The king gave a silent gesture.
The massive double doors creaked open again, their echo rolling like distant thunder. A heavy silence swept the room. No one spoke. Only footsteps—sharp, deliberate—grew louder from the corridor beyond.
Everyone waited, tension tightening around their throats like invisible hands.
And then he appeared.
A tall man, somewhere in his early forties, stepped confidently into the grand hall. He was dressed in a flawlessly tailored black suit, complete with a dark crimson vest, white gloves, a polished cane, and a gleaming monocle that caught the light like a scalpel. His short black hair was slicked back neatly, stopping just above his ears. Perched atop his head was a well-kept top hat. He looked more like a nobleman at an opera than a soldier.
But his eyes—deep, dark brown—scanned the room like a predator. Cold. Calculating. Not unkind, but exact. A real gentleman, yes—but one that could kill without wrinkling his cuffs.
He stopped before the throne and bowed slightly, the motion elegant but practiced. "Your Majesty."
The king gave a small nod. "Gerald Smith. We thank you for arriving so swiftly."
The man straightened. "Of course. I live to serve the crown." He then turned, slowly, letting his eyes glide across the hall until they landed on one figure in particular.
Toki.
"Young gentleman," Gerald said, his voice as smooth as lacquered wood, "I am Gerald Smith, former division commander and current trainer of the Royal Special Forces. And today—" he took a step forward "—I will determine if you possess the potential to lead the Fourth Division."
The hall rippled with whispers.
Toki blinked once, but did not look away.
Gerald smiled faintly, as if pleased. "Prepare yourself."
Without further ceremony, he removed his gloves, top hat, and suit jacket, folding them neatly and placing them to the side. Then, with a casual flick, he tossed his cane aside. It clattered noisily across the polished floor.
"I will not be gentle with you," Gerald warned, "but I will not use a weapon. A gentleman does not raise steel against someone who barely knows how to raise his fists."
He unbuttoned his vest, rolled his sleeves, and cracked his neck. "You may withdraw at any moment."
Guards began moving furniture, clearing the center of the hall. The nobles stepped back instinctively. In moments, a wide open space had formed between Toki and Gerald—an improvised arena.
Toki stepped forward.
He reached to his side, unfastened his sword and cane, and gently laid them down.
"I'm not a knight," Toki said, "but I know one thing: a man shouldn't fight an older opponent while armed. Let's do this evenly."
That earned him a long, thoughtful look from Gerald. "Elegant. I can respect that."
He slid into a stance—open palm forward, one foot slightly behind. It was a fighter's posture. Clean. Balanced. Deadly.
Bernard suddenly shouted from the back of the room, "Toki! Watch out for his special move—the Iron Fist! If it hits you, you won't get up. He may be a gentleman, but in combat, he's a monster! He used to command an entire division!"
Toki didn't look away from Gerald. He just muttered, "Understood," and raised his fists into a clumsy guard.
Utsuki tried to push forward, alarmed. Her bright pink eyes were wide with panic. "Stop him! He's not ready!"
But Bernard gently caught her arm and shook his head. "This is his fight. Let him stand for it."
Utsuki stopped. She clenched her fists, worry written all over her face—but she stepped back. She couldn't look away from Toki.
Bernard, watching too, murmured in his head: I hope you survive this, Toki. You seem like a decent guy. I think… I'd like us to be friends. He took a deep breath. I'm rooting for you, man
The Duel Begins
Gerald moved first.
A sudden, sharp jab toward Toki's shoulder.
Toki barely dodged, reacting on instinct. His balance was off—feet too close together. Gerald exploited that immediately, spinning low and tapping Toki's knee with the side of his foot. A soft trip—but a message.
Toki stumbled, caught himself, and reset.
"You're tense," Gerald observed, circling. "Tension is the enemy of control."
Toki gritted his teeth. "I'm aware."
Another jab. Toki raised his guard this time and blocked—clumsily, but it held.
"Better," Gerald said. "Let's see more."
He lunged. A series of palm strikes followed—measured, fast, and precise. Toki blocked one, dodged two, but the third landed in his ribs with a crack. He coughed, staggered, then growled and stepped in with a punch of his own.
It grazed Gerald's shoulder.
The crowd murmured.
From the throne, King Matthias narrowed his eyes, intrigued.
Gerald smiled again. "You're learning."
Toki started to move with more purpose. He wasn't trained—his footwork was wrong, his timing uneven—but he was adapting. He threw a feint, then a real jab. Gerald deflected it, but the edge of the punch brushed his jaw.
A flicker of surprise passed across the gentleman's face.
Toki smirked. "Didn't see that coming?"
"No," Gerald said calmly. "Well done."
Then he moved.
Fast. A blur.
Toki barely had time to brace before Gerald's fist hit his chest like a thunderclap—The Iron Fist.
The air left Toki's lungs in a rush. He was launched backward, sliding across the floor.
"TO—!" Bernard shouted, stepping forward.
