Chapter 89: The List (9)
Phillip staggered back, his body jerking awkwardly as if trying to protect itself from the pain that had just detonated beneath his ribs.
The sharp hiss that tore from his throat was ragged, half a gasp and half a choke.
He pressed his arm instinctively closer to his side, trying to shield the wounded spot, but the damage had already been done.
His grip on the bamboo broadsword loosened just a fraction, enough to show weakness, enough for everyone watching to know he wasn’t the same fighter he had been a moment ago.
Lucien, however, didn’t press the advantage.
He didn’t lunge forward, didn’t attempt to overwhelm Phillip before he could catch his balance.
Instead, Lucien stepped back, his boots scraping across the polished wooden floor, deliberately creating space between them.
His breathing was heavy, his left arm hanging slack like a broken weight at his side, but his eyes never left his opponent.
He was watching, measuring, not pouncing.
That choice drew the crowd’s attention as much as the blow itself.
Murmurs rippled through the stands again until, surprisingly, it was Corin who broke the silence first.
“Hah… good move,” Corin muttered, but his voice this time carried none of the wild, mocking energy he had before.
It was calmer, subdued, almost approving.
His elbows rested on the railing as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing on the arena floor.
Vaelira tilted her head, almost incredulous at first.
But then, slowly, with a small, reluctant nod, she said, “Yes. It was.”
The agreement itself seemed to jolt the air.
Them seeing eye to eye for the first time.
For a brief second, even their own surprise at agreeing was visible, before their gazes shifted back to the duel.
Balt, who had been hovering uncertainly behind them until now, finally stepped up beside them, gripping the rail with both hands.
His brow furrowed as he looked down at Lucien, then over to Phillip’s struggling frame.
His lips parted, and he asked the question that most of the watching students were likely thinking.
“Wait, why? Shouldn’t he have… I don’t know… kept attacking? He landed a clean hit, Phillip’s hurt, right? Wouldn’t pushing him now finish it?”
Corin answered first, his voice carrying a weight of thoughtfulness rarely heard from him.
“No. Not like that. Think, he didn’t walk away free. That swing he took? He used his already busted shoulder to block it. Took it head on. Full force.”
He tapped a finger against the railing, punctuating the words with sharp little beats.
“He won the exchange, sure. But he paid the price with pain on top of pain. Don’t matter if he looks calm now, his body’s screaming at him. He needs a moment.”
Vaelira’s voice slid into the conversation, filling the gap Corin left.
Her tone was smooth, analytical, almost like a professor addressing a class.
“And Lucien knows that. He has received more damage between the two of them. Two full swings landed, both on the same shoulder. He’s bleeding stamina and stability. By all rights, he should be the weaker one now.”
She lifted a gloved finger and pointed, not at Lucien, but at Phillip.
“But the difference is where he struck Phillip. Right beneath the arm, between the ribs. That is the exact point where the muscles are needed most to swing a heavy broadsword. Pain radiates there, steals breath, weakens strength. Phillip might lift the weapon still, but he cannot strike with the same force. His power is halved.”
Corin gave a low grunt, half a laugh and half a sigh, as though he hated to admit she was right.
“Exactly. Even though Lucien looks worse off, Phillip’s the one who lost more in that trade. Less attack power, slower recovery. Lucien’s not chasing him because he doesn’t need to. He’s buying himself breath, letting the shoulder cool, while knowing Phillip can’t punish him for it. Not anymore.”
For a rare moment, the two voices overlapped in harmony, weaving together as if they were part of the same mind.
Their words painted a picture of calculation, of tactical restraint, of Lucien seizing control not through raw aggression but through cold, deliberate choice.
Balt listened intently, his eyes flicking between them and the fighters below.
He wanted to believe it.
He wanted to trust the reasoning.
It made sense, on the surface.
Yes, Phillip’s attack would be weaker, yes, Lucien’s choice looked clever.
But his own eyes kept betraying him.
Down there on the floor, Phillip was indeed reeling.
He held his side, his breath ragged, his swings no longer so sharp.
That much was obvious.
Yet Lucien… Lucien’s left arm dangled like it wasn’t even his anymore.
Limp, lifeless, hanging from a shoulder that had already taken two brutal strikes.
He wasn’t cradling it.
He wasn’t even trying to move it.
And while his gaze was fierce, there was a hollowness to the way he stood that whispered of strain.
Balt’s throat tightened.
His fingers dug into the railing.
“…Maybe,” he said at last, voice low enough that only the two beside him heard.
