Meanwhile, the wind across the Kalkigan field carried the dry smell of dust and iron.
Warriors stood in a wide circle around the arena. Horses snorted impatiently at the edges of the field, their reins held tight by soldiers who watched the duel with hungry eyes.
In the center stood Newton, an inexperienced warrior facing Sigmoid. A man who had led armies into several battles and conquered.
Newton Ice held his sword steady, though the metal felt heavier than usual in his grip. His fingers tightened around the hilt as he stared at the man before him.
Lord Sigmoid Bernett. A seasoned warrior. A man who had fought in more battles than Newton had lived years.
The wind tugged lightly at Newton's dark hair. Around them the warriors whispered. "The bastard was a fool to have accepted the challenge of a seasoned warrior. It was a trap and he foolishly fell for it."
A few men chuckled quietly. "He is as good as dead."
Another voice joined. "It is only a matter of time."
Newton heard them. Every word. But his eyes never left Sigmoid.
Sigmoid's lips curved faintly. The boy's calm irritated him. Most boys trembled when they stood before him with a blade. This one did not.
Sigmoid rolled his shoulders slowly, letting the steel of his armor clink softly. "Ready?" he asked.
Newton lifted his sword slightly. The answer was silent. Then he moved. The steel flashed first.
Newton clashed into Sigmoid with sudden speed, his blade cutting through the air in a sharp arc.
Sigmoid blocked easily. Their swords struck together with a ringing clash that echoed across the field.
Newton stepped back immediately. Sigmoid lunged forward.
Newton dodged.
The older warrior's blade sliced through empty air.
Sigmoid raises his guard. Newton steps forward. Their swords clash.
Then Newton's blade suddenly drops low.
Too low.
For a split second Sigmoid thinks the boy has made a mistake. Then he feels the sting at his heel. Newton's blade slid across his heel.
Sigmoid froze.
The cut was shallow. But it was precise. Very precise.
The murmurs among the warriors grew louder.
Sigmoid slowly looked down at his foot. Then back at the boy. He had not expected that. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Who is it that has been training you?" Sigmoid asked.
Newton stood straight again, sword steady. "My father."
A faint laugh escaped Sigmoid's lips. "Your father seems too fond of his bastard."
Several men in the crowd chuckled. Sigmoid tilted his head slightly. "I would say he was foolish for that."
Newton's jaw tightened. He could swallow insults thrown at himself. He had done so all his life.
Bastard.
Illegitimate.
Unwanted.
The words no longer cut deeply. But insulting his father was different.
The man who had loved him. The man who had taught him every strike, every step, every breath of the blade.
Newton's grip tightened. His eyes hardened. He lunged. The attack came faster this time. Anger drove it.
Steel clashed again. Sigmoid blocked the first strike.
Newton struck again. Once. Twice. And then three times.
Each strike came sharp and fast. Sigmoid blocked them all. The older warrior's arms moved smoothly, turning Newton's blade away each time with practiced ease.
Newton attacked again. A fourth strike. Sigmoid stepped aside. The blade cut through empty air.
Sigmoid's sword flashed immediately. Newton barely raised his blade in time. The steel collided with a harsh crack.
But Sigmoid was not finished. While Newton blocked the sword, Sigmoid's leg moved.
A brutal kick hit Newton's stomach. The impact struck Newton square in the chest.
The force knocked the breath from his lungs. Newton crashed to the ground.
Newton hits the ground hard. The breath blasts from his chest. For a second he cannot breathe.
Then Sigmoid's shadow falls over him. His sword rose.
The entire crowd gasped. A few warriors nodded grimly. They had seen this ending before. Speed meant nothing once the stronger fighter landed a solid blow.
Sigmoid stepped closer. His sword rose slowly above his head.
The blade gleamed under the pale sky. Newton lay on the ground, chest burning as he struggled to pull air back into his lungs.
The shadow of the sword fell across him. Sigmoid swung.
Swuuush!
The blade came down in a killing strike.
Newton rolled just a second earlier. The sword slammed into the dirt where his head had been.
Newton's body twisted sharply. He pushed himself up almost instantly. Before Sigmoid could recover his balance, Newton's blade flashed again.
Low, and fast.
The sword sliced across Sigmoid's second heel.
"Aaahhhsshh!"
Sigmoid's scream tore through the arena. Blood splashed onto the dust.
Both heels began to bleed. The seasoned warrior staggered. He tried to step forward. But his legs refused.
Pain shot through both feet. His knees buckled. Sigmoid dropped to the ground.
The arena fell silent. For a long moment no one spoke. The warriors stared. Their eyes moved between the fallen lord and the fifteen-year-old boy standing before him.
Someone whispered. "Are my eyes playing tricks on me…" Another voice finished the thought. "…or did the fifteen-year-old just defeat Sigmoid?"
The murmurs began to spread. Disbelief rolled through the crowd like a slow wave.
Men leaned toward each other, whispering. Some stared openly. Others shook their heads.
Lord Martins watched without speaking. His expression remained still. But inside his thoughts moved quickly.
He had always known the boy would become a skilled swordsman. The Warden had trained him relentlessly. Day after day. Strike after strike.
Until Newton's movements had become sharp and precise like the edge of a blade.
But this: defeating a seasoned warrior at fifteen?
Lord Martins exhaled quietly. "The Warden has trained his bastard into a beast," he murmured under his breath. "A beast his own children will labor to defeat."
In the arena Newton did not celebrate. He did not raise his sword. He simply moved.
Sigmoid still clutched his blade tightly despite the pain tearing through his legs.
Newton stepped forward quickly. His sword struck Sigmoid's sword with a sharp crack.
The blade flew from Sigmoid's hand. It spun through the air before landing several steps away.
Newton walked calmly toward it. The crowd watched in silence as he bent down and picked it up.
Then he turned back.
Sigmoid remained on his knees. His legs trembled. Blood dripped slowly into the dust beneath him.
Newton approached. He held both swords now: his own, and Sigmoid's.
For a moment he studied the older warrior's face. The man who had mocked his father. The man who had expected an easy victory.
Newton lifted his blade. The steel hovered inches from Sigmoid's throat.
Then Newton places the blade at Sigmoid's throat.
Sigmoid finally looks up. For the first time, the arrogance is gone.
Newton sees fear.
The man knew death was one breath away.
The crowd held its breath. Newton's grip tightened slightly. One quick movement. One clean strike. The duel would end.
But instead he lowered the sword.
"No."
The word was quiet. But it carried clearly across the arena.
Newton stepped back. "Your fate will be decided in a normal court trial."
The tension in the crowd shifted. Several warriors exchanged surprised looks.
Newton raised his hand. He gestured toward the soldiers waiting at the edge of the field.
The guards immediately rode forward. Their horses thundered across the dust. Two men dismounted quickly.
They seized Sigmoid's arms and bound them with thick rope.
Sigmoid did not resist. Pain and blood had drained the strength from his legs. The guards lifted him roughly onto a horse.
They tied him firmly to the saddle. Newton wiped his blade clean against the dirt before sliding it back into its sheath.
The murmurs around the arena had not stopped. The warriors watched him differently now. Not as the Warden's bastard.
But as something else entirely. Something sharper. Something dangerous.
The group began to move. Horses turned toward the northern road. The long journey back to Snowland had begun.
Dust rose behind them as the riders started forward. At the center of the formation rode Newton.
Silent, and calm.
The boy who had just defeated a seasoned warrior.