Investing in My Crippled Wife: My Duchess Makes me Overpowered

He thought about the fight he had just witnessed. Garrick’s speed. His strength. His ruthlessness.

He thought about the warning.

He wanted to know what happened to his arrogant brother. Emeric knew he could not tell him. He was as good as dead if he did.

Emeric couldn’t tell him the truth. Not without admitting what he had done. Not without confessing to murder. Not without risking everything.

He would have to face him.

But not yet.

He sat there for a long time.

The sun moved across the sky. The shadows shifted. The city hummed around him.

He stood.

He walked back to the inn.

The Silver Dawn was quiet.

The innkeeper—the plump woman with kind eyes—was behind the counter. She looked up when he entered.

”My lord. You’re back early.”

”I am.”

”Did you watch the matches?”

”Some.”

She nodded. ”Can I get you anything?”

”Tea. If you have it.”

She smiled. ”I’ll bring it up.”

He climbed the stairs. Found his room. Sat on the bed.

The sword wrapped in cloth lay on the desk. He looked at it. Reached for it. Felt the warmth beneath the fabric.

Bjorn had told him not to open it. That it needed to mature. He didn’t know what that meant. But he trusted the dwarf.

He set it back down.

The innkeeper arrived with tea.

She set the tray on the desk. Poured a cup. Handed it to him.

”Thank you.”

She nodded. Turned to leave.

”Wait.”

She stopped.

”What’s your name?”

She blinked. ”My name?”

”Yes.”

She hesitated. ”Fileria.”

”Fileria.” He nodded. ”Thank you for the tea.”

She smiled. It was a small thing. But it was real.

”You’re welcome, my lord.”

She left.

Emeric drank his tea.

He thought about the tournament. About the rounds ahead. About Garrick.

He thought about what he would do when they faced each other.

He didn’t have an answer.

Not yet.

He set the cup down.

He lay on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.He didn’t sleep.

But he rested.

---

[STATUS: ADVANCED TO ROUND OF 16]

[TIER PROGRESS: 28% → 29%]

[DP: 3708]

He closed the notification.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would fight again.

--

The arena was packed.

Emeric stood in the tunnel beneath the stands. The roar of the crowd filtered down—muffled, distant, like the sound of the ocean. He could feel the vibration through the stone. The anticipation. The hunger.

He had fought twice since the qualifiers. Two matches. Two victories. He had not used his magic. Not once. Not even when his opponents pushed him.

He was saving it.

For Garrick.

For the final.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the tunnel.

”Ladies and gentlemen! The Round of 16 continues! First to the arena—the challenger! A warrior from the distant shores of Kaelthas! A master of the blade! A killer of men! Vaelor the Silent!”

The crowd roared.

Emeric stepped forward.

”And his opponent! The Unblessed one! The winner of the Hunt! Emeric Halden!”

Another roar. Louder this time.

He walked into the light.

The arena was the same as before. Packed earth. Iron walls. Thousands of faces.

But it felt different now. Smaller. More intimate. The qualifiers were chaos. This was precision. This was single combat that would determine if he moved up or not.

Across the arena, his opponent waited.

Vaelor the Silent.

He was tall. Lean. Dressed in black. His face was covered by a mask—smooth porcelain, featureless, with two dark holes for eyes. He carried a single blade—long, curved, glinting in the sunlight.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there.

Waiting.

The signal sounded.

Vaelor moved first.

He was fast. Faster than anyone Emeric had faced. He crossed the arena in a blur of black, his blade cutting through the air where Emeric had been standing a heartbeat before.

Emeric sidestepped. Barely.

The blade whistled past his ear. Vaelor spun. A second strike. Emeric ducked. A third. He rolled.

The crowd gasped.

Emeric came up in a crouch. Vaelor was already there. The blade came down. Emeric caught it on his forearm—the flat of the blade, not the edge—and deflected it. The impact jarred his arm. He ignored it.

Vaelor stepped back. Tilted his head. Studied him.

Then he attacked again.

It was relentless.

Vaelor didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. He attacked and attacked and attacked. His blade was everywhere—high, low, left, right. A storm of steel.

Emeric gave ground. Step by step. Parrying. Dodging. Rolling. He didn’t draw his daggers. He didn’t unsheathe his sword. He just moved.

The crowd was confused. Some of them started to boo. Others shouted encouragement. Most of them just watched.

Vaelor pressed harder.

A cut appeared on Emeric’s arm. Another on his shoulder. Another across his ribs. Shallow wounds. Not dangerous. Not yet. But they were accumulating.

He needed to end this.

Vaelor lunged.

A thrust aimed at his heart. Fast. Precise. Deadly.

Emeric didn’t dodge.

He stepped into it.

The blade passed by his side—close enough to tear his tunic—and he caught Vaelor’s wrist with his left hand. Twisted. The man gasped behind his mask.

Emeric drove his right fist into Vaelor’s chest.

The porcelain mask cracked.

Vaelor flew backward. He hit the ground. Rolled. Came up in a crouch.

But Emeric was already there.

He grabbed Vaelor’s sword arm. Twisted again. The blade clattered to the ground. He drove his knee into Vaelor’s stomach. The man doubled over. Emeric grabbed the back of his head. Slammed it into his own knee.

Once. Twice.

Vaelor collapsed

He didn’t get up.

The crowd was silent.

Then they erupted.

”The winner! Emeric Halden!”

Emeric stood over his fallen opponent. Breathing hard. Blood dripping from a dozen shallow wounds.

He had won.

Without magic. Without his daggers. Without his sword.

He raised his hand.

The crowd roared. It was a dangerous thing to do but he had done it.

He walked back toward the tunnel.

His body ached. His wounds stung. But he was alive. He had advanced.

He was halfway through the tunnel when a figure stepped out of the shadows.

A woman.