Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution

Chapter 69: Chapter 69: The Duel of Honor

Sol-Regis Royal Academy – The Grand Colosseum. Midday – The Final Round.

The sun hung at its absolute zenith, a punishing white orb that turned the sky into a furnace. Below, the Grand Colosseum—a massive amphitheater of ancient stone and modern magitech reinforcement—vibrated with the suppressed energy of ten thousand spectators. The white sands of the arena floor had been baked into a shimmering, heat-reflecting bed of embers. Every breath taken by the crowd felt heavy, as if the air itself was thick with the weight of the impending clash.

In the center of this scorched circle, two figures stood as polar opposites of Aethelgardian society.

Prince Caelus, the Golden Prodigy, looked like a statue brought to life. His ceremonial light plate, forged from a rare auric-glass and steel alloy, caught every ray of the sun and threw it back with a blinding brilliance. In his right hand, he held his signature Rapier—a slender, lethal needle of enchanted mythril that hummed with a high-frequency vibration, a clear sign of his mastery over focused Mana flow.

Opposite him, Raphael Sudrath stood as a silhouette of defiance. He had traded the traditional noble finery for a suit of matte-black tactical leather that seemed to absorb the light around him. His face was obscured by dark, polarized goggles that hid his eyes, giving him the appearance of a cold, unfeeling machine. His left arm bore a small, circular mirror-finished buckler, and his boots—thick, heavy, and hissing with steam—looked entirely out of place in a duel of high-born blades.

”Begin!” the Chief Justice’s voice boomed, amplified by the resonance stones embedded in the stadium walls.

WUSH!

Caelus didn’t wait. He was a creature of refined aggression. With a speed that was the result of a decade of training under the Royal Blademasters, he became a golden blur. His Rapier lunged forward, aiming with surgical precision for the center of Raphael’s chest. It was a strike intended to end the match in a single breath—a streak of golden lightning that promised a swift and decisive end.

Raphael didn’t even attempt a traditional parry. His arm strength was that of a fourteen-year-old, nowhere near capable of stopping the momentum of a third-year elite’s thrust.

CISSS!

A sharp, pneumatic hiss erupted from the soles of Raphael’s boots. The ground beneath him exploded in a controlled burst of dust as the hydraulic pistons triggered. With a surge of artificial kinetic energy, Raphael launched himself sideways at an angle that defied human biomechanics. The golden blade missed his ribs by a hair’s breadth, the displaced air whistling like a predator’s call past his ear.

”Keep scurrying, you little Northern rat!” Caelus snarled. He didn’t let the missed strike slow him down. He pivoted on a single heel, his movements as fluid as a dancer’s, and converted his forward momentum into a vicious, horizontal sweep.

Raphael raised his mirror-buckler and braced himself.

TRANG!

The impact was bone-jarring. Even with his heavy boots acting as anchors, Raphael was dragged back three meters through the white sand, leaving deep furrows in his wake. The vibrations traveled through his arm, threatening to numb his grip, but the internal dampeners of his suit absorbed the worst of it. He didn’t fall.

”Current score: zero to zero!” the commentator shouted. ”Prince Caelus is dominating the tempo, but the Young Master of Sudrath remains untouched! The agility of those mechanical boots is unprecedented!”

Inside his goggles, Raphael’s eyes were cold and analytical. He was counting the rhythm of Caelus’s breathing, calculating the torque of every swing.

Analysis: He’s getting emotional. His Mana output is spiking, but his form is becoming wider. He’s looking for a flashy finish to please the crowd. Just thirty more seconds until the sun hits ninety degrees.

”You’re a stain on the pride of this Academy, Sudrath!” Caelus roared. He funneled a massive surge of Mana into his rapier. The mythril blade began to glow with a blinding yellow aura, shimmering like a miniature sun.

”Royal Art: Solar Thrust!”

Caelus lunged again, but this time he broke the sound barrier with a localized Mana-burst. He was no longer just a swordsman; he was a projectile of pure light, closing the distance in a fraction of a second.

Raphael offered a thin, sharp smirk. ”Now.”

As Caelus reached the peak of his momentum, Raphael didn’t jump. He simply tilted his mirror-shield upward at a precise, pre-calculated angle.

The harsh, direct noon sunlight hit the shield’s surface. Because Rianor had treated the metal with a specialized reflective Mana-coating, the shield didn’t just reflect the light—it focused it into a high-intensity beam. A pillar of blinding, white-hot radiance shot directly into Caelus’s unprotected eyes.

”ARGH!” Caelus cried out, his vision instantly turning into a void of searing white pain. His sharp reflexes, usually his greatest asset, betrayed him as he instinctively raised his free hand to cover his face, his balance wavering.

In that heartbeat of temporary blindness, Raphael made his move. He didn’t use his blade. He pressed a thumb-trigger on the handle of his shield.

HUMMMM...

A low-frequency magnetic hum vibrated through the air. Raphael didn’t strike Caelus’s body. Instead, he slammed the flat of his shield against the vibrating blade of the Prince’s rapier.

The high-capacity Mana Battery in the buckler activated the copper induction coils embedded beneath the mirror surface. A magnetic field of terrifying power manifested instantly, locking the mythril-iron alloy of the sword to the shield like a vice.

”Let go!” Caelus shouted in a panic, his vision beginning to clear just in time to see his legendary weapon stuck to a piece of ’trash’ tech. He pulled with all his might, but the magnetic bond was absolute.

”I’ll be borrowing this,” Raphael whispered.

With a sudden, violent twist of his entire body—aided by a secondary hydraulic burst from his boots—Raphael yanked the shield to the side.

The physics were undeniable: Magnetic attraction + sudden rotational torque + the Prince’s own forward momentum = ...

CLANG!

The Rapier was ripped from Caelus’s grip. The weapon vibrated violently against the shield before settling flat against the metal.

Caelus stood there, his hand still frozen in the air, his eyes wide with a shock so profound it bordered on a mental collapse. In the rules of aristocratic dueling, being disarmed was a moment of total, unequivocal defeat.

Raphael didn’t waste a second. He delivered a swift, controlled kick to the back of Caelus’s knee—not to injure, but to break the Prince’s stance. As Caelus stumbled to one knee, Raphael leveled the tip of his blunt practice sword exactly one inch from the center of the Prince’s throat.

”Checkmate,” Raphael said, his voice as calm as a winter morning in Northreach.

The referee blew a long, sharp blast on his whistle.

PRITTTTT!!!

”DISARMAMENT CONFIRMED! ONE TECHNICAL POINT FOR RAPHAEL SUDRATH!”

”THE WINNER IS... RAPHAEL SUDRATH!”

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the ten thousand spectators. One second. Two seconds.

Then, the ”Scholarship Wing” of the stadium exploded in a roar that shook the very foundation of the city. Commoners and lower-tier nobles stood on their seats, screaming until their throats were raw. ”THE BOSS WON! THE NORTHERN LION HAS BITTEN!”

Raphael clicked the magnetic switch off. The Prince’s Rapier slid off the shield and fell into the sand with a dull, hollow thud.

He extended his hand toward Caelus, offering the customary gesture of sportsmanship. ”A fine match, Your Highness. Your speed is truly terrifying. I could barely keep up.”

But Caelus didn’t take the hand.

His handsome face was a mask of distorted fury, flushed a deep, violent crimson. The veins in his neck were pulsing like living things. He, the Seventh Prince of the bloodline, the star pupil of the Royal Blademasters, had been defeated by... a mirror? A magnet? A pair of spring-loaded boots?

His pride, the very thing he had spent sixteen years building, had been pulverized in front of the entire kingdom.

”YOU CHEATED!” Caelus shrieked, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and humiliation.

He slapped Raphael’s hand away with brutal force. He dove for his sword, snatching it from the sand with a frantic desperation.

His Mana aura, once a controlled golden light, exploded into a jagged, uncontrolled storm of chaotic blue energy. His eyes were no longer those of an athlete; they were the eyes of a cornered animal in the grip of a psychotic break.

”THAT WAS NOT SWORDSMANSHIP! THAT WAS MECHANICAL HERESY!”

Caelus raised his sword. The duel was over, the points had been recorded, but he didn’t care. He lunged at the unarmed Raphael, who had already lowered his guard and turned to acknowledge the crowd.

”DIE!”

Raphael’s eyes widened behind his goggles. He was too close. His boots were on cooldown. He was a technician, not a martial arts master, and he wasn’t prepared for a lethal strike from a crazed Prince.

The referee panicked, reaching for his own wand. ”STOP! THE MATCH IS OVER!”

But Caelus was deaf to the world. His blade whistled through the air, aimed for Raphael’s shoulder.

Suddenly...

A blur of navy-blue silk descended from the VIP tribunal, moving with a speed that defied the laws of gravity.

SSSSHHHHHH.

The air temperature in the center of the arena plummeted instantly. Frost bloomed across the burning sand. A wave of shimmering, crystalline ice manifested in the air, wrapping around Caelus’s wrist like a freezing, unbreakable chain.

Raveena Sudrath stood between them.

She had manifested her ice magic without a single word of a chant, her telescopic staff glowing with a brilliant, steady azure light. She held Caelus’s sword-arm in place with a grip made of frozen Mana.

Caelus froze. His blade stopped exactly one inch from Raphael’s throat. The heat of his rage met the absolute zero of her power.

He looked at the person holding him.

Raveena didn’t look at him with anger. She didn’t look at him with fear. She looked at him with a look of profound, soul-crushing disappointment.

”Your Highness,” Raveena’s voice was soft, yet it carried with a supernatural clarity that silenced the entire stadium.

”Let go,” Raveena said.

”Get out of the way, Raveena!” Caelus gasped, his breath coming in ragged bursts, tears of fury welling in his eyes. ”Your brother shamed me! He cheated! He used toys to mock my heritage! I will not stand for it!”

”He used his mind,” Raveena replied calmly, her gaze never wavering. ”And you lost. Accept it before you lose your soul as well.”

Caelus trembled, his muscles straining against the ice. ”I am a Prince! I cannot be defeated by cheap Northern tricks!”

Raveena took a half-step forward, closing the distance. She reached out and placed her other hand over Caelus’s frozen fist. This time, the touch wasn’t cold. It was surprisingly warm—a gesture of grounding peace that radiated from her palm.

”A Prince,” Raveena said, looking deep into his turbulent blue eyes, ”is not respected because he is invincible.”

”A future King is respected because he knows how to accept defeat with his head held high. He knows that his dignity is worth more than a piece of gold.”

The words pierced through Caelus’s thick armor of ego.

A future King.

She wasn’t seeing him as a loser. She was reminding him of the man he was supposed to be—the man she believed he could be.

”If you strike my brother now, while he is unarmed and the match is concluded,” Raveena continued gently, ”you are no Prince. You are merely a common thug with a crown. Is that the man you want me to see when I look at you?”

Caelus went still. The jagged, chaotic Mana aura around him began to recede, flickering out like a dying candle in a storm.

His rage evaporated, extinguished by the cold logic and the unexpected tenderness of the girl before him. Caelus let the mythril sword slip from his fingers. It fell into the sand for the second time that day, its hum finally silenced.

He looked down, his shoulders slumping. The shame that had turned into rage now returned to its original form—pure, crushing embarrassment.

”I...” Caelus whispered, so low only Raveena could hear him. ”I lost my temper. I’m sorry.”

Raveena smiled. It was a genuine, radiant smile that made Caelus’s heart skip a beat, but this time, it was a warm, comfortable sensation, not the frantic thumping of anxiety.

She reached into her cloak and produced a clean, silk handkerchief. With a focused, gentle movement, she reached up and began wiping the sweat and grit from Caelus’s forehead—an act so intimate and scandalous that half the noble students in the stands gasped in unison.

”It’s alright,” Raveena said. ”Defeat is a part of growth. What matters is that you stopped.”

Raveena turned toward Raphael, who was still standing behind her in shock, his goggles pushed up to his forehead.

”Raphael. Shake his hand. Properly this time.”

Raphael took a breath, trying to process the fact that he was still alive. He stepped forward and extended his hand again.

”Good game, Your Highness. Truly. Your ’Solar Thrust’ was terrifying. My shield’s internal frame is actually warped from the heat.” (Raphael lied slightly, a tactical move to salvage the Prince’s ego).

Caelus looked at Raphael’s hand. Then he looked at Raveena, who gave him an encouraging nod.

With a hesitant, almost shaky movement, Caelus took Raphael’s hand and shook it.

”You won, Sudrath,” Caelus said stiffly, though the malice was gone. ”Your tactics are... infuriating. But effective. I admit your victory.”

”The bet stands,” Caelus continued, glancing briefly at Raveena before looking away, his ears turning a bright shade of red. ”I will not bother your sister with my ’bureaucracy’ again. I will keep my word.”

”Thank you,” Raphael grinned, his mischievous side returning now that the danger had passed. ”Does that mean I don’t have to fill out the bathroom sanitation logs tomorrow?”

Caelus snorted, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ”Don’t push your luck, Janitor.”

The roar of the crowd returned, this time filled with a sense of awe at the display of sportsmanship—and the palpable romantic tension in the center of the pit.

High up in the VIP box, Prince Cedric, the Third Prince, watched the scene with a look of utter loathing.

”Tch. Caelus is a disgrace to the royal name. Defeated by a Northern upstart, and then tamed by a woman’s touch. How pathetic. It seems I will have to take matters into my own hands.”

But Caelus didn’t hear him. He didn’t care.

Today, he had lost a duel. But as Raveena’s hand briefly brushed against his as she tucked her handkerchief away... he felt as though he had won something far more valuable than a gold medal. He had found a reason to be more than just a ’spare.’