The Runesmith

Chapter 601: Rusty Duel.

The clash between the brothers continued while everyone watched from the sides. The noble ladies hid their faces behind gem-encrusted fans, and the gentlemen smiled without bothering to conceal their interest. This was one of the moments they loved the most, when rivals fought and turned it into a spectacle. None of them truly cared which brother would be victorious, yet for some reason it seemed that Arthur was gaining the upper hand, at least for the moment.

“Bastard. If you will not kneel before your betters, then perhaps a wager is in order?”

Ivan said as he glanced at Roland, who was standing to the side.

“A wager?”

Arthur replied, already beginning to understand where this was leading. He turned his eyes toward the man standing beside Ivan. Sir Hadrian was a well-known knight, infamous for his temper. From Roland’s perspective he suited the third brother well, since that one preferred to solve every problem with brute force.

‘Hadrian, if I am not mistaken. He is an Aura Knight.’

Before coming here, Roland had gathered information on all the knight commanders and mercenaries of note who might appear. Among them were Lady Bernadette, who accompanied Julius, and the powerful mage who served as Tybalt’s retainer. In terms of strength, Hadrian was formidable and likely a more dangerous opponent for Roland than the old mage. Yet he still ranked behind the paladin and Theodore’s bodyguard, who was probably the strongest of them all.

That assessment, however, had been made when Roland possessed the entirety of his half-plate armor. The guards had confiscated his cape and gauntlets, leaving his suit incomplete. He considered the hidden spatial compartment in his boot, which still held one of his remaining elemental suits, but retrieving it was not an option. Even so, there were still ways to acquire equipment when it came to a duel.

Arthur tilted his glass just slightly, as though weighing the wager in his mind. The nobles leaned closer, hushed voices rippling through the hall. The challenge was already understood by all who stood witness. A duel. Not between the brothers themselves, but between the steel that served them.

“If that is the game you wish to play.”

Arthur said at last, his voice calm and measured.

“Then I will oblige. But we must ensure it is fair. Would you not agree, brother?”

“Fair? What fairness is owed to a mistake like you?”

He threw his hand outward, gesturing toward Sir Hadrian. It was clear that he understood what Arthur was referring to. At a glance, Hadrian’s gear was far superior, forged from pristine metal and marked with enchantments that were supposedly forbidden within the castle.

“My knight has no need for excuses. He will carve your dog to pieces, armor or no armor.”

A sneer twisted Hadrian’s rodent-like face as he stepped forward, his enchanted armor gleaming unnaturally bright beneath the chandeliers. The polished mithril was etched with runes of the highest quality, each one waiting to be activated. The bowl-cut hair framing his crooked nose made him look almost ridiculous, yet his infamy silenced any laughter. No one dared to mock him, for he was a force to be reckoned with.

Roland did not move. He stood in silence, allowing the crowd to compare Hadrian’s gleaming figure with his own plain attire. His cape, gauntlets, and several armaments had been taken from him by the guards before the ball, leaving him a shadow of what he might have been in his full suit of armor. Arthur knew this, which was why he raised his voice just enough for all to hear.

“Since our host’s guards have been so diligent in their duties, I must ask for some time to see my knight properly equipped. Surely even you, brother, do not wish this matter to descend into a farce.”

A ripple of agreement moved through the nobles. Even those who cared little for Arthur’s position knew that a duel stripped of fairness would bring shame upon the one who demanded it. Ivan’s grin faltered for a moment before he mustered up a laugh.

“Fine. Dress him up however you like. It will not change the outcome.”

Arthur inclined his head slightly, his smile sharp in a way that Ivan seemed to despise.

“Then we agree. The duel shall be held outside beneath the open sky in, how about two hours? It is only fitting that all present bear witness.”

“Two hours? Make it one.”

Ivan answered quickly, a frown on his face. He then gestured toward a servant who hurried forward and bowed.

“Give this man something to wear.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Roland observed the exchange and instantly knew that something was wrong, but he held his tongue. They were in enemy territory and had no choice but to follow the rules. The fact that he had gained even a single hour to prepare was already more than he had expected. ȒàＮ𝙤฿Èȿ

The servant bowed low and gestured for Roland to follow. Arthur’s gaze lingered on him for only a moment, but Roland caught the subtle flicker in his eyes, a wordless reminder to be cautious. He followed the servant out of the grand hall, past marble pillars and tapestries, until the sounds of music and gossip faded into silence.

The path twisted through narrow corridors seldom used by nobles. Dust clung to the air, cobwebs stretched across corners, and the lanterns here burned weaker. At last they stopped before a pair of wooden doors. The servant pushed them open with a creak and inside lay the so-called equipment chamber.

