figured it out myself. I'm just that good."
"Don't spout nonsense!"
"And you?"
Kyle shoved his blade forward. Clang! Baren blocked. Kyle's lip curled.
"Who taught you that flashy, pathetic excuse for swordplay?"
Baren's face flushed red. "How dare you...!"
Blue aura roiled wildly along his blade. "Insult the sword of the great Hartvalt Duke's Golden Lion Knight Order?!"
"Golden Lion." Kyle chuckled softly. Even the order's name reeked of childish flair. 'If you're gonna go lion, at least put it on an island. Tsk.'
His blade slid along Baren's. "How many years you train?"
"Longer than a wastrel like you could dream."
Anger edged Baren's voice. "Ten years."
Kyle's eyes chilled. "A wastrel like me, huh."
Short words. But Baren's shoulders stiffened. Realization dawned—he'd said too much.
Kyle clicked his tongue. "Guess dogs who bite their master pick up bad habits."
His blade dipped low. "Even your mouth's gone rotten."
Baren ground his teeth. "My lord is Young Master Karon."
The arena air turned icy. Listening knights flinched. Most backed Karon, sure. But saying it outright like this? Bold.
Kyle's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah?" His voice dropped. "Already swearing fealty to someone who ain't even Duke yet."
He snorted. "Loyalty's commendable, at least."
Baren gripped his sword tighter. "Young Master Karon is the one to lead the North. Filth like you can't stand in his way."
Some knights held their breath. Too blatant. But Baren stood firm. He believed he was righteous. His loyalty nothing to be ashamed of.
Kyle just laughed. "Makes it even funnier, then."
His foot shifted slowly. "That a dog trained ten years under Karon..."
Red energy flickered at his blade's tip. "...is getting pushed back by a sword I picked up a week ago."
Baren's face twisted. "Shut up!"
He swung wide. Blue aura blazed fiercely. Rage-fueled strike. Power. Speed. But too honest.
Kyle had waited for it. He moved like lightning.
Swish—Thud.
His foot pinned Baren's exactly, locking his step. "Guh?!"
Baren's balance shook. Kyle's blade sliced up at an angle. It didn't clash auras head-on. It twisted slyly, targeting the arm precisely.
Slash—blood sprayed.
"Gaaahhh!"
Baren's right elbow split deep below. His grip failed. Sword clattered to the sand.
Kyle sneered at him. "So damn predictable. Can't even block that?"
Then he headbutted. Crack!
"Guhk!"
Baren's head snapped back. Nose exploded in blood. Balance shattered.
Thud!
He crumpled backward. "My god!" "Even Sir Baren!"
As knights gasped at the fall, Kyle looked down at him. Step—step—
He approached. Crunch—his sole ground into Baren's dazed face.
"Ten years."
Kyle referenced his training time. "What a waste."
He lifted his leg. Then stomped down. Crunch!
The brutality stunned the knights. "Wh-what the hell are you doing?!" "Declare victory already! What is this?!" "Get your foot off Sir Baren now!"
Kyle ignored their protests. "Traitors and thieves who swear to Karon over the Duke's house while pocketing the Duke's pay."
He spoke coldly, loud enough for all to hear. "Separate from the duel, by authority of the eldest son, I execute this rebel."