Redemption Arc

Despite all his taunting, Denzel didn’t intend to take this fight lightly. He had heard plenty of what Lucian did. When enough rumor comes together, there was bound at least to be a shred of truth. Even if Lucian wasn’t as skilled as his deeds suggested, there was no harm in being safe.

“Ready, and… go,” the instructor declared.

Denzel advanced forward at a speedy but cautious pace. Lucian, meanwhile, came out of the gate at a breakneck pace, couching his spear like a knight on horseback.

But I prepared for this, Denzel thought triumphantly.

Denzel took a few steps backward and then dodged elegantly to the left. He’d done his practice: that skill, Charge, was powerful, but committed its user heavily. Denzel raised his spear up in preparation to counterattack. To his surprise, Lucian immediately diverted from Charge to another skill in a seamless transition. Denzel could feel the intangible energy distinct to martial skills in the air moments before Lucian did a tremendous spinning slash.

Looks like you did have some trick in mind, Denzel thought as the spear cut through the air toward him.

If Denzel had approached this recklessly, he might’ve had to contend with both the Charge and the Spinning Slash skill. Instead, as the spearhead whistled near, Denzel wove underneath it like a snake. He flicked his spear upward in a quick, punishing motion. It sliced through Lucian’s calf, then carried on to graze his shoulder.

His constitution is that weak? Denzel, still cautious, backed up.

Once more, that turned out to be the right call. Lucian, instead of ending there, pierced out with an incredibly powerful thrust that fell just short of Denzel’s eyes. In the polished spearhead inches away from his face, Denzel saw his own red eyes reflected. Sensing opportunity, Denzel grabbed the spear’s haft and pulled Lucian forward as he thrust his own spear out.

Denzel’s spear grazed Lucian’s waist, piercing through easily. His cousin’s physique… Denzel thought that his own body was weaker compared to most, but he had the constitution of an ox compared to Lucian. Logic dictated he should press the offense, but he showed Lucian due deference by backing away to prepare for another wave of attacks.

Denzel studied Lucian cautiously. His leg was cut deep, his shoulder less so. There was a formidable wound in his waist, and it bled heavily. Even beyond the wounds, Lucian looked utterly exhausted. Using martial skills put a tremendous burden on the user’s body. The fight was probably already over. Part of him was disappointed, frankly, but another was relieved.

This is all he amounts to, Denzel accepted. He hasn’t changed at all.

***

Lucian stared at Denzel. The man’s figure was blurry as he watched. He’d never been hurt this badly. He wanted to scream out in pain, but he gritted his teeth to hold it in. In so doing, he ended up biting his tongue on accident. As the taste of blood filled his mouth, he had time to think.

This is what fighting is. Lucian took the time to catch his breath as Denzel waited cautiously. I don’t want to be here. I don’t ever want to do this again. I should have realized that I’m a coward. I should have known my limitations.

Denzel moved so much quicker than he’d been expecting. Lucian had contingencies for missing one of those attacks. All three skills were highly accurate, well-suited to dealing with characters that specialized in SPD. Even if he missed one, the idea of missing two or three… it simply hadn’t seemed possible.

Got unlucky, Lucian thought. Bad RNG.

Denzel didn’t say anything, but Lucian thought he could see contempt in those red eyes of his. Worse than that…

“Heavens, he’s pathetic. Cheap tricks, that’s all he can rely on.”

Lucian tried not to pay the spectators any mind, but he heard them. He heard their laughter, their jeers… and he hated it. He could tell that this wasn’t something stemming from his mind alone. Lucian—the real Lucian… deep, conditioned rage bubbled to the surface. No one liked being mocked, especially not when their mockery carried with it a veneer of truth.

But second by second, Lucian dispelled that rage. It wasn’t useful. It was just a hindrance that distracted him from executing his plans.

Getting tilted messes with your execution, Lucian told himself. The moment that you lose your cool, deviate from the plan, the run’s already over.

Lucian refocused. Denzel started to walk toward him with his spear held out. He ran through things in his head. Dodging all three of those skills so perfectly… Denzel had seemed beyond quick. If Lucian was right, Denzel must’ve primarily been training SPD since he arrived here. That meant that his STR was comparatively lower than Lucian had been expecting.

It felt absurd, but… Lucian felt he could estimate Denzel’s stats. If he was right about things, and if Denzel had the stat spread Lucian thought that he did…

I can barely survive one more hit.

It would be close. He would be at one, maybe two health. Frankly, he didn’t know if he could endure the pain. But it was time to stop wallowing in despair about bad luck. Maybe it was time to acknowledge that he could do more than just survive.

He could save Lucian Villamar.

And if I’m wrong… hell with it. I’ll lose anyway.

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“You’re killing me, Denzel,” Lucian said, and Denzel narrowed his eyes. “Killing me like Prince Algard might kill your mother, one day.”

Unlike all of the other times that Denzel had gotten angry, he didn’t seethe impotently. He didn’t need to, because he had an outlet for his rage: Lucian. His eyes widened briefly before narrowing down and focusing on Lucian with such an intensity he felt almost certain he was dead. Denzel fell on him like a predator, and his spear thrust out fiercely.

Lucian ducked, entering a martial stance. He wasn’t fast enough to dodge. The spear pierced into his shoulder and left another gruesome wound. His mind danced as pain consumed all of his thoughts. But he kept his stance… and used a particular skill.