‘Even this place has parts like this?’

Roland was a little surprised. He had expected the innermost castle to be well maintained in every regard, yet even this place had its forgotten corners. The dust-filled chamber resembled an old storage room more than an armory suited for a knight. It was obvious to him that the servant was working under Ivan. If Roland went back to complain about this treatment, he might receive better equipment, but it was far more likely that it would only serve as an excuse to mock Arthur.

“Is there an issue, Sir Knight?”

“…No, everything is fine. Return in an hour to guide me to the dueling grounds.”

“Of course, sir. Take your time.”

The man seemed somewhat surprised by Roland’s answer but quickly bowed and retreated down the corridor. His footsteps echoed long after he was gone. Roland waited until he was sure no one was watching before moving deeper into the chamber.

The smell of dust and rust hung heavy in the room. Old helmets and dented breastplates lay in heaps along the wall, their surfaces corroded with age. Spears with cracked shafts leaned at awkward angles in one corner, their tips bent and dulled from long neglect. A rack of swords stood nearby, but most of the blades were chipped, their edges blunt and jagged. This was no arsenal for a knight but instead a graveyard of forgotten weapons.

“Quite the treasure trove…”

Roland muttered with a sigh, prodding one of the armor racks. A cloud of dust burst into the air, stinging his nose. Nothing here was usable, of that he was certain. True metals of higher quality gave off mana or other energies, and he had already swept the entire chamber with several of his skills. None of the equipment reached tier three standards.

“A few of these look promising, but they would shatter after one proper exchange.”

He examined a sword coated with a thin layer of mithril, but the deception was plain to him. His background as a blacksmith made it easy to see that it was only a cheap replica. The faint outer layer concealed the simple iron within.

‘An inexperienced knight might take it at face value and wield it. Was that what they were aiming for?’

The items here were in terrible condition and completely unusable. A better strategy would have been to leave or perhaps ask one of the regular guards for a suit of armor to borrow instead. However, Roland was not an ordinary knight commander. He had come prepared.

‘They will probably be quite surprised when I return… I just need to make it look believable.’

Roland had no intention of leaving this room within the hour. It was impossible to make use of the rusted steel lying around, so he would instead downgrade some of the equipment he had brought with him. From his pocket he pulled out something that resembled a handkerchief. In the upper right corner was a small metallic plate shaped like a hexagon, engraved with the symbol of the Kingdom. He injected a bit of mana into it and the concealed rune activated, revealing the hidden spatial spell within.

‘They left a few guards behind, but none of them seem well versed in magic.’

After clearing some space on a dust-covered table, Roland began setting out his tools. His spatial inventory contained his runic smithing hammer along with several other useful items. Among them was a vial filled with a brownish liquid, something essential for the deception he was about to perform.

‘I just need to make it look convincing.’

On one side of the table he laid out the armor parts he had brought with him. There were gauntlets, greaves, and other pieces that would complete his appearance and bring him closer to the look of full plate armor. At that moment, only his breastplate, pauldrons, and boots remained in use. The rest needed to be added if he hoped to stand a chance in the duel against the overbearing aura knight.

These replacement parts were not taken from his elemental suits. They were ordinary sets of armor he had kept hidden away for an occasion like this. Each one carried dummy runes that could later be reshaped. Though they were weaker than his usual armor, they were still far superior to anything these people could provide. He only needed to add a few details to make them convincing.

He began with one of the replacement gauntlets, carefully choosing one that resembled the rusty pieces scattered throughout the room. From his side he drew a vial of liquid and poured it over the polished surface. The metal reacted at once, its shine fading as it dulled into the same rusted, dust-covered look that clung to many of the other suits of armor nearby.

“This will do.”

*****

“Sir, the time has come.”

A knock echoed through the corridor outside. Nearly an hour had passed since the man called Wayland had entered the dust-filled chamber. The servant stood waiting with a smile, certain that this was a joyous occasion. He had lured the target here exactly as he had been ordered.

‘The fool. His pride kept him from refusing. That makes my work easier.’

The servant believed the knight was nothing more than a stubborn fool unwilling to complain. For an hour he had remained inside a room filled with broken and discarded equipment that was soon to be destroyed.

‘Is he coming out?’

After knocking a second time, impatience began to gnaw at him. Suddenly the door swung open and his jaw nearly dropped.

‘What is this? Has he lost his mind? He means to fight a duel looking like that?’

The sight of the man who should have been a noble knight commander left him stunned. He wanted to speak but held his tongue.

“T-the time has come, sir…”

The man paused briefly before stepping forward.

