Sayama Kotetsu, the Sword King of Suzu, stood before me, his simple, unadorned katana held in a two-handed grip. He was an old man, his body a roadmap of a hard life. But in his eyes, a cold, clean fire burned, the fire of a man with nothing left to lose.

And me. Ragnar Vhagar, the Tyrant of Aethelburg. A creature of the night, a king of monsters, a degenerate circus clown performing a high-wire act over a pit of my own making.

"Shall we begin?" I purred, my voice a low, mocking baritone. I held my spear, Gungnir, in a loose, one-handed grip, a picture of arrogant, contemptuous ease.

He did not reply.

He simply moved.

BOOM!

The ground exploded as he became a blur of motion, a phantom of impossible speed that made the air itself scream in protest.

He was not a man anymore. He was a force of nature. Vengeance.

He was upon me.

His blade was a whisper of steel in the dim, pre-dawn light. It was not a wild, angry swing. It was a perfect, economical, and utterly lethal thrust aimed directly at my heart.

I moved.

BOOM!

The ground cracked under my feet as I shifted my weight, a single, fluid motion that felt as natural as breathing.

My spear came up, not to block, but to deflect.

CRACK!

The tip of Gungnir met the flat of his katana in a detonation of pure, untamed energy.

A massive shockwave of swirling shadow and light erupted from the point of impact, blasting outwards in a perfect, expanding sphere.

The very foundations of the earth trembled. The ground beneath our feet cracked and splintered.

We were both thrown backward, skidding across the dirt, our feet carving deep furrows in the earth.

"Impressive," I said, a genuine note of professional respect in my voice. "You're fast, old man."

"And you are arrogant, boy," he retorted, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He settled back into his stance, his eyes narrowed, analyzing, calculating.

The duel became a beautiful, terrifying dance of death.

He was a master of a forgotten art. Every move was a poem of violence, a perfect expression of a lifetime of training.

I was a monster of pure, unadulterated power. My A-Rank Body was a marvel, a glorious engine of destruction.

BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!

A constant, deafening symphony of sonic booms and shockwaves filled the no-man's-land between our armies.

The wind shrieked, a vortex of tortured air swirling around us as we exchanged blows, each one capable of shattering mountains.

He was better than me.

The cold, brutal, and deeply, profoundly inconvenient truth hit me with the force of one of Grak's punches.

He was more skilled. More precise. He saw openings I didn't even know I had. He parried my wild, powerful thrusts with a casual, almost contemptuous ease.

He was winning.

I was being pushed back, step by agonizing step.

My arrogant facade was starting to crack.

The fear was there, a cold, hard knot in my gut.

But something else was there, too.

Excitement.

A pure, unadulterated, and deeply, profoundly stupid thrill.

I was alive.

More alive than I had ever been.

"You are good," I gasped, a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of my mouth where the wind from one of his near-misses had cut me. "But you are old. Your stamina is not infinite."

"And your darkness is a crutch," he shot back, his blade a blur of motion. "You rely on your power. You have not earned it."

He was right.

And it was time to prove him wrong.

I let out a roar, a sound of pure, primal fury.

I stopped defending.

I stopped trying to be a duelist.

I became what I was.

A monster.

BOOM!

I charged, a living avalanche of rage.

I ignored his blade. I ignored the searing pain as his katana bit deep into my shoulder.

I was upon him.

I dropped my spear.

And I punched him.

BOOM!

My fist, wreathed in shadows, connected with his chest.

The impact was an absolute detonation of force.

A massive shockwave of white energy erupted from my knuckles.

CRACK!

The sound of his ribs breaking was a beautiful, terrible music.

He was thrown backward, his old, weary body flying through the air like a broken doll. He crashed to the ground in a heap, his katana clattering from his numb fingers.

The duel was over.

I stood over him, my chest heaving, my shoulder a screaming inferno of holy fire.

I had won.

But as I looked down at the old man, at the broken, beaten, but still defiant fire in his eyes, I did not feel a sense of triumph.

I felt a flicker of something else.

Respect.

He had pushed me. He had tested me. He had forced me to be more than just a king.

He had forced me to be a warrior.

"It is over, old man," I said, my voice a quiet, ragged whisper.

He just looked up at me, a slow, bloody smile on his lips.

"Is it?" he rasped.

And then, I felt it.

A new, terrible energy in the air.

A power I had not felt before.

I looked up at the walls of Suzu.

At the thousands of soldiers.

Their eyes were not filled with despair.

They were filled with a strange, fanatical light.

And they were all looking at him. At their fallen king.

"A king's greatest strength," he whispered, his voice a dry, reedy sound, "is not his own power."

"It is the loyalty of his people."

A new, terrifying thought hit me.

This duel… it was not the end.

It was a signal.

It was a trigger.

He had lost.

But he had shown them that I could be hurt.

That I could bleed.

He had given them hope.

And a hopeful army is the most dangerous army in the world.

The real battle was about to begin.

And I had just wasted all my energy on the opening act.

The bastard.

The magnificent, brilliant, and deeply, profoundly inconvenient bastard.

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