The fight would take place in the training yard. During the morning, the stewards prepared the area so there wouldn’t be any obstacles or obstructions for the future fighters.

  I ordered an elevated platform set up and a protective fence for the spectators. Thanks to my event logistics skill (blessed be political rallies), I managed to seat everyone far from the hostilities.

  During breakfast, no one said a word.

  Ingrid, Alda, Ronaldo, and Yuka kept total silence in the face of the situation; the tension in the air was barely bearable for us. I didn’t even want to imagine Sir Marte’s wife—or his children.

  “It’s time. Come with me.”

  The moment we finished breakfast, Girasol entered the dining hall already dressed for the event. She wore a beautiful black dress with diamond inlays along the lace, and she also wore a silver crown. In her right hand she carried a golden scepter that served as recognition of her rank as regent.

  “Let’s go.”

  We walked single file with Mother leading, while the rest of the servants watched us with extreme nervousness on their faces. The news of the trial spread faster than a forest fire, and so everyone wanted to know the outcome as soon as possible.

  “This way.”

  A member of the Royal Guard received us at the entrance of the yard. For obvious reasons, training was canceled, and to our surprise, there were already some people sitting in the wooden stands.

  A dark-haired woman caught my attention. She had pale skin and green eyes. She wore a simple blue dress, without major decorations. We saw her sitting at the very back, alone, not seeking anyone’s company.

  “It’s Sir Marte’s wife,” Mother commented. “I imagine she’s dying of nerves.”

  “Thankfully she didn’t bring her children,” Alda added, her little hands sweating excessively from the anxiety.

  “Whatever happens, don’t close your eyes. This is a harsh lesson, but a necessary one.” Girasol took my sister’s small hand and smiled. “If you want to be a Master of War, then you’ll have to get used to situations like this.”

  “Y-Yes,” Alda murmured.

  “I-I’m scared too.” Ingrid lowered her expression in fear. Mother immediately patted her head as well, trying to make her feel safe.

  “As a future queen, it’s your duty to remain stoic, Ingrid. Endure this trial as much as you can, because I’m afraid it won’t be the last one you’ll see.”

  “Y-Yes, Lady Girasol… I-I’ll try,” my friend whispered.

  “Either way, let’s take our seats.”

  Yuka and Ronaldo passed by without a word. They looked terrified too, but they hid it behind their usual contempt so they wouldn’t appear weak in front of us.

  Maybe that mask could’ve worked on Alda and Ingrid, but not on me.

  “It’s almost time…”

  In total, around forty attendees arrived—courtiers, nobles, witnesses—filling the platforms completely.

  Mother and I took the highest seat of honor, with the best view. The children settled lower down. Seconds later, silence swallowed the place…

  Both contenders appeared.

  Sir Marte Hogan arrived armored to the teeth, wearing an imposing full suit of plate that protected every centimeter of his humanity. The silver steel gave him an immaculate, almost sacred look—no heraldry in sight, no ostentatious decorations. A greatsword hung sheathed on his leather belt, and in his right hand he carried a closed helm to protect his skull.

  Baron Gutiérrez was no less prepared. He also came in full plate, crimson red. Unlike the Royal Guard, Gutiérrez arrived already wearing his closed helmet, hiding his face—maybe as intimidation, or so no one would see terror on his features.

  He chose to enter with a kite shield made of oak and hardened iron. For an offensive weapon, he brought a metal mace—ideal for fighting armored opponents.

  And naturally, both rivals had a mercy dagger hidden, to finish the enemy if necessary.

  How strange—why did Gutiérrez bring a shield? Supposedly plate armor saves you that defensive cost.

  “Silence, please.”

  Mother stood and called for attention in that taciturn arena, where whispers were executed and the miserable event was about to unfold.

  “As Queen Regent, I give my formal authorization to begin this trial by combat. If either contender has final words before we start, now is the moment.”

  “I do,” Sir Marte murmured. “I fight in the name of King Ulric León. My sword is his alone, and as his champion I carry the weight of the kingdom on my back. I do not fear the responsibility. Long live the king!”

  After finishing, Sir Marte put on his helmet and took his place at the left corner.

  “House Gutiérrez will not yield. This tyranny of King Ulric ends today. The honor of my house will remain intact no matter the outcome.”

  The baron walked to the right corner, and with that, preparations ended.

  The words had been spoken. Only violence remained.

  “Sir Marte Hogan and Baron Jaime Gutiérrez… may our God of the Earth be with you always.

  Begin!”

  Despite the signal, neither contender moved a muscle to attack.

  They stared at each other while the spectators remained silent, honoring the ritual.

  Sir Marte Hogan drew the greatsword and chose a forward guard: hands on the grip, left leg forward, right leg behind, slightly bent. He always told us to keep a firm base, and because of that he made us hold that stance for minutes at a time.