“But look closer. Phillip’s in pain, sure. But Lucien, his arm’s gone. He’s fighting with one now. And no matter what you two say, that matters. Badly.”
Neither Vaelira nor Corin answered immediately.
For once, their shared analysis left no easy counter.
Balt let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, eyes locked on the duel below.
He wanted, needed, to believe in Lucien’s resilience, in the tactical brilliance his peers had outlined.
But he could not shake the sight of that dangling arm, nor the creeping doubt that maybe… just maybe…
Lucien had gambled too much on his rage and resolve.
So, he chose silence.
He chose faith, if only for the moment.
He clung to the hope that Lucien’s fire could burn longer than Phillip’s strength.
And on the floor of the arena, both duelists, one clutching his ribs, the other standing tall with a dead arm, circled each other once more.
The duel was not finished.
Not yet.
***
Phillip’s boots slid against the polished arena floor as he adjusted his stance, breath ragged, sword trembling ever so slightly in his grip.
His ribs screamed with every inhale, but the pain was nothing compared to the icy knot twisting in his stomach.
Terror.
Not the kind that made you freeze.
The kind that clawed at your lungs, told you that you’d be torn apart.
He had smelled victory.
It was there, just within reach, Lucien cornered, battered, a left arm already ruined.
All Phillip needed was patience, and the duel was his.
Yet in an instant, that certainty had been ripped from him, replaced with doubt that spread like fire through dry grass.
'He used it… his injured shoulder… just to catch me.'
Phillip’s thoughts churned like a storm as he tightened his grip on the broadsword.
'No sane fighter would do that. He let himself be broken, just so he could drag me down with him. Who does that? Who gambles their own body just to make sure they take a piece of you too?'
His eyes flicked to Lucien’s limp arm.
It dangled uselessly, lifeless as a rope, but the memory of the counter-strike, fast, merciless and precise was burned into his brain.
‘Using the hope of victory as a bait to make me put my guard down.’
His ribs throbbed, a constant reminder: Lucien was willing to trade flesh for victory.
'This isn’t just a duel anymore. This… this is a wounded beast that doesn’t care how much it bleeds, so long as it bites deep enough to drag me with it.'
A shiver raced down his spine.
Terror hissed in his ear: end it now.
End it before Lucien did something else insane.
Phillip squared his shoulders, forcing his body upright, forcing his mind to silence.
His hand clenched harder around the hilt until his knuckles turned pale.
The decision crystallized in his chest.
‘Lucien played his gambit. Now I play mine.’
***
Across from him, Lucien’s chest heaved with every breath.
The weight of his limp arm tugged at his balance, a cruel reminder of the cost he had paid.
Pain roared through his nerves, so constant it had dulled into a buzzing numbness.
But through that haze, through the screaming ache in his shoulder, he saw Phillip stagger.
He saw the sword dip lower, the movement jerky, guarded.
And in that sight, just for a second, satisfaction bloomed like a flare in his chest.
'There. He felt it.'
Lucien’s lips curled in something between a snarl and a smile.
“He is weaker now. That’s the proof. My pain’s not wasted. Every drop of it is carved into him.'
But then, just as quick, he swallowed that satisfaction back down, grinding it beneath the weight of discipline.
'No. Not yet. Don’t smile. Don’t relax. A beast that shows its teeth too early gets put down. You end this first. Only then you get to be proud.'
His legs coiled, burning with the tension of held energy.
He let his injured arm hang lifeless, his body twisting subtly to hide the weakness, to funnel all strength into his right.
'This fight’s decided the moment I stop moving. I can’t stop. I can’t give him a chance to breathe, not now.'
And then the conclusion, sharp and merciless, echoed in both their minds at once, two voices, two hearts, arriving at the same truth.
Phillip: 'If I wait, I lose.'
Lucien: 'If I hesitate, I lose.'
The air between them thickened, humming with the weight of their resolve.
Sweat dripped down temples, breath rattled in throats.
Neither looked away.
Neither blinked.
Phillip’s boots slammed forward.
His sword arced back, muscles screaming in protest, but his grip was iron.
'I’ll crush him before he leaps again!'
Lucien’s body exploded into motion at the same instant, pain burning away beneath adrenaline.
His eyes locked on Phillip’s ribs, the same spot he’d already broken into.
'I’ll tear the fight out of him before he swings!'
Two battered bodies, two burning wills, two desperate hearts, both charging, both unwilling to yield.
The floorboards groaned beneath their simultaneous steps.
The air cracked with the weight of their battle cries.
And in the heartbeat before collision, before wood and flesh clashed again, the world seemed to hold its breath.
