The last duel

Ser Othello of Blackmont was already seething with rage.

He was about to go through the formalities, pulling off his right glove to throw at his opponent.

Smack.

Titus was faster. He suddenly raised his hand and hurled a black leather glove into Othello's breastplate first.

The glove bounced once against his breastplate before falling to the ground.

Staring at the leather glove on the ground, Othello's face rapidly turned liver-red. He could sense the intense contempt behind it.

Nothing could have been more insulting.

Unless it was the pretty-faced Earl's needle-sharp words: "There. You got what you wanted."

As though he were handing out alms.

Before the hotheaded Othello could erupt, Titus abruptly changed his expression, showing a trace of regret:

"I shouldn't have come here."

"Too late for regrets now!" Othello sneered. He was seriously considering what he would leave behind from his opponent's body.

"Would a hand do?" As though he could read minds, Titus sought confirmation of the precise body part to serve as a "souvenir."

"No. If you're leaving anything behind... it'll be your life!" Believing his opponent had lost his nerve before the fight, Othello threatened him.

Even his impulsiveness had limits. On his opponent's own turf, he naturally would not dare strike to kill.

But in a fierce duel, pretending he could not stop his blow and severely injuring... or even crippling this previously arrogant brat would be perfectly commonplace, would it not?

After hearing Othello's answer, Titus once again smiled in satisfaction.

Everyone heard that. He said it himself.

For some reason, his opponent's smile made Othello's heart pound and left him uneasy. He hastily reassured himself that this was an illusion born of his extreme anger, and that his opponent was merely bluffing.

Unwilling to dwell on it, he abruptly raised his head. The fury in his eyes burned almost tangibly, and his ungloved right hand gripped his sword hilt so hard that it trembled slightly.

"You Peake brat, die!"

With an angry roar, Othello stepped forward. His greatsword came out with a sharp whistle through the air and cleaved straight toward the charcoal-haired boy's head.

Just as the keen sword tip was about to touch the boy's black hair, Titus shifted like a gust of wind, easily sidestepping it.

At the same time, he drew his sword faster than the eye could follow, turned his wrist, and caught his opponent's blade at an angle with a clang.

The sharp metallic crash of their swords exploded through the air. Sparks fell onto the white flagstones beneath their feet, then scattered into tiny flecks of light in the wind of the following sword strokes.

"You've got some brute strength, at least. So you're not entirely useless."

Titus delivered his coldly mocking verdict. His counterattacking blade traced a cold arc in the sunlight, narrowly grazing the plate on the right side of Othello's breastplate.

Sensing danger, Othello had already begun retreating, leaving only a glaring scratch on his armor.

He steadied himself and immediately changed his attack, sweeping his greatsword from right to left straight at his opponent's unprotected waist and abdomen. The vicious movement made it clear that he wanted to exploit his advantages in strength and reach to disable his opponent first.

Titus reacted even faster. Othello had barely begun his horizontal slash before Titus stepped easily back through the shadow beneath the statue.

Othello's greatsword cut empty air to the left, its momentum spent.

Titus lowered his center of gravity and spun sharply, swiftly closing the distance between them and moving straight to Othello's wide-open right side.

First came an elbow strike driven by the momentum of his spin, knocking aside the armored arm Othello tried to bring back to defend himself. Then Titus straightened his arm in the same motion, slamming the metal pommel of his sword into Othello's right cheek.

Othello cried out in pain, blood streaming down his face. The heavy blow snapped his unhelmeted head backward.

His opponent's backward lurch had given Titus the proper "distance" again. He was about to continue his combination, following through with another swing of his longsword to cut his throat... but Othello was, after all, a veteran knight who had spent years out in the world. He managed to endure the pain and bring back the greatsword that had swung wide, blocking as he retreated and escaping a violent death.

With his three-hit combination thwarted, Titus did not press too hard. He remained where he was, sword in hand.

Taking the opportunity to wipe the blood from his cheek, Othello spat out a broken tooth, half his face swollen. His vicious glare at Titus now held a measure of wariness. He had never imagined that this young lad from a family of sworn enemies could move and wield a sword so swiftly.

