Chapter 25: FRIH - 25
"Hmm?" Ronan noticed the pugilist leaping up and fleeing. With a single glance, he knew the man had been faking it.
For a brief moment, time seemed to slow. The battered pugilist, his face smeared with dirt and dried blood, pushed himself up from the ground in a sudden, desperate motion. His breath was ragged, each inhale a labored gasp, but there was fire in his eyes—one last chance, a gambler's final bet. Muscles rippled beneath his bruised skin as he sprang toward the nearest alley, hoping shadows would cloak his escape.
The guard, who had remained silent and vigilant in the background, snapped to attention. His eyes widened in surprise but quickly sharpened with resolve. His polished armor clinked softly as he moved, the sunlight catching the worn edges of his chestplate, dulled by countless skirmishes.
Seeing this, he sprang into action, signaling to Ronan with a sharp nod and a pointed gesture. No words were exchanged, but the meaning was clear—he would handle it. There was protocol to follow, appearances to uphold. And more importantly, someone had to ensure the pugilist's "safety." With so many corpses littering the quiet side street, accountability would soon become a pressing matter.
Swish!
The guard unsheathed his sword in one smooth motion, the metal gleaming for a moment before catching the light no longer. He sprinted after the fleeing figure, his boots slamming against the cobblestones, echoing through the otherwise hushed scene. The weight of his armor did not seem to hinder him; it clung close to his frame, enchanted perhaps, or custom-forged for agility. Within seconds, he closed the distance.
They clashed.
Sparks flew as steel met flesh and fist. The sound of heavy impacts rang out like drumbeats, jarring and chaotic. Each movement was laced with lethal intent.
Ronan watched, arms crossed, his posture relaxed but his gaze unwavering. His eyes followed the chaotic exchange with analytical calm, noting every shift in stance, every falter in timing. He had expected a close fight—at the very least, a demonstration of the guard's skill. This was, after all, a captain of Lord Marco's personal security detail.