Ersia: Raven Dawn

There was no language fit to carry what gnawed at Lisabelle’s marrow. Even if there had been, her lips would have betrayed her—she herself could not name the thing that curdled her breath and bristled her skin. It was senseless, primal, unbidden: the phantom taste of blood thick on her tongue and the cloying stench of murder steeped deep in her lungs. Mr. Sunday stood draped in civility, but beneath the mask and mannered quirks, an unfathomable rage seethed—raw, incandescent, and barely contained. She did not know how she knew it; only that she did, and it suffocated her.

While the others’ eyes fastened on her in puzzled alarm, Mr. Sunday’s boots crunched softly on the gravel. He stepped down from the hilt of his sword with an easy, almost dandyish grace and drew the weapon free from the earth. Sauntering forward, he stroked his goatee in thought, an idle smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he slid the wooden blade back into its lacquered black scabbard.

“My lord, I suppose the young lady here is Lisabelle?” His voice was bright, lilting with mock curiosity.

“H-Huh? Oh… yes. Yes, she is,” Vincent answered, the confusion muddling his usual precision.

The masked man pressed a gloved hand to his chest and inhaled deeply, as though drawing in the autumn air itself. Across from him, Lisabelle straightened into her stance with mechanical precision. Her knees flexed, her weight settled evenly over the balls of her feet, and her platinum hair shivered against her gambeson as she prepared to spring at the faintest provocation. She was a taut bowstring incarnate.

“I thought she was supposed to be more… fervent? Wait—was that the right fancy word?” Mr. Sunday mused aloud, tilting his head in exaggerated contemplation.

“What do you want from us?” Lisabelle’s voice cut through the growing murmur like tempered steel. Her poise mirrored the day at the flea market—rigid, calculated, alert to every twitch in his posture. Her narrowed gaze dissected him inch by inch, searching for rhythm, tells, any glimpse beneath his practiced veneer.

“What do I want? Right now?” Mr. Sunday scratched under his mask as though genuinely pondering. “Hm. A glass of apple juice would be nice, to be honest.”

“Stop playing around.” Her words hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m asking why you’re here. What is your purpose? …What are you?”

A sharp snort of laughter burst from him. He tapped the mask’s feline nose with a gloved finger, amusement dancing in his tone.

"I beg you pardon this lowly mercenary's poor demeanor, but I do think that you are being too tense for no reason at all, Young Lady Lisabelle. Try to relax a little. I'm just here for my job, I swear! Nothing extra!"

Lisabelle’s stance softened by the barest fraction. He spoke the truth—at least, no lie laced his words that her gut could catch—but her instincts screamed louder than reason. Her muscles remained coiled, her stare unbroken.

“As I said,” Mr. Sunday continued, flourishing his hand in an airy gesture, “I was summoned at Lord Vincent’s request to enjoy a bit of light sparring with his uh . . . . what were you to him again? Niece? Ahem, all in all! So here I am, A humble swordsman earning his keep.” His tone danced between cordiality and derision, feather-light and maddeningly elusive.

Around them, Vincent’s household guards had begun to murmur, their voices threading together in an undercurrent of rumor and doubt. The old whisper surfaced again—Lisabelle Arbon, the last scion of a fading line, unwell in mind, cursed perhaps. As they watched her rigid form and wild-eyed wariness, the embers of scandal rekindled among their ranks, poised to tarnish her name anew.

Lisabelle’s jaw flexed, and with crisp resolve, she gave a curt nod.

“Very well. Return to your side and wait. I will fetch my weapons.”

Mr. Sunday gave a flourishing bow, almost theatrical in its extravagance. “Ah! You are finally awake! Let us start then!”

Their feet turned in tandem, the soft scrape of boots marking their parting as they strode to opposite ends of the field. Lisabelle’s shoulders squared with every step, but halfway to the armory, she slowed—then halted. Her spine straightened, chin lifting as if a fresh current of defiance had caught her by the collar.

Without looking back, her voice carried—clear and unflinching.

“Mr. Sunday, wasn’t it? You don’t mind a girl using real weapons, do you?”

Across the ground, he halted as well. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt in his reply. The answer came quick as a whipcrack, light and affable.

“Of course, young lady. You may even ask for others’ help, if you wish. Four people maximum, though—I fear I can’t handle more than that!”

He chuckled softly under his mask, as if sharing a jest between old friends rather than setting the stage for contest. His gloved hand brushed the scabbard at his waist, fingers tapping idly—as though he were humming to himself rather than contemplating a duel.

Lisabelle said nothing in return. But the faintest curl of her lip betrayed something like grim amusement, or perhaps acceptance of the unspoken pact they had just forged. Without breaking stride again, she made for her weapons—her silhouette lean and resolute against the amber sky.

---

The two duelists took their places on opposite ends of the field. At the center stood Groban, a broad-shouldered mercenary from Vincent’s retinue, now serving as referee. Flanking the grounds, Alan and Gwen, both seasoned retainers, settled into their roles as judges, quills poised and notebooks ready to tally each strike.

The training ground had been meticulously arranged to mirror the chaos of true battle: wooden dummies of varied heights jutted from the soil like scattered effigies, the terrain broken by patches of slick mud and uneven ground that promised treachery beneath careless feet.

Mr. Sunday perched leisurely atop one of the taller dummies, one leg dangling, the other bent comfortably beneath him. His masked face tilted, admiring the field with an air of idle approval.

“Hm. Very fancy,” he remarked, voice lilting with amusement. “I like the set-up.”

“Duelists! En garde!” Groban barked, voice cutting through the murmurs.

Lisabelle’s grip tightened around her chosen arms. In her right hand, a short sword gleamed dully; in her left, a sickle curved like a crescent moon. The handles of both were bound with taut rubber cords, slingshot bands fashioned for swift, snapping strikes and unorthodox maneuvers. Across from her, Mr. Sunday held only a simple wooden longsword, resting lightly in his finger as if it weighed nothing at all.

They stared across the expanse at each other. The stillness stretched thin between them—two minds locked in wholly different currents.

“. . .”

“. . .”

Groban cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “H-Hello? I said en garde, bro . . .”

Mr. Sunday didn’t stir from his seat. His tone was relaxed, almost genial.

“Ah, don’t mind me. I’m ready whenever she is.”

Groban exhaled sharply and gave a curt nod.

“Sure then. Ready . . . Go!”

With a practiced leap, the referee sprang back to clear the field. Lisabelle advanced, each step measured and slow, her weight balanced with care against the uneven soil. Mr. Sunday remained atop the dummy, unbothered, watching her approaching with casual intrigue.

Even when she crossed into arm’s reach, neither struck. The air between them grew taut as wire.

Lisabelle’s voice was quiet—private and sharp as a blade’s edge.

“Now that I’m close, I can say it plainly. You stink so bad. So very bad.”

Mr. Sunday cocked his head, the smile evident even behind the mask.

“Hm? No way. I took two baths today, just for the occasion.”

Her eyes narrowed, cutting through his levity.

“Tell me, Mr. Sunday. You’ve killed people, haven’t you?”

Though the exchange was muted, Mr. Sunday’s laughter rang clear across the field—rich and unrestrained.

“Well, what can I say? Killing’s my trade, young lady. I’m a mercenary. But don’t fret,” he added lightly, “I only kill monsters.”

Lisabelle didn’t blink. Her voice dropped, low and certain.

“Liar.”

The instant the word left her lips, Lisabelle exploded into motion.

Her twin blades carved wide arcs through the air—steel flashing with feral precision. Mr. Sunday met the assault head-on, parrying both strikes in a single deft motion with his wooden longsword. With a grunt and a twist of his shoulders, he hurled her upward, the sheer force ripping her boots from the ground. Yet Lisabelle, undeterred, hooked her sickle around the shaft of his sword mid-flight. Using the momentum, she yanked herself back down, twisting in the air to drive straight towards his exposed neck.

Her blade sang within a breath of his throat.

But at the last instant, Mr. Sunday released his grip on the sword. Letting gravity claim him, he fell backwards and—smooth as a dancer—snapped his left boot upward. The sole caught Lisabelle square on the cheek with an almost playful precision, diverting her trajectory violently to the side.

She hit the ground hard and skidded. Meanwhile, Mr. Sunday arched into a flawless backflip, landing on his feet just as his relinquished sword spun down from above. He caught it cleanly with practiced ease.

“Creative,” he mused, examining a fresh gouge along the grain of his wooden blade. “But poor judgment. You’d have had a cleaner chance at my neck with a swing, not a thrust.”

Lisabelle spat a dark smear onto the dirt, her jaw clenched tight. With controlled slowness, she rose again and began to stalk him—this time, circling with a hunter’s patience.

Yet Mr. Sunday seemed unimpressed. He stood relaxed, leaning casually on his longsword as though resting at a tavern counter, not in the heart of a duel. His gaze drifted idly across the training ground, deliberately ignoring her.

Her brows knit, but she said nothing.

When she judged her position ripe for the strike, Lisabelle darted forward once more—low and fast as a coiled serpent. This time her blades angled mercilessly for tendons, joints, arteries—soft, vulnerable seams of flesh where even a wooden weapon could end a fight.

But Mr. Sunday’s response was as old as combat itself.

In a flash, he pivoted on his heel, scuffing hard against the broken terrain. A spray of dirt and jagged clumps of earth shot up, pelting Lisabelle square in the face. Reflex made her flinch—her stride faltered.

And that was all the opening he needed.

Bhug—Whoosh!

A double-handed swing crashed into her right flank. Though her short sword rose just in time to absorb the brunt, the sheer weight behind the strike overwhelmed her defense. The impact hurled her sideways like a ragdoll. She slammed into one of the smaller wooden dummies, shattering it clean in two beneath her crumpling frame.

“Lily!” Viena’s voice rang sharp with panic.

“Ugh… Cough—Ack.”

Lisabelle gagged, dark flecks of blood speckling her lips. Her ribs burned, the entire right side of her body gone momentarily numb before agony came roaring back, sharp and blinding.

Across the field, Mr. Sunday tilted his head, sounding more amused than remorseful.

“Oh no! My apologies, my lord. I might’ve swung a little too hard.”

“Stop this! Stop this at once!” Liam bolted down from the observation platform, urgency etched across his face.

“Stand back, Uncle! DON’T YOU DARE!” Lisabelle’s voice cracked like a whip.

With iron defiance and unyielding battle fervor, she raised her trembling hand high, signaling her intent to continue.

"One strike. I will land at least one strike. I swear it," she rasped, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her wrist. Her knees wavered, but she forced herself upright once more.

Around the arena, murmurs rippled through the ranks of Vincent’s guards. Voices laced with unease whispered: most men would have stayed down after a blow like that. They spoke of her recklessness, her stubbornness—and of her being a girl. Many quietly doubted she could rise again, let alone prevail, given the chasm in skill and raw strength between her and the mercenary.

Mr. Sunday tapped the flat of his sword against his shoulder, studying her with a flicker of admiration.

“You still wish to continue, young lady?”

“Hell yes, I am,” Lisabelle growled.

He laughed—genuinely delighted.

“Outstanding spirit! Then here’s a little free counsel for you: it was clever going low. But you’d do well to think two, maybe three steps ahead. And keep better track of your footing and surroundings.”

His words were sincere, a seasoned fighter’s advice. But Lisabelle’s battered pride twisted them into mockery in her ears.

Now, their eyes locked once more.

Unlike before, Mr. Sunday no longer lounged in indifference. His gaze tracked her every motion with laser precision. They mirrored each other’s steps—circling, testing, waiting for the faintest lapse.

Then, in a flash, Mr. Sunday struck.

He seemed to blink forward, collapsing the distance in a single impossibly long step. His wooden blade arced for Lisabelle’s head, swift and merciless.

“Kuh—!”

She twisted away just in time, the strike slicing empty air where her skull had been a heartbeat ago. From the sidelines, Liam and the others tensed, jaws clenched, breath caught sharp in their chests.

Mr. Sunday pressed the advantage. His sword unleashed a flurry of rapid strikes—one after another, seamless as water cascading over stone. Lisabelle met each with desperate parries, her blades a silver blur as she deflected blow after blow. Yet despite her skill, despite her grit, each clash sent reverberations rattling up her arms.

What in blazes? she thought, teeth gritted. It’s just wood—how does it feel like iron?

The weight behind his swings was baffling. Even the lightest of his motions carried a crushing force, as though he wielded a blade forged of tempered steel rather than carved oak. She realized grimly that parrying alone wouldn’t suffice.

I have to move. Dodge—slip through the cracks.

Easier said than done. Mr. Sunday’s strikes were not just powerful—they were precise. His timing immaculate, his aim unerring. Evading him was like trying to dance between falling raindrops.

She thought furiously, recalling his earlier words.

“Be aware of your surroundings.”

Her gaze flicked to the field. And then she saw it—the stretch of muddied terrain to their left, where rain had softened the earth into a slick mire.

Carefully, subtly, Lisabelle began to steer the duel that way.

It was grueling work. She dodged with acrobatic rolls and lunges, sometimes twisting into improbable angles to strike back with errant jabs—all to keep Mr. Sunday’s attention tethered tightly on her and not her true intent.

Step by step, she lured him into the mire.

And at last, her gamble paid off.

The ground beneath him gave a muted squelch. His footing, once unshakable, shifted precariously. His swings lost a sliver of their devastating force.

Mr. Sunday, sharp as ever, understood her ploy instantly. Yet when his eyes met hers, there was no ire—only the glint of quiet approval. With a smirk hidden behind his mask, he indulged her, pretending to take the bait.

Their blades clashed in the muddy pocket for long seconds. Though the balance still tipped heavily in his favor—his strikes driving Lisabelle steadily backwards—her strategy slowed him enough for her to endure.

But not without cost.

Splinters of wood tore at her gambeson; shallow grazes bloomed across her cheek and brow. A jagged line of blood traced her jaw where his sword’s edge had kissed skin too closely.

As he pressed forward, they spilled out from the muddy ground into the cluttered expanse of shattered training dummies. Mr. Sunday’s blade shattered several of them in passing—and in the same breath, he made even the debris his weapon. With surgical flicks of his sword, he launched the splinters and jagged shards mid-air toward Lisabelle like a fusillade of arrows.

She spun and ducked, steel flashing in defense. Even so, some projectiles slipped through. A shard lodged itself cruelly into her left ear; others scratched lines of red across her chin and cheeks.

Her breath ragged, her blood pounding, Lisabelle’s eyes narrowed with raw defiance.

You want tricks? I’ll give you tricks.

During a complex exchange of strikes, she slipped her sickle down to the small pouch tied at her waist. In a fluid motion, she hooked the pouch and swung it straight at him mid-combo. Mr. Sunday, reacting on instinct, struck it aside—just as she’d hoped.

The pouch burst open in a white bloom. Flour erupted into a thick smokescreen, blinding and suffocating.

Lisabelle didn’t hesitate. She lunged through the cloud, blades poised for a decisive strike.

“HRAH—!”

But before her edge could bite, a roar split the air.

“HRUAAAH!”

Mr. Sunday’s voice boomed like a thunderclap, reverberating through the field. The sheer force of the bellow rattled bones and seized hearts. Lisabelle faltered mid-step—her muscles locking in primal shock.

In that frozen heartbeat, Mr. Sunday’s hand shot forward.

His fingers clamped around her throat with terrifying speed. The grip was vice-like, cutting off her breath in an instant. Stars burst in her vision; her mind clouded, thoughts slipping like water through clenched fists.

He could’ve ended it there.

Instead, with a sudden twist, he hurled her bodily across the field. Her form bounced twice across the packed earth before skidding to a halt, coughing and gasping. Somehow, her grip on her weapons had not broken—her sickle and sword still clenched tight thanks to the firm rubber-wrapped hilts.

Across the arena, Mr. Sunday straightened and cleared his throat casually. His masked face tilted skyward as he tested his voice with exaggerated vowels.

“Aaa… uhm… ergh… Aaa, eee, iii, ooo, uuu…”

Satisfied, he exhaled a long breath and rested his sword against his shoulder.

“Well, well,” he drawled, a smile audible in his voice. “Not bad at all, young lady. Been quite some time since I had to dust off that little trick.”

No sooner had the dust settled than they clashed again.

Lisabelle’s body screamed with protest—scrapes, bruises, and ragged breaths piling against her endurance—but she pressed on, refusing to relent. Every exchange now forced her to weave more evasive maneuvers between her parries; tactical retreats masked as fluid footwork.

Then, in a heartbeat, Mr. Sunday feinted.

His sword swung wide—but it was a ruse. His true attack came low, the sole of his boots snapping out in a precise kick aimed for her diaphragm.

Lisabelle’s eyes sharpened. Instinct screamed.

Fast—move fast.

Lisabelle spun to her left and slammed the curved blade of her sickle deep into the nearest wooden dummy. The hook bit into the wood like an anchor. Gripping the handle tight, she swung her entire body around the dummy—pivoting like a pendulum. Mr. Sunday’s kick sailed past her and instead shattered the dummy behind where she had stood. Wood splintered under the sheer force, the remains collapsing like a broken marionette.

But Lisabelle is still moving.

Using the momentum of her swing, she spun in a full circle around the dummy. At the apex, she flung her sword outward—releasing her grip at the perfect moment. The elastic cord affixed to the hilt stretched taut, whipping the blade towards Mr. Sunday’s nape like a tethered flail.

The edge flashed towards him. an impossible angle—sharp, fast, and almost unseen.

With remarkable calm, Mr. Sunday shifted his hips. His left hand flicked the scabbard at his waist upward. The sheath’s front dipped down, causing its back end to rise like a lever. Lisabelle’s wrist scraped against the hardened scabbard, her swing trajectory jostled upward just enough.

Shnk—

The blade sliced through the ear of his cat-shaped mask, not flesh.

A narrow escape—but Lisabelle wasn’t finished.

His footing was compromised—left leg still perched awkwardly on the ruined dummy, his spine arched backward from the block, arms extended and exposed. She saw her chance and seized it.

With her body's coiled momentum still burning in her limbs, she pivoted sharply. Bracing her weight on her right foot, she drove her left leg low and hard into the back of Mr. Sunday’s right knee.

“Hyaaah!”

Her boot smashed into the joint with a crack of compressed sinew. Mr. Sunday grunted as his stance crumpled; his knee struck the dirt.

The audience watching from the sidelines lurched forward in silent awe. Lisabelle, wasting no breath, rearmed herself. With a sharp tug, her sword snapped back into her waiting right hand, the cord retracting clean. She lifted the blade high and brought it down in a sharp arc toward Mr. Sunday’s exposed neck.

A sure kill. A strike impossible to sidestep, not from a kneeling position.

But Mr. Sunday… was not yet spent.

His right hand twitched, flipping his wooden sword into a reverse grip. Without glancing back, without aligning his sight, he thrust the hilt backward in a blind counter.

Lisabelle’s boots skidded across the churned earth, breath sharp and ragged, the tang of iron and splinters thick on her tongue. Mr. Sunday’s sword, reversed in a blind thrust, screamed backward toward her ribs like a serpent striking from shadow. There was no time to parry. No time to dodge.

