Urban Valor Chapter 3
[Chapter 3]
Written by Parade
“Let the show begin(3)”
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“En Garde”
Paragon surged forward, electricity crackling over his armor, aiming to close the distance.
“Squad, keep him contained!” he barked, blue-white arcs spilling from his gauntlets as he readied an Arc Fist.
But the Marquis was already in motion. He swept his cane in a grand arc, and a contract shimmered golden red in the air—Binding Oath: Namebound Prohibition.
His voice cut through the chaos with chilling authority: “Let us not descend into rabble. Paragon, I propose a proper duel—one champion against another, as tradition demands.”
A contract shimmered into existence, golden-red script weaving through the air and forming a glowing circle around the Marquis and Paragon. The masked villain’s gaze fixed on the hero, his tone absolute.
“By the law of the Gentlemen’s Duel, you and I shall face each other alone. None may interfere—friend or foe—until the appointed time has passed or one of us yields. Those who break this oath will suffer the consequences.”
The golden-red script circled Paragon, its weight settling on his shoulders. He clenched his fists, feeling electricity crackle beneath his gauntlets as the contract’s magic pressed against his will.
He glanced at Kinetica and the squad. To his shock, Kinetica—halfway through a burst toward the hostages—was suddenly frozen, her limbs heavy, her eyes wide with frustration. Commander Chen’s team tried to raise their carbines, but the weapons hung useless in their hands, visors flickering as systems locked down. The contract’s force was absolute.
I can’t rely on backup, Paragon realized, jaw tight. Five minutes. Just him and me. If I falter, everyone here pays the price.
He drew a steadying breath, stepping forward as the Marquis bowed with impeccable grace, rapier sliding free from his cane.
“I accept,” Paragon said, his voice carrying across the ballroom.
The Marquis’s mask seemed to smile as the contract sealed with a pulse of golden-red light, the duel’s boundaries set.
For the next five minutes, only Paragon’s resolve—and power—would stand between Light City and the villain before him.
Cameras hidden in the ballroom adjusted their focus and zoomed in on the Maruis and paragon, zooming in for the fight, while the screen in the plaza switched feeds to show the audience.
The Marquis dipped his head in a final, elegant bow. “En garde, Paragon.”
With a flick of the wrist, his rapier flashed—silver and scarlet in the fractured light, the mask’s surface bleeding to a cold blue as the blade came free. Paragon advanced, electricity surging through his veins, blue-and-white arcs dancing over his armor. The ballroom’s lights dimmed as he pulled from the grid.
The first clash rang through the ballroom like a gunshot—metal against crackling energy. The rapier’s edge sparked on contact, the Marquis’s wrist snapping back from the force. Style against raw force. Paragon absorbed it without breaking stride and pressed forward.
Every movement was charged with unspoken tension. Paragon threw a thunderous Arc Fist—the kind that had cracked reinforced concrete—but the Marquis spun aside, cane-rapier redirecting the blow with practiced precision. The punch cratered the marble where it landed, a spiderweb of cracks spreading from the point of impact.
“Such power,” the Marquis murmured, “but tell me—can you match refinement?”
Paragon gritted his teeth, feeling the contract’s pressure at the edge of each motion. No matter how he angled his attacks, the boundaries of the duel pressed in, forcing him to meet the Marquis on his terms.
Beyond the crimson boundary, Kinetica watched in mounting frustration.
He's just… holding Paragon there. That contract—it's not just magic, it’s like a force of will pressing on all of us.
She tried to dart forward, kinetic energy humming in her muscles, but it felt like running through molasses. She and the squad edged closer, step by agonizing step, guns ready. The closer they got to the glowing ring, the heavier their limbs became.
He’s controlling the whole room, Kinetica realized, eyes narrowed behind her visor. Not just with power — he’s setting the rules, and we’re all stuck playing his game. And the worst part was how little it seemed to cost him.
He wasn’t sweating. He wasn’t watching the clock. He looked like a man who had all the time in the world, which meant he either knew something they didn’t, or he simply didn’t care how this ended for him.
Both options were terrifying.
Chen’s squad exchanged tense glances, weapons raised but useless. One officer tried to fire a restraint pod; it fizzled out, the launcher’s lights going dark. Another tried to call out, but her voice died in her throat as an invisible pressure clamped down.
Inside the ring, Paragon surged again, pulling a fresh current from the ballroom’s wiring—he felt it rush up through the floor, through his boots, into his frame like a second heartbeat. Static Shield crackled to life, blocking a precise thrust from the Marquis’s blade.
The rapier skidded off the field and left a scorch mark on the marble. The villain pressed the attack, moving with balletic grace, every gesture a blend of artistry and menace—but each time steel met electricity, it was the steel that suffered.
Kinetica’s fists clenched at her sides. Five minutes. That’s all Paragon gets. If he loses—no, I won’t let that happen.
But as she tried to push forward, the contract’s magic forced her to a halt, just feet from the hostages, helpless to do anything but watch the duel unfold.
Inside the circle, the world had shrunk to two: hero and villain, locked in a battle of might, wit, and unwavering rules.
The duel crackled with tension. Paragon’s fists sparked with city-fed electricity as he pressed the attack. The Marquis moved with elegance, his rapier flickering in precise arcs—but a slight hesitation betrayed that not every motion was as effortless as it appeared.
“You rely so much on brute force, Paragon,” the Marquis taunted, voice smooth but tinged with strain. With a formal flick of his cane, he intoned:
“By the law of immediate constraint: for three seconds, you shall bear the weight of guilt.”
A pulse of golden-red contract script snapped into the air. Contract Trap: For the next three seconds, Paragon is heavy as lead.
Paragon’s punch slowed, arm dragging like it was pulling through wet concrete—the contract’s weight pressing down on something that didn’t normally yield. His muscles didn’t tire. His bones didn’t ache. But the rules did something his body couldn’t fight off the same way
. The Marquis’s follow-up was just a fraction late—his eyes flicked to the script as if surprised by its duration or strength, or perhaps by the fact that Paragon was still moving at all.
The golden-red glow faded, and Paragon twisted free, scoring a glancing blow that cracked against the Marquis’s ribs. Even glancing, the impact was enough—the Marquis was thrown back two steps, coat swirling, and for just a moment his breath left him. He pressed a hand to his side before composing himself, the motion almost fast enough to look deliberate.
The Marquis rose from one knee slowly, deliberately, dusting off his coat with two fingers as though Paragon’s blow had been a minor inconvenience. The mask had gone still — no readable expression, no flicker of anger.
That was the part that made the hostages flinch. A man in pain who showed nothing was a man who had decided pain wasn’t worth acknowledging. He tapped his cane on the marble and, with a perfectly level bow, declared:
“With perfect etiquette, I request: let gravity weigh upon my adversary.”
The mask darkened to deep violet as the gravity contract took hold. The floor beneath Paragon’s boots seemed to double in mass—his knees buckled for half a second, teeth grinding. But the effect wavered.
The edges of the field were unstable, and the ritual was not quite executed perfectly. Paragon gritted his teeth and drove forward, each step a battle against the weight pressing down on him, sweat beading at his jaw.
The electricity crackled harder the more he pushed—his enhanced body converting the resistance into fuel, each labored step feeding more current into his frame. He landed a solid blow square in the Marquis’s chest. The villain didn’t slide—he was launched, skidding across the marble and catching himself on one knee, coat splayed, the composed mask of his face flickering toward something rawer before locking back into place.
One of the cameras tracked the movement smoothly, pivoting to keep both fighters in frame.
For a moment, the villain adjusted his cravat, mask unreadable, but his grip on the cane was a touch too tight, betraying his effort.
“Excellent, Paragon. You’re making this… educational.”
He tried another quick contract, raising his cane and reciting,
“By my word, may your vision blur and your judgment falter—briefly.”
Two seconds of blurred vision. The script misfired, flickering in and out. Paragon blinked, vision swimming only briefly before his armor’s sensors compensated.
Outside the circle, Kinetica watched, mind racing. He’s clever—and dangerous—but not invincible. Everything he does has a rule, a phrase, a ritual. And if he slips up, his power slips too. Paragon just has to break his rhythm…
Inside the ring, the duel pressed on—each technique marked by a ritual or rule, every moment a test not just of power and cunning, but of quick adaptation and unwavering discipline.
The magical timer edged closer to zero, and the duel erupted into a storm of power. Paragon’s armor blazed as he narrowed his stance, electricity coursing from his boots to his fists. He slammed his gauntlet to the marble—”Let’s light things up!”—and a bolt arced out, striking a fallen chandelier and sending a cascade of sparks across the floor.
He drew on the city grid, channeling energy into the shattered crystal.
“Full overload—scatter this!”
The charged debris erupted, a hailstorm of electrified shards streaking toward the Marquis—each shard carrying enough current to knock out a city block.
At the same moment, Paragon leapt above the maelstrom, fists wreathed in lightning so dense the air around them turned white, ready to crash down with a double-fisted blow that would have ended the fight if it landed.