Why use martial arts at all when magic existed? It was a reasonable question. In the War of Four, people that used martial arts weren’t in any way inferior to mages. They could possess superhuman strength, yes, but that wasn’t it. Martial skills could often exert just as much power as the best of spells—sometimes, far more. Much like magic, they were able to exert power that strength alone couldn’t.

Defiant Stand was a speedrunner’s favorite skill. Why? The lower one’s health, the more damage it did. If the player planned things just right, they could fight their way through a map, slowly losing health bit by bit. They could calculate things perfectly, taking just the right amount of damage on just the right turn. The speedrunner carves their way to the boss, one HP remaining. Then…

Then, they kill the boss in one hit.

Lucian’s spear surged right toward Denzel’s neck. Where before there had been predatory rage, caution slowly followed, then unease, then, as the steel met his neck…

Lucian saw fear in Denzel’s eyes.

***

Everyone watched the fight expectantly as Phoenix’s Watch activated. Both fighters were forcibly separated by the spell, and returned to the side of the healers.

“Looks like Denzel won,” someone said.

Rowan started laughing.

“What are you laughing at?” Arslan asked.

“Look at Lucian,” Rowan said, pointing. “Still covered in injuries. Phoenix’s Watch didn’t activate to heal him.” He smiled. “It activated to protect Denzel.”

Arslan narrowed his eyes. “You’re speaking nonsense. That’s just the lingering blood.”

Rowan looked at Arslan. “Well, you tell me.” He gestured toward the prince. “Does that look like the face of someone that just won?”

***

Denzel grabbed his neck, sweating heavily as he kneeled on the ground. His whole body was shaking. He felt it. He felt the spearhead slice through his neck, fierce enough to carry onward and sever his throat, his spine—fierce enough to cleave his head off in one blow. He would be dead. If not for this spell protecting him, his head would be rolling on the ground of the stadium.

“Lucian wins!” the Head Instructor announced.

Denzel looked up in a trance, gaze wandering. People looked confused. They’d all seen what was happening, and so the sudden reversal of fortune seemed dramatic. No one was more shocked than Denzel himself. One attack. He’d lost in one attack. He’d looked down on his opponent for one second. If that’d been the battlefield, he’d be dead.

“Hey,” Lucian called out, and Denzel looked up. After that experience, he couldn’t help but tense up as Lucian walked up to him with his spear in hand. He was still covered in blood, especially his face and arms. It dripped from his fingers as he came to stand over Denzel.

“What?” Denzel asked, still shaken.

“Don’t worry.” Lucian held out his bloody hand, as if offering to help him up. “Even if you don’t become the heir to the Villamar fortune… I’ll look after your mother for you.”

Lucian smiled—that trademark condescending, smugly superior smile. His face was covered in blood, and those bestial yellow eyes stared down as if laughing at him. Before, Denzel thought he had reason to look down on Lucian. But now the man said he’d ‘look after’ his mother… and Denzel could do naught but stare, beaten and broken. What could he say? What could he do? Nothing. As ever, he was powerless.

Denzel stood and ran, uncaring of the gazes cast his way.

***

Lucian stared as Prince Denzel ran away in total confusion. He knew the second prince valued strength, and so he intended to use this opportunity to mend the fence by promising he’d keep his mother safe, no matter the outcome.

Maybe the timing was a bit off… Lucian realized, reflecting on his choice of words. He’d been a bit delirious after coming that close to death and then winning, and he’d said words that probably should’ve held for a better time. Or maybe he’s in shock, Lucian thought optimistically. Perhaps I can use the trip with Prince Metterand to bridge the distance between us.

“Heavens. You can be pretty terrifying when you want to be,” Rowan remarked as he walked up. “It seems like my training didn’t help you at all. You came up with your own solution to that fight.”

Lucian tried not to act proud… but it was in vain. “Just a little quick thinking.”

“I have to say, you make polearms look fun to use,” Rowan said. “I definitely have to start picking up some sword skills. I thought they’d be among the last things that I learned.”

“If you want, I could tell you exactly what to train,” Lucian suggested. “Make you more than potent.”

Rowan smiled. “I do have some pride. Let me figure things out on my own.” He grabbed Lucian’s shoulder. “Now… how about you watch my fight with Arslan?”

“My plan was to walk out of here coolly, and then get disqualified when I don’t show up for the next match,” Lucian said. “But… fine, for you.”

Rowan tsked. “Aww… for me?”

“In return, maybe you’d consider forfeiting once you reach third place and giving me the prize,” Lucian suggested.

Rowan looked at him like he was crazy as they went to join the crowds. The result, in Lucian's mind, was predetermined. The protagonist wins. Lucian was just satisfied staying alive.

***

Lucian walked out of his apartment in Verne, feeling strained in an elaborate getup. Duke Metterand was waiting on the other side, waiting for Lucian in an outfit so ostentatious it hurt the eyes. It made Lucian’s outfit seem austere.

Metterand eyed Lucian’s huge suitcase. “Are you moving back home?”

“No. Matter of fact, I might be moving out here permanently,” Lucian suggested.

“Hmm.” Metterand laughed, taking it as a joke. “Well, come. The journey to Golvenne is shorter than it used to be, but I want to make fast progress. We certainly can’t keep Duke Cyril Villamar waiting, can we? After all, there’s such interesting news to deliver to him…”

Metterand turned and walked away. Lucian inhaled deeply of the sea air in Verne, knowing that it might be some time before he could smell the salt once again.