But Toki... rose.
Slowly, trembling, holding his ribs—but he stood. Face pale. Eyes burning.
Gerald didn't smile this time. He looked almost... proud.
"You absorbed it," he said.
"Felt like getting hit by a bear," Toki wheezed. "Still here though."
"You're either foolish... or brave."
"Probably both."
Toki began to anticipate.
He wasn't faster. Or stronger. Or more skilled.
But he was watching.
Reading.
Learning.
He blocked a combo. Dodged a leg sweep. Took a glancing blow to the arm but countered with a quick strike to Gerald's shoulder.
Gerald stumbled back half a step, blinking.
The crowd stirred. Even the king leaned forward.
Toki pressed.
Left jab. Feint right. Duck. Rise. Cross to the jaw.
Gerald took the hit.
And smiled.
The hall was silent but charged—as if even the marble breaths held their breath. The air hummed with anticipation. After what felt like eternity, Gerald began to move.
He attacked with surgical precision, targeting Toki's weak spots. A quick cut toward the head—Toki raised his guard, toppling Gerald's feint. But it was a calculated trap. Gerald slipped beneath the guard and sunk his fist—Iron Fist—into Toki's sternum.
The room exploded with the sound of flesh against bone. Toki's vision blurred instantly. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose, his chest heaving as pain seared through him like wildfire. He staggered back, memories of the bear fight flooding his senses. But this… this was on another level. Gerald was a disciplined predator disguised as a gentleman.
Lost in the spiral of pain and disorientation, Toki didn't see the boot that swept in. It connected hard with his temple, knocking him to bent knees. Before he could steady himself, another Iron Fist slammed into his face. The blow shattered him forward. He hit the marble floor face-first, limbs splayed. A collective gasp echoed through the crowd.
Gerald's voice sliced through the tension. "Three strikes. You're stubborn—but still not enough."
Toki lay there, every rib, every bone shrieking. Slowly he lifted himself. In his head, everything rattled. Dark specks danced in his vision. He wiped blood from his torn lip. Breathing agonizing, he rasped, "This fight... is not over. I… won't give up. So many need me out there…"
Blood leaked from his lips as he pushed upward, shaking. Every move felt seismic. But he was upright.
Gerald considered him for a long moment. "You're at your limit," he said.
Toki met his gaze. His voice cracked, bone-splintering effort behind each word: "Then I have no choice... I must surpass them."
In a fierce burst, Toki attacked: a flurry of strikes—short, simple—but relentless. Gerald parried easily, relaxed. Then Toki feinted with a low kick. Gerald shifted—but Toki snuck in an Iron Fist to his chest. Gerald staggered—blood trickled at the corner of his mouth.
Gerald blinked, as if impressed. "A genius. You replicated my move… yet your hands remain bare."
He lashed out with a brutal cross to Toki's head—but Toki absorbed it, using his own head as a shock absorber, nearly nose-to-nose with Gerald. Toki pinned Gerald's standing foot, keeping him locked in place.
Toki leaned close, voice a breath in Gerald's ear—soft, urgent, strange. His hair fell from his sweat-drenched forehead. His eyes, half‑blinded, burned.
"Have you ever loved someone?" he whispered, voice rough. "Dreamed of a world where they could shine like stars in the darkest sky?"
Gerald's eyes widened. A spark—something real—flickered.
He let out a breath. "I underestimated you, Toki. Time to fight as men."
With that, Gerald drew his cane—and from it, a slim rapier blade flicked into existence. He lunged. Toki seized the cane instead. Gerald sneered, "Why take the cane?"
Toki's gleam shook with determination. "A jester taught me there are things stronger than steel."
The swordsman came fast—blade slashed downward. Toki braced his cane. Sparks flew. Gerald stabbed two shallow cuts into Toki's shoulders and thighs. He was terrifying with that blade.
Gerald launched into the air—a precise overhead strike—but Toki met it just before the cane could shatter. In that instant, an unnatural black mist hissed from beneath Toki's clothes—ice-cold, sinuous, snaking outward across the floor. The hall gasped.
Toki froze. It's the dark fog from the Mirror Palace… How did it escape? Did I bring it here? His mind raced—but the mist vanished as quickly as it appeared, sliced through by Gerald's swinging blade.
Gerald smirked. "Neat trick. Try harder."
He pressed in hard again, blade thrusts rapid. Toki raised his cane, using the pommel to block—but he could hear Gerald wince. The cane vibrated; muscle around Gerald's wrist tightened.
Then Toki remembered a move—something the clown under the lamplight showed him during the violin act—a clean, single motion. Instinct took over: he swung. The blade shattered from the hilt and fell to the ground with a clang.
Gerald staggered—breathing hard. Toki, eyes downcast, voice trembling with pain and relief, whispered, "Sorry, Utsuki… I have failed you."
For an emotionally thick heartbeat, the hall was utterly still.
Then Gerald spoke quietly, with hard respect: "No. You won."
