Chapter 8 Duel
The massive wooden gate of Rotengen groaned open, its hinges protesting as Marek stepped out, his worn armor glinting in the harsh midday sun. The cheers of the city's defenders echoed faintly behind him, but Marek didn't look back. His focus was entirely on the figure standing across the battlefield: Thuram, the notorious three-star knight, towering in his pristine armor, his expression a mixture of contempt and amusement. The air between them was thick with tension, the weight of past betrayals and future violence hanging heavy over the clearing.
Marek's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drum fueling his determination. His mind flashed back to the day he had found his wife and daughter, lifeless and cold, their bodies brutalized by bandits. He had buried them with his own hands, vowing then and there to avenge their deaths by wiping out every last one of those who called themselves bandits. His hatred had become his fuel, his purpose. And now, as he faced Thuram—the man who led these marauders through the northern regions, burning and pillaging without mercy—his anger flared hot and fierce.
Thuram smirked as Marek approached. "Well, well, if it isn't old Marek," he sneered, his voice carrying easily across the field. "Still clinging to life, are you? I thought you would have crawled into the ground by now, like the rat you are. Or maybe you're just here to join your dead family. What were their names again?" He laughed, a cruel sound that cut through Marek's resolve like a blade.
Rage exploded in Marek's chest, and with a roar, he charged, his sword arcing down in a deadly swing. Thuram parried effortlessly, steel clashing against steel in a shower of sparks. They circled each other, swords clanging and feet shuffling across the dirt. Marek's strikes were powerful but strained, each blow driven by a burning desire for revenge, yet weighed down by years of hardship and loss. Thuram, younger and stronger, countered with swift, calculated movements, his confidence growing with every successful block and parry.
"Is this it?" Thuram taunted between strikes, his face twisted into a mocking grin. "Is this all that's left of the great Marek? swinging a rusty sword? You should have stayed behind those walls, old man. At least then you'd have a wall to hide behind."
Marek grunted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His muscles burned, his arms felt like lead, but he refused to give in. Behind him, beyond the walls, he could still hear the faint shouts of his comrades—encouraging, pleading, believing in him. "Come on, Marek! You can do it!" they cried, their voices mingling with the ghosts of his past, urging him to keep fighting.
From afar, Lenny watched the duel with intense focus, his eyes narrowing as he saw Marek beginning to falter. "You can't die yet, old man," Lenny whispered under his breath, his fingers already weaving a pattern in the air. His lips moved softly, chanting an incantation in an ancient tongue, and the earth seemed to respond to his command. Deep beneath Thuram's feet, the ground trembled as a thick, gnarled root began to snake its way up through the soil, twisting and coiling like a living thing.
Thuram lunged at Marek, a vicious downward slash that Marek barely deflected. But as Thuram prepared for another attack, his foot caught on something. His eyes widened in confusion as the root coiled around his leg, tightening like a noose. "What the—?" he barked, glancing down in bewilderment.
Marek didn't hesitate. With a roar fueled by rage and desperation, he lunged forward, driving his sword deep into Thuram's stomach. The blade pierced armor and flesh, sinking in with a sickening crunch. Thuram gasped, staggering back, the color draining from his face. His hands clutched at the wound, blood seeping through his fingers.
"What… is this?" Thuram stammered, his voice laced with both pain and shock. He glanced down again, seeing the root that had ensnared him. But Marek was relentless, driven by the ghosts of his loved ones, by the voices that screamed for justice in his mind. He pressed the attack, raining down blows that Thuram struggled to parry.
Thuram, desperate, tried to draw upon his aura—a purple light began to shimmer around his form, a last-ditch effort to turn the tide. But Lenny, still watching from his perch, wasn't about to let that happen. He whispered another spell, and the root tightened once more, jerking Thuram's leg just as he attempted to channel his energy. His aura faltered, the light sputtering out like a dying flame.
Marek saw his chance. With a swift, brutal strike, he drove his sword into Thuram's throat. Blood sprayed, hot and crimson, as Thuram's eyes widened in shock. He made a gurgling sound, a desperate attempt to speak, but no words came. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his once-proud armor now stained with the blood of his defeat.
Marek stood over Thuram's corpse, panting heavily, his sword still raised. He could feel it now, that someone had helped him, the unseen force that had tipped the scales in his favor. He looked back toward the walls, the soldiers cheering loud.
Marek, still breathing hard, lowered his sword, his eyes lingering on Thuram's body. He had won, but he could not shake the feeling that something beyond his skill had aided him today. Yet, there was no time to dwell on it. Rotengen was safe, for now, but he knew more battles lay ahead.
As he turned back toward the city gates, the bandits outside the walls murmured in shock and fear, staring at the imposing walls and the body of their fallen leader.