“Lead me there.”

The servant swallowed and forced his feet to move. Each step rang through the corridor as he guided the knight, though his thoughts were elsewhere. He looks as if he dug through a midden heap and strapped on whatever he found. This will be over quickly. The Lord will be pleased.

At last they emerged from the dim corridors into the open light of the arena. Noblemen and ladies had already taken their seats on raised benches. The jousting ground had been converted into a dueling ring, and the air was filled with the chatter and laughter of the highborn. Jeweled hands clutched gilded goblets, silks shimmered in the breeze, and every face twisted with amusement as their eyes settled on the knight at the servant’s side.

“Rust suits him well, don’t you think?”

“A knight commander? He looks more like a stablehand dressed in scraps.”

“Mayhaps the bastard truly found his reflection in this dog.”

The servant moved towards the side but could not help himself from chuckling as well. The knight that was supposed to represent Arthur Valerian, the fifth brother, looked ridiculous. The laughter spread like wildfire. Even the stiffest of nobles could not resist covering their lips. For them, this was entertainment, a rare chance to sneer at both the bastard son and his so-called knight.

Wayland walked with slow steps, his shield slung over his back and the warpick at his side. The armor he wore rattled faintly with every movement, its surface a strange patchwork of dulled steel, flaking bronze, and pieces that all seemed to mismatch with each other. Together they formed a discolored set of armor that was finished of by a strange face mask instead of a proper helmet. Yet though the nobles laughed, his stride did not falter.

Across the ring, Sir Hadrian was already waiting. His armor was sleek, clearly designed to enhance his control of Aura. Intricate runes covered the metal, some already glowing red as he gathered energy to display his strength. He stood tall and proud, his chin tilted at an arrogant angle, and when his small, beady eyes fell on Roland, his sneer stretched into a grin.

“Well, well. The mutt found himself a suit. Did you raid the castle’s compost heap for that?”

His voice was loud and nasal, carrying easily across the arena and drawing fresh laughter from the crowd. Roland gave no reply. His lips did not move, but his fingers adjusted on the haft of the warpick, testing its weight with quiet confidence. His silence only seemed to encourage Hadrian further.

“Hah, look at you.”

Hadrian sniggered at the sight before him.

“I am an honorable man. Kneel and apologize to me and my lord, and I will show you mercy.”

The small crowd of nobles laughed, with the ones sitting around Ivan being the loudest.

“Sir Hadrian is so gracious and mindful!”

“Indeed he is!”

Ivan seemed content with their words, though his attention was already drifting elsewhere. His wife had appeared and sat beside him, and as if spellbound by her beauty, his anger faded. The competition no longer seemed to matter, as though the outcome had already been decided.

Arthur sat far from his brother, isolated and unsupported. Not a single person dared approach his side, though many watched with keen interest to see what might unfold. Yet after seeing the disheveled state of his knight, they could only frown, as if realizing that their hopes of winning favor with this noble had been nothing more than foolish vanity.

“Nothing to say?”

Hadrian barked the words and puffed out his chest, as though silence itself were an insult.

“Then I will break that mask and drag an apology out of you!”

Another figure stepped forward, dressed like a butler. It was the judge of the competition.

“By the will of House Valerian, and before the eyes of His Grace and the assembled nobility, this duel is hereby sanctified.”

Though the duke himself was absent, the declaration carried across the dueling arena and silenced the whispers. Both knights stepped forward with their weapons drawn. Hadrian wielded an unusual weapon, not a sword but a long mace with spikes covering the head. Aura already shimmered across its surface as he waited for the judge to give the order to commence.

Roland tilted his head slightly, his face hidden by the mask. His warpick swung loosely at his side, held as casually as a farmer might carry a tool. To the crowd it seemed like mockery, as though he did not even know how to hold a knight’s weapon. Laughter rippled through the benches, but Arthur did not laugh. His hands remained folded, his eyes fixed on Wayland, and his face revealed nothing.

“Combatants, take your stance.”

Hadrian lifted the mace, aura swirling around it like a heat haze. His boots sank into the sand as he braced for the charge. Wayland lowered his stance and exhaled once, the warpick resting at an odd and seemingly unthreatening angle.

“Begin.”

Hadrian roared and surged forward, the ground trembling beneath his armored stride. His aura burst outward in red fire as he raised the weapon high, ready to smash Wayland’s face before he could even move. The crowd leaned forward, eager for the crunch of steel, but what followed was entirely different. At the last instant the knight’s form blurred, and the sound that rang out was not of a mace striking home but of a warpick colliding with shiny mithril instead…