When The System Spoils You For No Reason-Chapter 41 - Forty One

The air didn’t grow heavier—it grew expectant. Zeke’s grin returned, sharp and wicked. He bounced on the balls of his feet once, the motion loose and effortless.

"Fist against sword," Zeke chirped, as if announcing the start of a game. A brilliant golden aura—Giant’s Dominion—wreathed him. "My turn!"

Enel’s High Specs mind processed the shift. His calm tightened into something more focused. He settled into Aurelian Flow, Zero Circle: Monarch’s Stillness—a perfect, reactive stance. Eve became an extension of his will, its point aimed at the space between Zeke’s eyes, unmoving, unwavering.

Zeke sauntered forward, hands in his pockets for two steps before pulling them out with a flourish. "C’mon, don’t be shy! You had all the fun last round!"

He took a third step into Eve’s range.

Eve moved. A flicker of silver, faster than thought—a probing thrust aimed at Zeke’s leading knee, designed to cripple and control.

Zeke’s leg bent in an impossible, boneless-looking contortion, letting the blade pass through empty air. "Whoopsie!" He laughed, using the momentum of his dodge to spin into a lazy, sweeping kick aimed at Enel’s sword hand.

It was a tap.

Thwack!

But it was a tap backed by S-rank Agility and Giant’s Dominion. Enel’s wrist stung, his grip momentarily compromised. Eve’s perfect line wavered for a microsecond.

"Point to me!" Zeke cheered, hopping back. "One-zero!"

Enel’s eyes narrowed.

He answered. Not with words. Enel pressed forward—each measured step compressing the air between them, the weight of his Sword Monarch trait bearing down like a palace settling onto stone. The pressure was orderly. Immense.

"Oof! Heavy!" Zeke grunted, genuinely impressed. "You bringing the whole palace down on me?" Then he straightened, the golden aura around him flaring bright. "My turn to push back!"

BOOM.

The ground cratered. The shockwave hit Enel like a physical fist. The orderly pressure shattered into chaotic ripples. Enel’s stance—perfect a moment before—was forced to adjust, his balance shifting minutely.

Zeke was already inside his guard.

"Peek-a-boo!" Zeke sang, his fist lancing out in a straight line.

Enel’s Martial Instinct was beyond elite. His Mind Palace processed the trajectory, the speed, the angle. Eve swept up in a flawless parry—First Circle: Diverting Stream.

CLANG!

The sound was deafening. Zeke’s fist, wrapped in golden light, met the legendary blade. Skin split. Blood flew. Bone showed for an instant.

Zeke didn’t flinch. He beamed.

"Nice block!" he said, as his knuckles healed with a soft, wet snap. "My turn again!" 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Before Enel could recover from the parry, Zeke’s other hand—already healed—shot out. Not a punch. A finger-flick.

Flick.

It hit Eve’s flat, right near the guard. A tiny impact. But it was perfectly timed, perfectly placed, backed by impossible strength. The vibration shot up the blade and into Enel’s fingers—a jarring, discordant buzz that disrupted his follow-up before it could begin.

"Two-zero!" Zeke announced, dancing back two steps, his movements a playful, bouncing rhythm. "You’re letting me run up the score, Enny-boy!"

Fury, cold and pure, ignited behind Enel’s eyes. The playfulness was an insult deeper than any taunt. He abandoned defense. Third Circle: Shattered Mountain erupted from him as a single, concentrated event—not a technique, an execution.

The playfulness vanished from Zeke’s eyes, though his grin remained. Martial Instinct took full control.

He didn’t try to match it. He flowed with it.

He leaned back, letting the killing edge pass millimeters from his throat. As Eve completed its arc, he stepped forward into the space Enel had just vacated. His elbow came up in a gentle, almost affectionate nudge.

THUMP.

It caught Enel in the ribs. Hard enough to knock the wind from him in a sharp, undignified oof.

Zeke was already spinning away, a cackle leaving his lips. "Three-zero! Getting embarrassing for the home team!"

Enel staggered, rage and disbelief warring within him. This buffoon was toying with him. With House Aurelius.

He gripped Eve with both hands. His Sword Monarch trait burned. The very air sharpened. He wasn’t going to fence. He was going to execute.

Final Circle: Monarch’s Decree.

Eve didn’t move. The concept of its edge did. Dozens of invisible, slicing afterimages filled the air around Zeke—a cage of certain death closing from all directions at once. A technique that ignored conventional defense, targeting the soul of an opponent’s movement.

Zeke stopped bouncing.

"Ooooh, shiny," he murmured.

Then he moved.

He didn’t dodge the afterimages. He walked through them.

His Martial Instinct saw a pattern. A beautiful, lethal pattern—with the hairline fractures only someone worthy of rivaling a monarch could perceive.

He stepped left, turned his shoulder, tilted his head. Invisible edges meant to sever limbs passed harmlessly, parting his hair, slicing his coat but not his skin. He moved with lazy, unconcerned grace, as if strolling through a gentle rain of razor blades.

Two steps. Three. He crossed the killing field.

He stood before Enel, who had gone wide-eyed.

"Nice trick," Zeke said, his voice conversational. "But you forgot one thing."

His hand, golden and terrible, shot out. Not fast. Inevitable.

It grabbed Enel’s face.

SMUSH.

It was a gentle, almost patting motion. But the force behind it was catastrophic.

Enel’s head was driven straight down into the crystalline ground.

KRUNCH.

The earth didn’t crack. It cratered. A perfect, bowl-shaped depression formed, with Enel’s head at its epicenter. Dust and glittering shards erupted into the air.

Zeke released him and stepped back, brushing his hands together. The golden aura faded.

Silence.

In the crater, Enel Aurelius did not move. One hand still clutched Eve, the blade lying uselessly at his side.

Zeke peered into the hole, head tilted. "Four-zero. Game, set, and match." He straightened and called out cheerfully to the petrified Aurelians. "Heads up! Your prince is in the hole!"

He turned, playful energy already returning—as though he’d finished a brisk workout rather than buried a royal heir face-first into a dungeon floor.

He crouched at the crater’s edge, voice dropping to something almost conversational.

"I should take your head for what you pulled. But honestly?" He clicked his tongue. "The paperwork alone isn’t worth it. I’m no edgelord looking for excuses—I’ve got people counting on me. Can’t repay good faith with grief."

He let that land, then his gaze sharpened.

"You’ve got pride. Real pride, not the performative kind." A beat. "So I’m guessing you keep your family out of this."

He rose.

"But if I’m wrong—" the lightness left his voice, just briefly, "—I’ll return whatever comes back tenfold."

He left it there. No flourish. Just fact.

Then he turned toward the ridge where the trio had been watching and cupped a hand to his mouth.

"Yo! Get moving!"

He clapped once, already walking. "Fun’s over. Pillage time—grab the good stuff!"

He started whistling—tuneless, cheerful, utterly unbothered. Behind him, from the depths of the crater, a single twitching finger was the only sign that the Sword Monarch was still, barely, conscious.

{So what are you going to do about that one?}

’Hehe. Something tells me he’ll find us on his own.’