Re: Tales of the Rune-Tech Sage

Chapter 124: Duel Between Brother II

CH124 Duel Between Brother II

***

As soon as they entered each other’s range, they struck—almost simultaneously.

Kurt initiated a powerful slash.

But Alex was faster.

With a sudden step in, he launched a thrust aimed directly at Kurt’s neck.

Kurt was forced to abandon his swing, jerking his blade across his body to guard his throat.

Clang!

The rod met steel—but Alex wasn’t finished.

He jerked his shoulder sharply, shifting the rod’s path mid-contact. The redirected force deflected Kurt’s guard ever so slightly, just enough for the tip of the rod to slip past his sword and continue its deadly path toward his upper body.

In that life-or-death instant, Kurt made a bold move.

He released one hand from the Zweihander and threw out a punch with his off-hand.

Thud!

The fist slammed into the rod, knocking it upward at an angle. It sailed past his face by a hair’s breadth—missing entirely.

He didn’t let the motion go to waste.

Using the momentum from his punch, Kurt rotated his hips and delivered a sharp horizontal sweep aimed at Alex’s midsection.

Alex barely managed to retract his rod and shift it into a defensive guard, catching the edge of the sweep. Even so, the impact forced him aside, skidding him across the ground.

Kurt didn’t pause.

He surged forward, continuing his barrage—but this time, with a tactical shift.

Instead of large, arcing swings, he used tighter, shorter strikes—fast enough that Alex couldn’t use the impact to disengage like he had earlier.

’Look at this brat,’ Alex thought, parrying a quick slash. ’Smarter than you look... You’re forcing a battle of attrition, trying to wear me down.’

His arms ached.

Every movement now came with effort.

At the start, he had parried Kurt’s attacks with relative ease, but now—now it seemed like a struggle just to raise his weapon in time. With each clash, Kurt’s momentum grew—his strikes faster, heavier, and more oppressive.

The crowd sat in collective suspense.

Even the least combat-savvy could see the tide was turning.

In the VIP gallery, Count Gordon shook his head.

”For a mage, Alex has remarkable technique and combat sense,” he commented.

”But that’s also his weakness. Because Kurt’s attacks are simple, he’s overwhelming him through brute strength and tempo.”

”When raw force is strong enough, it can drown out any amount of finesse,” he added. ”Kurt’s building momentum. His every swing will grow easier, heavier. Meanwhile, Alex’s energy is bleeding out fast.”

Gordon’s voice grew grim.

”Sooner or later, the boy won’t be able to raise his rod fast enough. He’ll leave an opening... and Kurt will exploit it.

”It’s only a matter of time.”

Count Gordon turned slightly, eyeing Earl Drake’s expression.

None of the other four seated in the VIP gallery—save perhaps Baron Aiden—needed the running commentary. He hadn’t spoken for their benefit.

He had spoken to provoke a reaction from the Earl.

But as always, Earl Drake remained unreadable.

He sat languidly upon his throne-like chair, his chin resting on his left hand, which in turn was braced against the armrest. His gaze remained fixed on the arena, impassive and unmoved.

If anyone showed a reaction, it was Countess Megan.

Her fingers subtly tightened on her armrest—her expression schooled, indifferent, but the faint tension in her posture betrayed her thoughts.

’This is what happens when a mage overestimates himself,’ Baron Aiden mused internally, sneering. ’He actually thought he could take on a warrior in a physical duel. I thought he had a brain... turns out he’s just another hot-blooded idiot from this damned savage family.’

He scoffed quietly to himself.

’Still, better to deal with a musclehead like Kurt than a person with schemes like Alex. A straightforward opponent is more preferable to one with silent daggers in the dark.’

Seeing that Earl Drake gave no reaction to his earlier words, Count Gordon turned his full attention back to the duel.

Back in the arena, Kurt was relentless.

He kept Alex firmly within his striking range, hounding him like a predator. Each swing of the Zweihander applied more pressure, allowing no room for a counter, no gap to retreat.

Kurt could feel it—victory was within reach. He could almost taste it.

”You done running?” he sneered. ”And here I thought you had become some powerful genius. Trash will always be trash.”

Alex didn’t take the bait silently.

”Says the coward who sent assassins after me,” he shot back. ”Too scared to fight me face-to-face.”

The retort nearly cost him. His momentary lapse in focus created a gap in his guard—but he barely managed to recover in time, blocking the follow-up strike by instinct.

But Kurt’s temper was flaring again.

Veins bulged along his neck. His grip on the Zweihander shifted—both hands now low on the hilt, in a stance similar to a baseball batter’s.

A rush of Internal Energy surged through his arms.

He twisted his hips to the max and—

Whoosh!

—unleashed a horizontal swing, wide and fast, aimed squarely at Alex’s ribs.

WHAM!

The impact was brutal.

Alex didn’t so much block the attack as get launched by it—his rod knocked aside as his body was batted away like a ragdoll. He tumbled across the stone floor, his body rolling awkwardly until he finally came to a painful halt, dozens of metres away.

He lay sprawled on the ground.

Bruises and cuts marred his arms and legs—souvenirs from his desperate, controlled roll to dissipate the force of the blow.

But the accumulated soreness and strain had caught up to him. His limbs screamed in protest. He couldn’t move.

’It’s over.’

Kurt exhaled, already certain of his win.

He walked calmly towards Alex, sword raised, a slow march toward execution.

”Mother sent those assassins to give you a clean, swift death,” he sneered as he approached. ”Consider it giving face to Father. But you just had to make this messy, didn’t you?

”Fine. I’ll take my time then. I’ll hack off your limbs... one by one... and then I’ll kill you.”

He raised the Zweihander and swung down at Alex’s right arm—the one that still gripped the rod, even in the agony of muscle failure.

CLANG!

***