  Baron Gutiérrez, on the other hand, raised his shield in front of him and advanced, eating away at the distance between them. In height and reach, Sir Marte had the advantage—nearly eight inches taller.

  Mother swallowed noticeably. The tension of the duel kept thickening. From here I couldn’t see my mentor’s wife, but I didn’t want to imagine the terror she was feeling right now.

  “S-So intense…”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Neither had thrown an attack. Both guards left almost no opening to start hostilities. My experience as a duelist was minimal, but even a novice like me could be absolutely certain of that.

  Gutiérrez took another step. He was still out of range, but the distance was being murdered second by second.

  Sir Marte Hogan attacked first.

  He surged forward until he reached effective striking distance. He swung from above and, without mercy, launched a descending cut at his opponent’s head.

  The baron immediately retreated, evading my champion’s first attempt. He didn’t counter, didn’t try a second trick—he simply raised his shield again and continued moving to the right, while the mace still hadn’t tasted action.

  He’s good. Sir Marte Hogan killed my kidnappers very fast—in one strike. He also finished off the leaders of the Gray Fist without taking damage. This man knows how to fight.

  The spectators watched on edge. In a fight to the death, every movement mattered. There was no time for flourish or elegance.

  Sir Marte returned to his initial guard and followed the baron so he wouldn’t get space.

  “AAAH!” The giant knight charged again, this time with a direct slash at the chest. He rotated his hips fully for maximum drive, aiming to do as much damage as possible to the opposing breastplate.

  Unfortunately, Gutiérrez stopped the blow with his shield.

  The steel edge bit into the wood by at least two centimeters. And immediately, Gutiérrez used that brief moment to strike Sir Marte with a mace swing straight to the left shoulder.

  My mentor yanked his blade free and managed to shift away in time. Now locked at close distance, Sir Marte struck the baron with a lateral cut that hit the opponent’s left pauldron.

  But the bright red armor absorbed the impact, and the injury was nothing more than a medium bruise.

  Swords weren’t made to pierce armor—much less at close distance, and without the chance to build momentum to break bones with blunt force.

  Even so, that minor impact let Sir Marte gain a few inches of space.

  The titanic knight changed his combat guard. He grabbed the blade with his gauntlets, and instead of striking with the edge, he decided to use the crossguard and pommel as an improvised hammer.

  I had seen this in historical documentaries in my past life, but I never thought I’d witness the “murder stroke”—mordhau in German—up close.

  So named because you deliver crushing blows to the head with the intent to kill.

  Gutiérrez stepped back twice to re-center his posture.

  I see. My master noticed the hostile plan. The baron probably wanted to trap the sword in the shield and then strike Sir Marte while he was exposed. He didn’t capitalize, and now he’ll pay for it.

  But the murder stroke had a fundamental disadvantage: if it didn’t target the head, its effectiveness dropped—and with an enemy using a shield, Sir Marte needed precision.

  The pommel slammed into the shield like a makeshift warhammer, and Gutiérrez quickly retreated to stay out of reach. Sir Marte didn’t want to let him escape; he advanced again, the guard ready to smash the opponent’s closed helmet.

  CLANK.

  But the shield again got in the way.

  Dozens of splinters flew across the ground, and Gutiérrez finally smiled beneath his helm. Sir Marte braced to retreat backward, but he didn’t receive the mace strike he expected…

  Instead, Baron Gutiérrez drove the shield into him and knocked him off balance.

  No way… “Shield sweep.”

  A complicated technique—ramming the opponent with the weight of the shield. Very different from the defensive wall used by militia infantry and men-at-arms, because this was an offensive movement.

  Sir Marte had only half-taught it to us.

  Alda’s eyes went wide and she almost screamed, but she stayed calm and kept watching.

  Our mentor fell into a seated position and immediately lay back to evade the crushing blow meant to knock him out. The mace’s steel head passed by, and in response Sir Marte cut diagonally at the baron’s armored ankles.

  That should’ve been the end.

  A sword strike at that range could break the bone completely. It might not sever the limb, but it could cause irreversible damage. And for that reason, the baron’s jump was incredible. Even though he was our enemy, I couldn’t help feeling admiration.

  He moved fast.

  Despite the kilos of steel he carried and the fatigue of the duel, Gutiérrez pulled off a maneuver worthy of praise. I was seconds from standing up and applauding, but I had to remain neutral.

  “Y-You’re very good,” Sir Marte acknowledged. My mentor rose and returned to the murder-stroke stance.

  “Likewise,” Baron Gutiérrez replied. “It’s a shame you must die today. The Kingdom of Etrica will mourn the death of a good knight.”

  The baron gripped his battered shield. Fighting Sir Marte on the ground was suicide, so…

  The match had to end—one way or another—with his war mace.

  We spectators stayed quiet.

  How could we speak during something like this?

  I wanted to say something, to crane my neck toward the stands, but I couldn’t. Impossible. If I took my eyes off the duel, I might miss the decisive movement.

