From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 36: Serran Duel

Chapter 36 – Serran Duel

Leon’s ribs ached. Every breath dragged fire across his chest. But he didn’t stop moving.

Serran came at him again, blade gleaming in a tight arc aimed for the throat. Leon ducked beneath it, shifted left, and brought his hilt up hard into the noble’s ribs. The hit landed—solid—but Serran barely winced.

Their blades met again.

Sparks. Metal grinding. Two sets of boots shuffling across marble.

The crowd stayed silent. Even the nobles held their tongues now.

Leon shifted his weight, using a move Elric drilled into him only days ago. Low slash. Guard break. Rising elbow.

Serran saw it coming.

He parried the blade, twisted Leon’s wrist, and nearly disarmed him. Only a desperate grip and a half-step back saved the sword from clattering out of reach.

Leon’s knuckles bled now.

His grip was slipping.

Serran pressed.

He moved like a dancer—fluid, relentless. His blade cut through air with intent, each swing paired with a precise step. Leon backpedaled. Once. Twice. He counted the rhythm in his head.

Step. Clash. Shift. Breath.

Then he reversed it.

On the fourth step, he lunged—shoulder lowered, angle sharp. His blade caught the inside of Serran’s guard. Steel kissed flesh.

Blood.

Serran staggered. Not much. Just a step. But it was enough.

Leon followed through with a slash to the thigh. A risky move—but it connected.

The crowd gasped.

Serran’s expression didn’t change. He nodded once. Like he’d just passed a test.

Leon didn’t know if that meant the fight was over.

It wasn’t.

Serran roared. Not a noble’s roar—a fighter’s. One that came from pain and pride.

He drove forward, and Leon barely blocked the first blow. The second struck his side. The third clipped his ear.

Leon ducked and slashed upwards, catching the inside of Serran’s elbow.

Both men separated. Breathing hard.

Blood dotted the platform now.

The referee stepped in—almost. But Leon raised a hand.

"Don’t."

Serran raised his sword again.

The next clash was slower, more deliberate. They were tired now, but neither backed down.

Leon took a chance. Feinted left. Slipped under. Hooked his foot behind Serran’s leg.

They both fell.

Dust rose. Blades hit stone.

Leon landed first.

Serran crashed beside him.

And didn’t rise.

Silence.

Leon stood. Swallowed. Looked down.

Serran’s eyes blinked once. Then closed.

The referee stepped forward this time. "Victory—Leon Thorne."

No cheers. Just murmurs. Whispers.

Leon left the platform without bowing.

Roth waited by the edge, arms crossed.

"Told you they’d watch."

Leon didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

His steps were uneven now.

But they were his.

That night, Leon didn’t go to the infirmary.

He washed his wounds in silence. Wrapped his ribs himself. Ate a single apple. Sat by the window.

The stars blinked above.

He wasn’t proud. He wasn’t relieved.

He was just... awake.

The academy would come again tomorrow.

So would the next name on the board.

He leaned his head back and breathed through his teeth.

His knuckles were cracked.

His body throbbed.

But his grip?

Steady.

Morning light carved its way through the dorm shutters. Leon stood again in the East Yard, shirtless, sweat dripping down his back. Despite the duel, the bruises, the half-healed gash across his side—he trained.

No sword. Just bodyweight. Pushups, stretches, footwork drills across gravel.

The ache grounded him.

Fena stood near the fence, watching.

"You won."

Leon didn’t stop. "It’s not over yet."

"You beat a Serran. You bought silence for a while."

He moved to shadowboxing, fists slicing through the air. "It’s never silence. Just slower footsteps."

She walked up. "You should rest."

"I should be ready."

"For what?"

He paused. Eyes sharp. "The next one."

Fena looked at him, then placed a wrapped parcel by the bench. "Protein bread. Eat it or I’ll throw it at your face."

Leon’s eyes flicked to it.

"Thanks."

She was already walking away.

"And Leon?"

He looked back.

"Next time you win, don’t walk off like a ghost."

He didn’t answer.

But he unwrapped the bread.

Bit into it.

And smiled—just barely.

He sat out by the yard bench until the sun reached the roof spires. A pair of younger initiates passed by, whispering in low tones. Leon caught part of it—"Serran," "blood," "half-dead"—then silence as they saw him watching.

He didn’t move. Just let the breeze dry the sweat on his arms. Then he stood, stiff-legged, and headed back inside.

In the corridor, an envelope waited on his bunk. Waxed, no seal. Inside—a note, written in clean, sharp script.

"Come to the South Stairwell. Midnight."

No name. No threat.

But the air around it felt heavy.

Leon pocketed it.

By nightfall, he was already waiting at the top step of the South Tower. Boots silent, body still. When the door finally creaked open, he didn’t turn.

Elric stepped through.

"You read it."

Leon nodded.

The instructor stood beside him, looking down over the courtyard.

"That match today?"

Leon stayed quiet.

"You nearly died. Again."

Still silence.

Elric’s voice lowered. "That’s what I meant when I said not every victory’s worth it."

Leon turned. "Then why come?"

Elric met his gaze. "Because you’re the only one here who fights like every loss matters."

They stood like that for a moment. Just wind. Cold.

Then Elric spoke again.

"New name went up."

Leon arched a brow.

"Princess’s guard."

Leon didn’t react. Not visibly.

But inside?

Fire again.

He didn’t return to the dorm. Not right away. Instead, he wandered the west wall, where training dummies stood forgotten in the frost. He drew breath slow, deliberate. Let it frost his lungs.

One more challenge. One more name. Always another.

He picked up a blade left leaning against a post. Someone else’s steel. Worn and nicked.

It fit in his hand just fine.

He moved through drills under the cold stars. Quiet. Patient. Shadow alone.

Then stopped.

Something shifted.

A figure stood watching at the far archway—hooded. Not a student. Not a teacher.

They didn’t speak.

Leon lowered the blade.

"Who are you?"

No answer.

The figure turned.

And walked into the dark.

He didn’t follow.

But he knew, now, the game was changing.

And someone outside the academy had started watching him too.