Riven studied the man carefully.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, probably in his early thirties, with a rough face and the stance of someone used to carrying a weapon or wearing armor. His posture oozed confidence or arrogance, depending on how one looked at it. The armor he wore was covered in dents and scratches, as if he was proud of every mark left from sparring or petty duels.
Riven quickly concluded one more thing, the man clearly had no idea who he was. Very few people even knew Ashtoria was staying in this mansion, and fewer still knew who Riven and Melly really were.
To this man, Riven probably looked like a gardener with too much free time, or a stable hand pretending to be a swordsman.
So, with a calm voice and an unreadable expression, Riven asked,
"What do you mean?"
The man immediately snapped back, his voice rising a few octaves, fueled by suppressed anger.
"My name is Rocky Stone! My family may be small and without territory, but we are still nobles of blue blood! And you, every single day I hear you insult my name! You curse that rock, calling it stupid, damned, cursed! You think I wouldn't notice, huh?!"
He jabbed a finger toward the massive boulder that had been Riven's target all morning.
"You think that's funny? You think you can insult my family name like that?!"
Riven fell silent for a moment.
Then, with a faintly awkward smile, he replied softly, "I'm sorry if that bothered you... but you do know I was talking to that rock, right?"
He pointed at the enormous boulder that still stood perfectly intact despite the dozens of strikes it had endured since dawn.
Rocky's face turned bright red.
His mouth opened, then closed again.
For a moment, the bulky man just stood there, caught between confusion and fury. The muscles in his jaw tightened. He clearly wanted to stay angry—but Riven's sincere, simple apology left him off balance.
Still, Rocky refused to look weak.
"...That doesn't change anything!" he barked. "You should've chosen your words more carefully! Because of you, people have started laughing behind my back!"
Riven tilted his head slightly, genuine curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"Because of me? Or because your name is Rocky Stone and you get offended every time someone insults a rock?"
The words slipped out before he realized it.
When he did, he blinked, mildly regretting that his mouth had moved faster than his brain.
Rocky's face now burned crimson. His eyes widened in outrage.
"You—!"
Before he could finish his insult, Riven looked at him.
A steady gaze. Not threatening, but firm enough to warn.
He sighed softly.
"I truly didn't mean to insult anyone. But if that really offends you, I'm genuinely sorry."
Predictably, Rocky wasn't satisfied.
His eyes darted toward Riftmaker, the elegant silver blade still gripped in Riven's hand. His lips curved into a grin, not out of amusement, but greed.
"If you're holding a sword," Rocky said, voice dripping with challenge, "then settle this with a sword too."
Riven turned slowly, meeting his glare. He could have refused. He could have walked away. But there was something in the man's expression that stirred him, not anger, but the quiet thrum of competition.
He had never fought a real knight before. The intruder from Mordune? That man had already been half-dead. Ashtoria? That wasn't a duel, it was a lesson wrapped in cruelty.
So now...
He nodded.
"Fine."
Rocky smirked, stepping back as he drew his sword. The scrape of metal echoed through the quiet courtyard. He took his stance, feet apart, blade raised.
But before they began, Rocky squinted and said,
"Let's make this more interesting."
His gaze slid greedily to Riftmaker once more.
"If I win... that sword becomes mine."
Riven raised an eyebrow, saying nothing at first. He looked at Riftmaker, the weapon that had been his since he crossed paths with Ashtoria. It fit perfectly in his hand, balanced as though it had been forged for him. He'd trained with it every day, until it felt like an extension of himself.
Still...
With a flat voice, he replied,
"And if I win?"
Rocky snorted. "You can ask anything of me. But it won't matter, you're not going to win."
Riven didn't respond right away. His eyes stayed on the man for a moment, then dropped to Riftmaker again.
He could already guess Rocky's real motive. This wasn't about honor or pride. From the start, the knight had only wanted the sword—its shine, its craftsmanship, the faint aura it carried.
And now he thought he could take it?
No.
"I won't stake it," Riven said calmly, his tone sharp as steel.
Rocky narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean, huh?!"
"I refuse," Riven repeated. "You want a duel? Fine. But no wagers."
For a moment, Rocky looked like a soldier who'd just been mocked before his troops.
"Coward," he spat bitterly. "So you're just some servant lucky enough to find a fine sword. You scared? What do you even train for, then? You've got no guts. No courage."
Riven stayed quiet.
Unmoved. Unshaken.
Rocky's fists clenched. His chest heaved. Rage pulsed through him, hot and restless.
"Then forget the wager!" he finally shouted, his voice echoing across the yard. "Now I just want to beat you to a pulp!"
Riven lifted his chin slightly, a faint smile curving on his lips—not arrogant, just enough to stoke the man's fury further.
"Should've just said that from the start," he murmured. "If that's all you wanted, there's no need to pretend otherwise."
He shifted his stance. Riftmaker dipped slightly to his right, his left hand relaxed and open, his body leaning forward—ready.
Rocky growled and lunged.
His steps were heavy and fast, his swings full of brute strength. There was no hesitation, no grace, just raw aggression. His first strike came from above, cutting through the air with force enough to crush bone.
But Riven didn't move.
His eyes stayed locked on Rocky, reading every twitch of muscle, every shift of balance.
When the blade finally came down—
Riftmaker moved. Fast. Precise. Effortless.
Riven sidestepped, letting the heavy sword crash into empty air, throwing Rocky slightly off balance. He didn't strike back immediately; his reflexes weren't honed enough for that. Instead, when he did swing, the blow was parried roughly, the shock running up his arm.
Rocky attacked again, more wildly this time. His sword came from every angle, fueled by frustration rather than form. Each swing was like a storm of iron, ugly but dangerous enough to wound anyone careless.
Riven backstepped, deflecting and evading, constantly pushed backward.
His technique was still unpolished. Despite days of training under Ashtoria, his body wasn't fully attuned to combat rhythm yet. But with each clash, each movement of Riftmaker, each calculated step, something began to shift.
That feeling…
That tension...
He had felt it before, in the village, when beasts tore through his body. Back then, he fought only to survive.
But now—
Now it was different.
He felt like he could win.
Riven drew in a deep breath. He deliberately held back Riftmaker's true power, knowing the duel would end too quickly if he didn't.
The clang of steel rang out again as he deflected another strike, stepping lightly away. Ashtoria's lessons replayed in his head. Balance your weight, read the pressure, match your breath to your movement.
Simple. But effective.
His swings began to sharpen, his motions tighter. He wasn't attacking directly, but probing, testing, searching for cracks.
Rocky, used to overpowering opponents, started to lose his rhythm.
"All you can do is dodge, huh?!" he yelled, slashing again. "You dare call yourself a swordsman?!"
Riven didn't answer. He simply smiled faintly, pivoted left, parried upward, and slipped behind the man's shoulder. Riftmaker moved with growing ease, still imperfect, but finding its own tempo.
And at that moment… something inside Riven shifted.
Not fear. Not caution.
Excitement.
The pounding in his chest no longer spelled panic, it pulsed with life.
Every clash became rhythm. Every strain became thrill. He began to enjoy it, the movement, the breath, even the sweat trailing down his face. Everything felt alive.
And for the first time in a while…
He started to smile.