  Sir Marte’s gaze fixed on the shield. Even damaged and close to breaking, it still had one more shove in it before failing. As a defensive tool, it likely had three or four impacts left—still decent, considering.

  If I were Baron Gutiérrez, I’d gamble on a counterattack. Duelists like Sir Marte Hogan didn’t fall for the same trick twice.

  “What are you waiting for? Fight!” the baron taunted, but my champion ignored him.

  Only a novice fell for cheap provocation. Oh…

  I see—that’s his plan…

  While he spoke, Gutiérrez took small steps forward, closing the gap. Sir Marte didn’t retreat or defend. He held the murder-stroke guard forward.

  Hadn’t he seen it?

  Didn’t he notice the distance shrinking? Impossible.

  A man like Sir Marte Hogan would never make a mistake like that.

  I hated myself for not understanding his thoughts. My abilities as a fighter still weren’t fully polished, and because of that, it was impossible for me to calculate a winner.

  I sighed out my frustration, but no one paid attention (naturally).

  “AAAH!”

  Sir Marte lunged, swinging a lateral strike toward the opponent’s closed helmet. The pommel traced a beautiful arc that was interrupted by the wooden shield—splinters bursting outward like droplets of water.

  Baron Gutiérrez took his moment, because he wouldn’t get another.

  He swung the mace toward his enemy’s skull, betting his life on a brutal counter meant to end the giant champion once and for all.

  But—

  He missed.

  My trainer displayed impeccable skill.

  When the greatsword struck the shield, he didn’t let the recoil force knock his weapon off line. Instead, he clenched the sword hard and pushed it straight in front of him.

  CLANK.

  Mace and greatsword collided, producing a metallic screech everyone heard.

  It happened in the span of a blink. Baron Gutiérrez hadn’t expected that reaction, and as a result he couldn’t evade the champion’s punch.

  “AGH!” he cried.

  The impact dropped him and made him lose both mace and shield. Gutiérrez tried to retreat with a “shrimp escape”—a jiu-jitsu technique where you scoot backward with contractions like the little sea creature.

  Too bad for him, Sir Marte pursued and quickly mounted him. He planted his legs on either side of the armored torso in a classic mount position I’d seen many times during the Olympics.

  “It’s over,” I murmured.

  Sir Marte hammered his opponent’s head with his armored fists, again and again. Baron Gutiérrez tried to cover up with his forearms to lessen the damage, but it was useless. Not even a closed helmet could save him from that beating.

  Five punches.

  Six.

  Ten…

  The champion’s onslaught didn’t seem to end.

  In a desperate attempt to keep living, Gutiérrez drew his mercy dagger and uselessly stabbed at the champion’s breastplate.

  The blade didn’t get past the mail Sir Marte wore underneath. After so many hits to the head, the baron’s strength was gone—no argument left in him.

  The knight stood. Seconds later he grabbed the weakened baron by the neck and lifted him several inches off the ground, only to drop him face-first with the full weight of both armors—and his own.

  “AAH!” The pain-groan came instantly. Gutiérrez tried to crawl away to gain distance; he only received a kick to the ribs that made him writhe.

  Sir Marte Hogan drew his own dagger, but he took the time to flip the baron with another kick and expose an opening at the throat-guard.

  “Die.”

  My champion drove the dagger into the baron’s neck, ending the trial by combat—and cleansing House Gutiérrez’s honor in the process.

  Immediately, a discreet stream of blood began to seep beneath the crimson armor. Seconds later, the stain spread enough to soil Sir Marte’s silver gauntlets.

  Ingrid vomited.

  The poor girl dropped to her knees and emptied her stomach from the horror. Alda almost did too, but she swallowed it back and breathed deeply, forcing herself to withstand the brutal scene we had just witnessed.

  Yuka kept her elegance in front of everyone, but I could see perfectly how her little hands trembled from fear. No matter how indifferent she tried to look, deep down she was still a child—impressionable like all the rest.

  As for Ronaldo… he didn’t even look. He covered his eyes and turned his face away so he wouldn’t have to deal with the violence.

  “The trial has ended. Sir Marte Hogan is the victor.”

  If Girasol felt disgust toward blood, she didn’t show it. She kept a steel expression as she delivered the final announcement, and with that, the spectators began to leave the stands.

  Sir Marte’s wife did the same. She surely wanted to be with her husband in private, not make a scene in front of the baron’s corpse.

  “No family of his came,” I whispered.

  Mother patted my head and sighed.

  “They didn’t want to involve themselves with Gutiérrez. For a noble family, shame is a poison that can take generations to disappear.”

  “I see…”

  My mentor sheathed his greatsword, then approached us. As protocol demanded, he dropped to one knee—left knee forward—in submission to the Queen Regent.

  “I have slain the traitor. Long live King Ulric! Long live the regent!”