The Marquis didn’t flinch. Didn’t brace. The hailstorm of electrified shards screamed toward him and he stood completely still, watching them come, and tapped his cane to the ground at the last possible moment —
“By etiquette’s decree, let balance betray my opponent.”
The marble rippled as gravity twisted, sending Paragon’s leap veering off course. He landed hard—but the impact that would have shattered a normal person’s shoulder barely registered. He felt the floor crack beneath him on contact, pushed off it, and was back on his feet before the dust settled. He shouted,
“Static Shield!”
A shimmering force field sprang up around him, absorbing the worst of the Marquis’s counterattack. Paragon powered forward, combining his shield with an explosive strike to drive the villain back.
The Marquis bowed with icy composure, voice sharp:
“By the law of fleeting consequence, let his sight falter!”
A flash of golden-red script blurred Paragon’s vision—the room smearing into light and shadow, his equilibrium tilting sideways. He swung blind. The punch connected with the floor and detonated it, a crater blooming outward, debris scattering across the ballroom in a wide arc. He felt nothing in his fist. He blinked hard, vision snapping back.
The final seconds bled away—Paragon relentless, the Marquis fraying. Paragon chained lightning, shields, and kinetic blows with the steady rhythm of someone who hadn’t hit his ceiling yet; the Marquis countered with gravity and poise, but his movements had grown fractionally slower, each contract taking a visible toll, the elegance now something he was fighting to maintain rather than something that came naturally. Then the timer’s chime rang out, and the Marquis was already spinning, cane striking the floor before the sound had faded.
“By the privilege of escape, let the world turn on its head!”
Gravity inverted for him alone; he sprang to the ceiling, boots anchoring to plaster, cloak dangling down. From beneath his coat, he drew silver twin pistols—and the mask changed again, the violet draining away and replaced by a sharp, hot amber that caught the ballroom’s fractured light like a struck match. Voice ringing out:
“My compliments to your persistence. But every act requires a grand finale!”
He fired a volley of subduing rounds—not just at Paragon, but at the squad and shattered chandeliers, sending glass and bullets ricocheting wildly across the ballroom. Kinetica lunged, shielding the hostages as shards exploded around her. Chen’s team dove for cover, blue-lit carbines scattering as the rounds slammed into their positions.
Paragon, sensing the escape, reached out—not just to the ballroom now, but further. The grid beneath the street. The emergency lighting in the stairwells. Every idle current in a three-block radius answered, pouring into him at once, the charge so dense his armor crackled white, and the hair on everyone’s arm stood on end.
“This ends now!”
He hurled a city-powered lightning storm straight at the Marquis’s perch, shattering the ceiling in a deafening blast. The force blew out chunks of plaster and crystal, dust and smoke swirling in a blinding cloud.
The cameras cut to black the moment the blast hit—not from damage. A clean signal termination. Whatever Light City’s plaza had just watched, the Marquis had decided that was the end of the show.
“Damn it, he cut the feed!” cursed Commander Chen.
The Marquis tipped his hat—voice echoing in the chaos.
“By the rule of vanishing acts, let the curtain fall for now!”
He let gravity right itself and dropped through the confusion, smoke, and falling debris masking his escape. For a moment, wild energy, ricocheting bullets, and glass threatened everyone in the room.
When the dust finally settled, the Marquis was gone—leaving only his laughter lingering in the charged air, and Light City’s finest battered, breathless, and determined for the next encounter.
In the dark of the tunnel, he stopped. He pulled the mask off and pressed his back against the wall. Just for a second. Just to breathe. He hugged his side lightly with his other arm. Paragon’s hit cracked his ribs, making it hard to breathe sharply.
Two out of three.
He’d had a week. One week from the moment the Codex dropped the quest into his hands like a stone into still water. Find three. Punish them. Don’t fail. The rules were simple. The timeline was not.
He’d never done anything like this before. The voice he used up there—smooth, measured, theatrical—wasn’t him. It was something he’d put on that morning the same way he’d put on the coat. He didn’t talk like that. He didn’t move like that.
The bow, the rapier, the whole performance—he’d spent three days practicing in a mirror because he had no idea what else to do. The Codex hadn’t given him instructions on how to act. Just who to find. And what to do to them.
Grayson was done. Halden was done. Voss wasn’t.
He put the mask back on. Straightened slowly, grimacing. Checked the inside of his coat—the Codex, still there. Still waiting.
He had time. Not much. But enough. Voss would be found.
He had to be.
But that’s not where this started.
This is.
He escaped, Paragon thought, chest heaving with adrenaline and frustration. But next time, I’ll have a counter for every rule he’s got.