Silver’s entire face turned red with fury, his sharp canines bared as his fists clenched at his sides. The sheer audacity of the human—no, this devil—to not only humiliate his son but to then mock him outright in front of his peers in the Beastman Confederation’s leadership…
Yet, before he could explode, murmurs began to ripple through the beastkin in attendance.
“That punch… it was like a war beast’s charge.”
“If I was a few centuries younger, I wouldn’t have seen his arms move at all!”
“Maybe I should introduce my daughter…? Devil seems to have an ‘all-you-can-eat’ type of heart…”
“Hah! That Rael or whatever brat was arrogant, he got what he deserved.”
“You’re saying that because he beat your son up in that competition.”
“He fights like a true warrior… simple, direct, overwhelming. I respect that,” Gorruk, the leader of the bearkin people decreed, earning himself many nods from his following.
The sentiment spread like wildfire, and much to Silver’s growing frustration, he realized that this outsider wasn’t being hated for his show of total dominance over a beastkin prodigy. Instead, he was gaining respect by the second. Devil’s display of overwhelming might was exactly the kind of thing these warriors admired. Unlike humans, who preferred tricks, politics, and tended to decide one’s worth depending on which vagina the individual popped out of, beastkin thrived on raw, undeniable strength.
And Devil had just shown them exactly that.
Silver gritted his teeth in anger, but he wasn’t done yet.
“Fine!” he snapped. “I’ll give you a real challenge.”
With a wave of his palm, another figure leaped into the arena.
Unlike Raelor, who had been young and arrogant, this warrior landed with the grace of a seasoned veteran.
Tall, lean, and possessing the sharp eyes of a natural predator, the newcomer was draped in light armor designed for mobility. A longbow was slung over his back, and a quiver filled with black-feathered arrows rested at his hip.
This was Silver’s strongest son below the age of a hundred, Veyrin.
Seventy-five years old, a level 40 ranger, and the deadliest marksman in his clan among the youths who were under a century old. Veyrin’s level was incredibly high for his age, which hinted at how great of a hunter he was. Sneakily killing one’s prey was usually the most surefire way to level up without kicking the bucket in a skirmish gone wrong.
The crowd erupted into more murmurs, this time with excitement and approval.
“Veyrin, huh? Now that is a warrior worthy of respect.”
“That guy once shot down a wyvern mid-flight from over 500 paces away!”
“I heard he killed a band of raiders alone in the Eastern Deserts. They never even saw him before they died.”
Veyrin remained quiet as he reached over his shoulder, drawing his bow in a fluid motion. He wasn’t one for bravado. He parted his lips, “You have my thanks, stranger from the human lands. You’d imparted the most valuable lesson a warrior can learn to my brother: never underestimate your enemies. If he manages to recover from the humiliation, he’ll have an even brighter future ahead of him.”
“You’re quite right, prince of the foxkin people. One should operate under the assumption that there’s always a bigger fish at all times,” Devil replied. Now that he wasn’t being disrespected, he acted honorably with his opponent, drawing another bout of nods from the spectating beastkin. If he began spitting obscenities at Veyrin after receiving his heartfelt words of gratitude, he would’ve appeared like a crude thug who wasn’t taught how an honorable warrior should behave.
“Allow me to show you the archery of the proud foxkin,” Veyrin said while drawing the first arrow from its quiver with slow, measured motions.
“My eyes are peeled wide open, Prince Veyrin.”
Once he finished his statement, a sudden eruption of energy burst forth from Devil’s ring, sending a violent ripple through the air.
Then, a pitch-black saber emerged. Its surface was covered in eerie, blue phantasmal flames. The weapon flew as if it had a mind of its own, twisting and turning in midair like a sentient beast waiting for its master’s command.
The audience gasped as the saber circled around Devil in a mesmerizing dance. It wasn’t an ordinary weapon. It wasn’t even an enchanted blade one could find among the offerings of the greatest dwarven artificers. It was something they’d never seen before.
This weapon had a will, a force, a purpose.
Finally, Devil extended his right arm and opened his palm.
The saber instantly halted its dance, hovering for only a split second before landing squarely in his grip, as though the blade itself had been waiting for his call.
Silence filled the arena.
Then, the murmurs began stronger than ever.
“A living blade?” one elder tigerkin muttered in awe.
“No… a cursed blade,” a bearkin elder corrected while fixing his glasses on his nose. “One that submits to none but its chosen master.”
Even the most battle-hardened warriors in the stands narrowed their eyes, their interest was piqued to the maximum. A weapon like that wasn’t something any random fool could chance upon. It required more than pure luck: dominance, control, and an unbreakable bond to be formed between master and blade.
Veyrin’s amber eyes followed the saber’s eerie glow for a moment before his lips curled.
“You honor me. I see you do not take me lightly, as you did my younger brother.”
“I did not take your brother lightly, he merely didn’t warrant more than a solid punch. But you are not your younger brother, are you?”
The foxkin prince hummed in agreement. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he nocked his arrow and pulled back his bowstring. His stance was relaxed, yet there was something inherently predatory about it. Like a fox waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
A heavy aura of anticipation descended on the arena.
Gone was the one-sided display of overwhelming dominance and swagger displayed by Devil.
This was different.
This was a true duel.
“Let us see which of us needs to be humbled this time around,” Veyrin declared.
And with a twang, the first arrow of the fight shot forward.
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