Alexander stepped out of the corridor leading backstage, his breathing still not fully even, when he found that noble young man leaning his shoulder against a stone pillar, his polished sword hanging elegantly at his hip, that same mocking smile still fixed on his face.
He approached slowly, his steps deliberate, as if to show he wasn’t in any particular hurry, then spoke in a tone laced with mock admiration and a hint of condescension:
"Didn’t expect a farmhand to have such a cold hand... one clean strike, no hesitation. Genuinely interesting, for someone who’s probably held a plow more often than a sword."
Alexander looked at him calmly. He didn’t feel insulted the way the noble boy probably expected — closer to amused, if anything.
(He thinks his words will wound me? I’ve heard worse insults from boxing referees who deliberately tried to psych me out before I even stepped into the ring. I’m here to bury the failure that was Tai Hong, not to be bothered by the words of some rich kid who’s never actually lost anything in his life.)
"Maybe farmhands learn things noble tutors never teach," Alexander said with a calm smile. "Like how to fight without caring who’s watching."
The noble boy let out a short laugh, as though he’d enjoyed the comeback more than he expected.
"Name’s Richard, in case you plan on remembering it before I fight you one day."
"I’ll remember it," Alexander said, "because I like knowing the name of whoever I’m about to beat."
Richard studied him for a long moment, his eyes holding something closer to silent assessment than anger, then took one more step closer and lowered his voice slightly, as though sharing something with Alexander he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
"You’re the first person in a long time to make me actually curious. Most people I fight, I already know the outcome before I even raise my sword. You... I don’t know yet."
Then he turned and walked away without waiting for a reply, leaving behind a vague sense that this wouldn’t be their last meeting — and that Richard, for all his outward arrogance, had meant that last sentence more sincerely than he’d let on.
Alexander returned to his place among his family in the crowd, the voices around him still split between shock and admiration, but most of Scarbi’s own people had already started chanting his name with rising excitement, as though his sudden ruthlessness had transformed, in their eyes, into a mark of strength to be proud of rather than feared.
He sat down beside his father, the crowd around them loudly discussing that strike no one had seen coming. He felt his father’s hand pat his shoulder with familiar weight — not open pride, not reproach, but something caught between the two.
Alexander looked at him warily.
"Was that too harsh?"
The father shook his head slowly, his eyes still fixed on the empty arena ahead of them.
"In our time, taking off a hand in a duel isn’t strange, son. I’ve seen far worse in arenas much bigger than this one. What surprised me wasn’t the cruelty — it was the speed. I didn’t expect you to move that calmly in your first real duel."
Alexander couldn’t tell whether that sentence was praise or a veiled warning, but he chose to stay silent.
From the other side, he felt a light touch on the back of his hand and turned to find his mother had approached him quietly, her cold fingers resting on his skin a moment longer than usual, as though she weren’t just patting him but searching for something he himself couldn’t see. She said nothing, but her expression carried a faint unease she quickly tried to hide behind a fleeting smile, before pulling her hand back and returning to her seat in a strange silence he wasn’t used to from her.
(What did she just see? Was that touch checking on me, or reassuring herself?)
Alexander pushed the thought aside and turned his attention to Daron, who was still watching him with that same worried look from the arena, and said in a lower voice this time, trying to ease the heaviness of the silence between them:
"Why are you looking at me like that? Didn’t you turn an entire pig to ash in front of me just days ago without so much as blinking?"
Daron gave a faint smile that never reached his eyes.
"That pig didn’t have a family crying over it down south, Alexander. That’s the whole difference."
Alexander couldn’t find a fitting response to that, so he simply looked away toward the empty arena, where servants in plain clothes were still hurriedly washing away the traces of blood.
A short distance from his family’s seats, Alexander noticed a man in a simple clerical robe, standing among the rows of priests accompanying the Templars, his eyes still fixed on him since the end of the duel — a look unlike the rest of the crowd’s mere curiosity, closer to a quiet, deliberate scrutiny, as though comparing what he’d just seen against something written in his memory, or in one of his sacred texts. When their eyes briefly met, the man gave a courteous nod, then leaned toward another priest beside him, murmuring words that didn’t reach Alexander, while the other priest kept his own gaze fixed on him in turn.
(Is that just passing curiosity? Or are these people always on the lookout for anything strange — any speed that doesn’t fit a village boy who’s only trained for a single week?)
He felt a faint chill spread through his stomach, entirely different from that delicious warmth he’d felt moments earlier, but he quickly pushed the thought aside, trying to focus on the crowd’s cheers instead of the priests’ silent stares.
A few minutes passed before the referee announced the next duel, and this time the match belonged to Richard himself. The noble boy stood in the middle of the arena with his usual confidence, sword raised, waiting for his opponent. But things didn’t go as anyone expected; his opponent stood frozen on the other side for a long stretch of time, then suddenly announced his withdrawal amid the crowd’s astonishment, citing some old injury no one had ever heard mentioned before.
Murmurs of surprise rose from every direction, some speaking quietly of stories they’d heard about Richard before — duels that ended with unnatural speed, opponents who chose to withdraw rather than face him at all. It wasn’t real cowardice — it was cold calculation. Anyone who knew Richard’s reputation well preferred to walk away with their dignity intact rather than lose a hand the way Hendro just had.
(So he’s the one everyone’s afraid of, even before he raises his sword... no wonder he seemed so interested in me. He’s used to seeing fear in his opponents’ eyes before a fight even starts, not anticipation.)
Alexander noticed Richard didn’t smile with triumph at the news of the withdrawal — his face looked closer to bored than satisfied, as though this kind of easy win hadn’t given him any real feeling in a very long time.
While the crowd was still buzzing over the sudden withdrawal, Alexander felt a stare settle on him from a distance. He looked up to find Richard standing in the middle of the empty arena, looking directly at him — no smile this time, no mockery, just a silent look carrying something closer to serious appraisal, as though telling him without words: you’re the only one here who might give me what none of these others can.
Their eyes stayed locked for a moment longer than necessary, amid the crowd’s continuing noise around them, before Richard finally turned and walked off the field with calm steps, leaving Alexander alone with a vague feeling that this silent exchange carried the promise of a confrontation not yet written — one that might be the first time Alexander felt he was facing a real opponent, not just another easy obstacle on his road to glory.