Toki sliding to a halt but still stood. Gerald was blade‑less; Toki still gripped the cane. And if that cane were a sword… Gerald would have lost his hand—no, likely his arm.
Gerald looked down. He bent and picked up an insignia: the silver lantern-and-sword emblem of Old Archibald's lineage. He recognized it.
"You know old Archibald?" Gerald asked, lifting his gaze to Toki. "I massively underestimated you."
He pulled the broken rapier and gently inscribed the number "4" on the crest.
Then, with a surprising gentleness, he lifted Toki and pinned the insignia to his breastplate position.
He announced to the hall, strong and clear: "Congratulations. You've earned it. For your efforts, and the courage you showed—you are appointed Captain of the Fourth Division. From now on, you train—and fight—under my guidance."
The crowd erupted. King Matthias rose from his throne, face calm but triumphant.
Utsuki burst forward, tears streaming, embracing the battered hero. Blood stained her dress, but her pink eyes shone with pride.
Bernard approached, awe and joy flickering in his expression. He clapped Toki's back and grinned wide. "That was… nothing could have prepared me. You earned my friendship, Toki. And if you'll have it… so would I."
Toki winced as he rested fully, clutching the vermilion-stained cane close to his side. He looked over at Utsuki, then Bernard.
His voice cracked, but the firmness held true. "I… I accept."
Blood still trickled from Toki's side, his tunic damp with crimson, but the worst had passed. He sat on the edge of a stone bench, cradling his ribs, when Bernard approached him with a quiet, almost awkward air. The crowd had begun to disperse after the battle, and the courtyard was returning to calm, though the air was still thick with the metallic scent of blood .
Bernard stood before Toki, uncertain for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice low but insistent.
"I know you're hurt, and this might not be the best time to ask... but where did you learn that strike?"
Toki blinked, startled. "What?"
Bernard stepped closer, crouching to Toki's level. His eyes were intense now, glinting with something deeper than curiosity—hope, perhaps, or desperation.
"That technique you used in the final exchange—the way you twisted your footing, let the blade drag and feint with the off-hand... That's not a common move. It's specific to someone I once knew. Our cousin, Ozvold Edmund. He disappeared years ago, right after his father took his own life."
Bernard pulled something from his coat—a folded, weathered photograph. The edges were creased, and the ink had begun to fade.
He handed it to Toki. The photo showed four boys, all in their teens, smiling, holding musical instruments. A lute, a violin, a flute, and a set of drums. Bernard pointed to the one in the center—a boy with a soft, lopsided grin and distinctly pink hair.
"We used to play music all the time, the four of us. Ozvold... he was like a brother to me. But after the tragedy with his father, he vanished. I never saw him again."
Toki stared at the picture. The boy's face was younger, softer, but unmistakable. He could see the painted smile now, the mask that wasn't there, the way his eyes had hollowed over time.
The clown beneath the lantern.
He remembered the way that strange jester had moved—fluid —when they'd first met in that rain-soaked alley. And the way he'd refused to speak of his past.
Toki's throat tightened.
But he couldn't tell Bernard. Not yet. Ozvold hadn't wanted to be found. To speak would be to betray something sacred.
He handed the photo back, shaking his head slightly.
"I'm not sure where I saw it," he said, forcing a pained smile. "It just… came to me. Maybe I saw it once in training. Maybe not."
Bernard accepted the lie without protest, though disappointment flashed across his face.
Before more could be said, the King approached.
He placed a hand on Toki's shoulder.
"You fought well, young one," the King said, his voice regal but warm. "You have earned more than just our gratitude."
Toki tried to rise, but the King gently stopped him.
"Rest. You've done enough. We'll speak again."
Then, with a final nod to Bernard and a brief word with a guard, the King turned and left, summoned by other duties.
Gerald stepped into view, his black cloak dragging just slightly behind him, pristine even amidst the chaos.
"Bernard," he said calmly, "it's time. He should see it."
Bernard looked hesitant. "Are you sure? He's still—"
"He's ready," Gerald cut in. "Whether he knows it or not."
Toki glanced between them.
Utsuki appeared beside him and knelt.
"Go," she said softly. "I'll wait by the carriage."
Toki frowned. "Are you sure?"
She smiled faintly. "I trust you."
So he went.
The walk was long, down winding stairs behind a sealed archway guarded by a silent sentinel of stone. Neither Bernard nor Gerald spoke much as they descended into the subterranean depths.
At last, they reached it—a wide chamber buried beneath the earth, lit only by faintly glowing stones embedded in the walls. The chamber pulsed with old mana, and the air felt heavy, reverent.
Massive slabs of dark marble stood upright in rows, carved with names and symbols. Each slab had an offering laid at its base: broken swords, faded banners, scraps of poetry, and weathered instruments.
Toki stepped forward, awe striking him speechless.
Gerald gestured grandly, yet with reverence.
"Welcome," he said, "to the Knight's Sepulcher."