Only time to decide.

Her left hand snapped open, fingers clawing at the rushing blade. A shimmer of mercury light spiraled from her wrist down her veins, racing like molten quicksilver to her fingertips. With a sound like shattering glass and rending silk, her hand transmuted mid-motion—flesh turning to forged steel, bone melting into tempered iron. Joints gleamed like burnished hinges; veins braided themselves into filigree seams of metal. Her grip closed.

Crack.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers.

The wooden sword splintered with a resonant that echoed across the arena. Fragments exploded outward in a burst of jagged shards and falling dust.

Mr. Sunday instinctively rolled forward, breaking away and springing to his feet before spinning to face her again. His mask tilted as he glanced at what had transpired.

His eyes narrowed.

Lisabelle stood tall, chest heaving, her left hand now bare of her sickle—but encased in glinting steel. Her fingers clenched tightly where the fragments of the shattered wooden sword still crumbled away, crushed like dry twigs.

Across from her, Mr. Sunday straightened his spine with a soft exhale, eyes steady behind his cracked cat mask.

“Hm.” His voice was calm, almost warm. “A hand of steel. Spectacular magic indeed. Keeping your trump card hidden until the last moment—now that is a winning mindset.”

Lisabelle, silent, flexed her metal-clad hand once, then slowly unbound the magic. The steel receded like ripples dissolving into still water. Her skin reappeared, pale and smooth as before.

She met his gaze. “Why did you hesitate?” Her tone, sharp and unrelenting, cut through the distance between them. “With your power… and flexibility—you could’ve pulled another one of your strange stunts to escape that bind.”

Mr. Sunday chuckled, the sound dry and unhurried. “I daresay your opinion of me is just a touch too high, young lady.”

Then, with a relaxed grace, he lifted his right hand and signaled surrender to the referee. The gesture was final—quiet, but unmistakable.

Groban, the referee, strode onto the training ground, his voice rising above the expectant hush.

“T-The winner is…! The Young Lady! Lisabelle Arbona!”

For a breath, the crowd remained frozen—then erupted.

A wave of cheers rolled across the field. Spectators surged forward, their voices overlapping in a jubilant chorus of Lisabelle’s name. They clamored toward her, hands outstretched, ready to lift her aloft like a triumphant war heroine.

But before they could reach her, Lisabelle’s focus cut through the clamor. Swiftly, she turned and strode toward the man departing at the far edge.

“Wait! Mr. Sunday!”

He paused mid-step and glanced back over his shoulder, the broken edge of his mask catching the light.

“Yes?” His tone remained light, even courteous. “Is there something else you require of me?”

Lisabelle swallowed, her breath steadying. “How many… how many duels have you won to be this strong?”

A silence fell between them.

.

.

.

Mr. Sunday was still. His gloved hand rose, fingers brushing lightly against the jagged edge of his damaged mask—as though absently testing the break. Whether by design or unconscious gesture, the motion lifted a portion of the mask away from his face.

Lisabelle’s breath caught.

“Sixty,” he said quietly. “And still counting.”

For the briefest heartbeat, the mask shifted enough for her to see.

Beneath it was an eye—

A crimson eye, brilliant as cut ruby, gleaming wetly like fresh blood.

But more than its color was its unnatural depth: a thing steeped in a darkness so profound it seemed carved from hatred itself. Madness swirled behind it, cold and hollow, devoid of humanity. It didn’t merely look back at her—it stared through her, as if measuring her soul against a ledger written in damnation.

If a door to hell existed, Lisabelle was certain she’d just glimpsed it through that eye.

Mr. Sunday tilted the mask gently back into place. His lips—what little she could see of them—curved faintly upward.

“Let this be our little secret, hmm?”

Lisabelle could not speak. Her breath shuddered through parted lips, her mind reeling from the weight of what she’d seen.

Only one word slipped free, barely a whisper.

“… Mistari.”