From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 35: Duel Ready

Leon didn’t sleep.

He closed his eyes for an hour. Maybe less. When the sun cracked over the academy wall, he was already washing dried blood from his hands in the basin behind the dorms. Cold water didn’t sting anymore—it just woke him up.

The summons came before breakfast. Another duel.

This time, Serran.

He’d never even spoken to a Serran, but he’d heard the name like thunder—old money, old rank, old blood. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. Their presence in the academy was an echo of legacy itself.

And now, one of them wanted his head on the sand.

Leon strapped his coat tight, slung the practice sword over his back, and went straight to the South Wing, where the challenge board hung just inside the lecture hall doors.

It was there. Pinned neatly. Wax seal still fresh.

"Leon Thorne vs. Darius Serran – Three days from now. Platform match. No weapon restrictions."

He stared at it. Not with surprise. Just confirmation.

"Looks like they’re lining up now."

Riva stood beside him, arms folded. She wasn’t smiling.

Leon didn’t look away. "Saves time."

"You’re going to run out of bruises to bleed from."

He reached up, tore the challenge sheet from the board, and folded it once. "Then I’ll grow more skin."

She caught his arm as he turned. "Leon."

He paused.

"They’re not all like Delmont. You know that, right? Serran fights to end things."

"I’ll be ready."

"You say that like it’s a choice."

He pulled his arm free and walked off.

Two hours later, Leon knelt in the training hall, blindfolded.

Elric paced behind him, circling like a hunting dog.

"Sound tells you more than sight," the instructor barked. "Focus on the pressure before it shifts. Feel the cut before it comes."

A wooden sword cracked across Leon’s thigh.

He didn’t flinch.

Another blow struck his shoulder.

Still, no movement.

Then the whisper of steps on sand. A shift in air. Leon ducked, rolled to the right, and swung up blindly.

The tip of his blade smacked against something solid.

"Better," Elric muttered.

Leon pulled off the blindfold, sweat slicked down his neck. His legs trembled slightly. He ignored it.

"You’ll be dead in three seconds against a Serran if your balance slips like that."

Leon nodded.

But didn’t sit. Didn’t rest.

That evening, the courtyard fountain ran red.

Not with blood—dyed wine. Some noble celebration for a House Leon didn’t care about. He passed through the edge of the crowd. Heard laughter, caught the sharp scent of honey and spice. Saw Marcus Delmont sitting stiffly on a bench, surrounded by girls who only liked scars after they were cleaned.

Leon didn’t stop.

Someone called his name.

He didn’t answer.

The dining hall was quieter. His usual spot empty.

Until Roth slid in opposite him again, two plates in hand.

"You keep attracting attention like a plague."

Leon stabbed a piece of meat with his fork. "Then why sit with me?"

"Because I like watching people sweat when you walk by."

Leon almost smiled. Almost.

Roth leaned forward. "You know who Darius Serran is?"

Leon chewed. Swallowed. "No."

"Sixth-year. Reserved for academy elites. They say he trained under one of the king’s own Blades."

Leon wiped his mouth. "Then he won’t panic when he bleeds."

Roth whistled. "You’re serious."

"I don’t have time not to be."

He stood up.

Left the tray half-full.

And went back to the East Yard.

The wind had picked up. Frost licked the flagstones.

He stood in front of the dummy again, sword drawn. But this time, he didn’t swing. He breathed. Let the world narrow into the space before him. Three moves forward. One step back.

Each breath dug deeper.

Each silence between steps gave the night something new to fear.

He wasn’t thinking of Serran. Not directly. He was thinking of pressure, of breaking points, of the exact instant where speed overtakes grace. freēnovelkiss.com

He whispered the same word each time he struck:

"More."

More speed. More weight. More sharpness.

Until the straw burst and the dummy collapsed.

He made another.

Started again.

The morning of the duel came with a sheet of fog.

Leon stood outside the East Wing, coat damp, blade strapped tight. He watched the mist coil around the training towers like a serpent. Every student passing gave him a wide berth.

The platform waited.

He walked through the academy’s main court in silence, each step steady, measured. Past the fountain. Past the stares. Past the whispered names.

Up the stairs.

Onto marble.

Darius Serran was already waiting. Polished. Cold. Dressed in a black coat lined with silver filigree. His sword wasn’t standard issue—it curved slightly, the grip older than most books in the academy library.

No words were exchanged.

The referee stepped between them, spoke the rules.

Leon didn’t hear them.

His eyes stayed on Serran.

And when the hand dropped, he moved first.

Steel clashed.

But this time, it wasn’t just pressure.

This time, it was survival.

Serran twisted mid-step, bringing his blade down in an arc that grazed Leon’s shoulder and sent a jolt through his spine. Leon responded by driving forward, shoulder-first, throwing Serran off-balance. They broke apart, blades raised.

A circle of silence had formed around them. The audience held its breath.

Leon struck again. Fast. Lower. He forced Serran to pivot. The noble’s foot slid, nearly losing his stance—but his recovery was sharp. He countered with a brutal overhead slice.

Leon ducked. The marble chipped as Serran’s sword scraped it.

The fight shifted. Neither man backed down. Every clash of steel echoed across the courtyard. Every feint, parry, and strike carved more sweat into their brows.

Then Serran began to smile.

Leon saw it just before he was kicked in the chest.

He flew back. Skidded across the platform. His ribs screamed.

He rolled to his feet anyway. Sword in hand.

Serran advanced. Fluid. Dangerous. Like a man rehearsing something he’d waited years to perform.

Leon steadied himself.

"Come on, then," he muttered.

And they collided again.