Around the courtyard, the soldiers watching held their breath, their eyes fixed on the two combatants.

Lora stood beside Captain Parker, clutching her skirt so tightly that her nails almost pierced the silk and dug into her palms.

At first, when Othello's greatsword looked about to cleave Titus in half across the waist, she could not help crying out. Then, as Titus retreated, advanced, spun, and counterattacked, catching Othello off guard instead, she covered her mouth, a flicker of excitement passing through her eyes.

Facing an opponent who had visibly tensed up, Titus could not help letting a faint smile touch his lips.

Why had this body's former owner been knighted at just fifteen and returned to the castle to inherit the family estate without trouble?

Because of his keen swordsmanship, which had surpassed his teacher's!

His fighting ability would only be greater now.

Othello was impulsive by nature, after all, and did not keep Titus waiting long.

When he looked toward Lady Lora at the edge of the courtyard, hoping to draw strength for the fight from her, all he saw was his beloved gazing at his opponent in utterly captivated admiration. Surging jealousy finally overwhelmed what remained of his reason.

He raised his sword and charged again, his broad, sweeping attacks growing ever more vicious. Every slash carried a savage willingness to take his opponent down with him. His armor rattled dully with his violent movements, mingling with the clash of blades in a heart-pounding rhythm.

Against the relentless onslaught, Titus parried each attack, occasionally dodging nimbly. He grew more composed as the fight went on, displaying complete control over the battle.

He deliberately exposed an opening, luring Othello into a full-force slash, then suddenly ducked and drove his longsword upward in a heavy rising stroke. Because of the angle, the impact numbed Othello's wrists and nearly knocked the greatsword from his hands. He hurriedly stumbled backward.

When he looked at Titus again, there was finally fear in his eyes.

Even the stone eyes of Blaquay "the Besieger" behind Titus seemed to be coldly watching his humiliation, leaving him unable even to steady his breathing.

Fortunately, his opponent did not pursue him like a shadow, giving him a chance to catch his breath.

That was because Titus, who was keeping watch in every direction, had noticed two new spectators at the edge of the courtyard-

Maester Greg stood waiting anxiously with a letter in his hand. Accompanying him was Ser David Robinson, Starpike's master-at-arms.

An urgent letter?

Then I won't play with you any longer.

Titus had originally intended to go a few more rounds with this free sparring partner and familiarize himself with his own condition in the process. Now, with a change of mind, he raised his sword overhead, then slowly lowered it behind his back, leaving his opponent with a view of nothing but the hilt in his hand... a strange opening stance.

"This is your last duel, Othello."

He said.

Othello could not make sense of his opponent's sword stance.

What could he possibly do from that distance? He can't reach me at all... too far, far too far.

But he dared not take it lightly. Gripping his greatsword with both hands, one ahead of the other, he held it upright in front of him and lowered his body-a textbook "low plow guard."

Just then, a leaf fell with the wind from a flourishing ash tree at the edge of the courtyard, drifting gently into the air between them.

Titus moved.

His powerful explosiveness and flexibility allowed him to take an extreme lunging step straight forward, his center of gravity dropping lower than his opponent's in an instant!

Back, shoulder, elbow, wrist-he exerted force through them in succession, the joints of his arm moving like a cracking whip. He rapidly "flung" the blade hidden behind his back outward until his arm and sword formed a straight line. With the extension of Titus's stride and movement, they seemed to grow considerably longer out of thin air.

Sword light flashed past.

A right hand dropped cleanly onto the white flagstones with a slap.

Copious blood quickly stained the short green grass in the cracks between the stones, along with the fallen ash leaf beside the severed hand.

Only then.

Did Othello drop his sword and fall to his knees, clutching his hand and howling in agony.

Titus, who had bent low to swing his blade, drew back his sword and slowly straightened.

His right hand, likewise unprotected, was now gripping the pommel at the very end of the hilt in a peculiar fashion-one of the secrets behind his ability to increase his striking range "out of thin air."

Opening stance: