Though brawls were strictly forbidden within city limits, adventurers were permitted to resolve disputes through sanctioned combat. Once both parties agreed, the duel would be formally recorded, overseen, and witnessed by the Royal Guard.

  The Royal Guard hesitated.

  It wasn’t fear, but calculation. His fingers tightened around the haft of his spear as his gaze moved between us, weighing steel against wood, warhammer against scepter. The square had begun to change around us, the casual noise of the marketplace thinning into something sharper, more focused.

  People were paying attention now.

  The murmurs grew, layered voices stacking atop one another like gathering storm clouds. Adventurers slowed mid-step. Merchants abandoned their stalls without complaint. Even the nobles, who usually treated violence as entertainment meant for other people, leaned closer, eyes glittering with interest.

  The guard exhaled slowly.

  “Sanctioned combat carries no liability,” he said at last, his voice lowered for those inside the forming ring. “Once the barrier is raised, we do not intervene. Yielding is permitted only if both parties are capable of recognizing it.”

  In other words, if I went down hard enough, it wouldn’t matter what I wanted.

  Vallen stepped forward. “He’s not a frontline combatant,” she snapped. “This is—”

  “—within the law,” the guard finished calmly. “Both parties have consented.”

  Her jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought she might argue further. Then her shoulders sagged, just slightly, as if the weight of responsibility finally caught up to her.

  She turned to me, voice low. “Eryndor. You don’t have to prove anything.”

  I met her gaze. Beneath the anger and worry, I saw fear. Not for herself, but for me.

  “I know,” I said. And meant it.

  Across from us, Guz rolled his shoulders, the metal plates of his armor grinding together with a sound like distant thunder. A few nearby adventurers recognized the weapon in his grip. I caught snatches of whispers.

  “Storm Breaker…”

  “Isn’t that the Winston heir?”

  A noblewoman nearby covered her mouth, eyes glittering with interest. Somewhere behind me, Orin inhaled sharply and didn’t exhale.

  “I want to add one condition,” I said to the Royal Guard.

  “Only if both parties agree.”

  I turned to the challenger and met his gaze. “If you lose,” I said evenly, “I get your hammer.”

  The warrior licked his lips, his eyes flicking toward the sub-space pouch hanging at my belt. “Then you give me your pouch.”

  So he knew.

  Unlike standard adventurer inventories, limited in capacity and function, a druid’s sub-space inventory was a masterpiece of nature-based spatial magic, vastly larger and enhanced with rare abilities such as weight manipulation and automatic sorting.

  And, of course, it was worth a fortune.

  The guard stepped forward, quickly confirming the terms and etching them into the official record. With a raised hand, he began chanting. Mana surged outward.

  A massive, translucent barrier erupted around us, sealing the battlefield in shimmering force.

  Its purpose was clear: to contain the duel and ensure no harm befell the spectators outside.

  The guard’s voice rang out, sharp and authoritative.

  "Eryndior Leafshade and Guz Winston! Take your positions!"

  Beyond the barrier, Vallen’s face creased with worry. Orin looked close to tears, terror written all over her face. The other druids quietly whispered amongst themselves, their anxiety palpable.

  Their fear was justified.

  Druids weren’t frontline fighters. We specialized in control, attrition, and support, rather than direct confrontation.

  And I was facing a brute-force warrior head-on.

  By every conventional measure, this duel should have ended in my defeat.

  ***

  BAAAM!

  Guz moved first.

  His warhammer tore free from his grip, spinning violently as it ripped through the air. The sheer force behind it crushed the space it traveled through, the wind screaming as if something enormous had just been torn loose from the sky itself.

  My heart lurched.

  I’d seen this skill before. Felt it before.

  Storm Bolt.

  It locked onto me, not with sight, but with intent. The weapon wasn’t flying at me so much as it was being pulled toward where I stood, trajectory correcting mid-flight with terrifying precision.

  [Windstride cast]

  Compressed wind detonated around my legs, hurling me backward. Stone shattered beneath my feet as I launched away, momentum snapping my spine straight as the world blurred.

  It wasn’t enough.

  The warhammer slammed into my chest.

  The impact didn’t feel like pain at first. It felt like absence, like the moment after falling from a great height, when the body hasn’t yet remembered how to scream. Something inside me folded in on itself with a dull, wet crunch.

  The stun hit a heartbeat later, heavier than the blow itself.

  My muscles locked. Every nerve screamed as my body simply… refused. I tried to inhale and couldn’t. Tried to move and failed. Color drained from the world until everything blurred into gray, then black at the edges. Somewhere far away, the crowd roared, but the sound reached me warped and distant, as though I were sinking beneath dark water.

  Storm Bolt wasn’t meant to kill.

  It was meant to control.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And worse still, the warhammer didn’t fall to the ground. It snapped back toward its wielder.

  A perfect, merciless arc.

  A perfect setup for a killing blow.

  The instant the stun finally loosened its grip, my vision rushed back in a violent flood. Stone. Dust. The barrier’s shimmering glow.

  And Guz was already close. Far too close.

  His shadow swallowed me as he advanced, armor grinding, intent written plainly across his face. He was going to finish it. End it right here.

  Not if I had anything to say about it.

  I twisted mid-step, forcing my body to obey through sheer will, and lashed out. Wind howled as I hurled a Wind Cutter straight for Guz’s head, the only place his heavy armor didn’t cover.

  The compressed blade howled through the air.

  Guz broke his charge just in time, jerking his head aside. The attack missed, but not cleanly. Blood sprayed as it carved a shallow line across his cheek.

  Then he came at me again.

  Fast.

  Far faster than someone his size had any right to be.

  The duel settled into a vicious rhythm.

  Storm Bolt dictated the pace. Windstride barely kept me alive. Wind Cutter punished every reckless advance.

  But each exchange carried a hidden cost.

  Not for me.

  For him.

  Stamina draining, patience fraying, and control slipping.

  The crowd pressed closer to the barrier. Adventurers leaned forward. Even Royal Guards paused mid-conversation, drawn into the growing tension.

  “Come on,” I called out between breaths, forcing a grin. “Is that really all you’ve got?”

  Guz snarled.

  “No wonder your hammer’s so big,” I continued lightly. “You must be compensating.”

  The reaction was immediate.

  His face flushed crimson, veins bulging as precision gave way to fury. His swings grew heavier, wider. Stronger, but sloppier.

  Perfect.

  Each miss cost him ground. Each Wind Cutter drew blood, forced movement, denied rest.

  “AAARGH! I’LL KILL YOU, YOU LITTLE RAT!” he roared.

  The crowd erupted.

  “Pathetic! Can’t even hit a druid!”

  “All that muscle and no brains!”

  Even the druids found their voices.

  “Go, Eryndor!”

  “Keep going!”

  My name echoed through the barrier, swelling into something larger than the duel itself.

  But I wasn’t finished.

  I hadn’t wanted to reveal this. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

  But I didn’t have a choice.

  “Hey, Guz,” I called, raising my hand. “Try this.”

  The air twisted violently around me before my attack surged forward.

  This one didn’t disperse.

  [Wind Cutter: Max Stacks Reached]

  [Hidden Effect Unlocked — Tornado Slash]

  The air exploded.

  Violent gales erupted around Guz, spiraling inward as razor-edged currents carved into him from every direction. Blood sprayed as his armor screeched in protest, metal shrieking under the relentless assault. Dust and shattered stone were dragged into the vortex, churning wildly until his silhouette vanished completely.

  The spectators erupted into thunderous cheers, disbelief rippling through the square.

  “Did you see that?”

  “That little druid… he shredded him!”

  Then, as the winds finally began to fade, something stepped out.

  The crowd fell silent.

  A heartbeat later, the entire square gasped as one.

  Guz’s skin gleamed like reinforced steel, layered and unnaturally hardened. Dark red veins pulsed beneath the surface, writhing like living things.

  “Is that… a new skill?” the rat-faced man shouted.

  Fletcher stared, eyes wide. “I’ve never seen this before.”

  Guz stepped forward.

  Not a trace of damage marked him. No stagger. No hesitation. It was as if the storm that had torn through him moments ago had never existed at all.

  “You fucking little shit,” Guz growled.

  His voice was wrong. Deeper. Heavier. His pupils burned crimson as saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth.

  He looked… rabid.

  “DIE!”

  Storm Bolt struck again.

  Pain tore through me as the impact shattered my stance. The world spun violently.

  “Eryndor!” Orin screamed.

  “Get up!” Vallen shouted, her voice cracking.

  I tried.

  My body didn’t respond.

  A shadow fell over me.

  CRAAAACK!

  The sound of breaking stone thundered through the arena as Guz’s warhammer came down.

  ***

  Guz Winston had never known hardship.

  Born into wealth, he’d learned early that brute force solved most problems, and money solved the rest. That privilege had earned him Storm Breaker, a warhammer forged from rare arcane metals, worth over thirty thousand Mana Stones.

  He had crushed countless enemies with it.

  Confidence had never failed him before.

  The filthy druid had dared to imply that he was responsible for stealing the Golden Harpy. Guz couldn’t confront him outright, not without risking exposure. So he chose what he knew best.

  Battle.

  At first, he just wanted to intimidate and threaten the druid, while waiting for an opportunity to finish him off later. But unexpectedly, the cocky little druid had accepted his challenge without hesitation.

  The more Guz thought about it, the more he grinned.

  This is going to be an easy fight, he thought.

  But now… the druid was humiliating him. Toying with him like a fool.

  He could hear the spectators’ jeers even through the howling wind that sliced mercilessly into his body. Armor that once protected him so reliably now felt useless, stripped of purpose by the violent gales tearing at his flesh. Pain unlike anything he had ever known crashed into him, not just physical, but something deeper, gnawing at his mind.

  Still, he did not scream.

  He refused to give them that satisfaction.

  Pride held his mouth shut as he bent the pain to his will, forging it into fuel. And when he finally felt it, his lips slowly curled into a grin.

  Something burned deep in his chest.

  The Morax’s Soul Fragment ignited.

  Heat flooded his veins, violent and wrong, his heartbeat slamming harder with each pulse. His breath came thick and wet as the world sharpened, colors bleeding too bright at the edges.

  So this is what it feels like, he thought. Amazing.

  It was time to try his new skill.

  [WARNING: Your HP has fallen below 10%]

  The pain didn’t fade.

  It hardened.

  [Passive Skill — Ironhide activated. +10 All Resistance. Partial HP Restored]

  Torn flesh sealed itself shut. Bruises faded. His skin hardened, reinforced as if forged beneath an unseen hammer.

  His grin widened. He could use it now.

  “Alright,” he muttered under his breath, voice almost cheerful. “Let’s see how far I can push this.”

  [Frenzy Activated: Strength and Agility increase proportionally to missing Health. Incoming Damage Increased by 200%]

  Dark energy roared through him.

  The world narrowed violently, vision tunneling until only one shape mattered, one target burning itself into his mind.

  The druid.

  Some distant part of him knew he was overcommitting.

  He crushed the thought.

  “You fucking little shit…” Guz snarled. “DIE!”

  He hurled his warhammer.

  It screamed through the air, unavoidable.

  Guz charged after it, boots cracking stone as the weapon snapped back into his grasp.

  He raised it high.

  Then brought it down with everything he had.

  CRAAAACK!

  The sound was like shattering stone.

  The roars of the crowd vanished. The wind died. Even the air itself seemed to freeze.

  For a single heartbeat, the battlefield was silent.

  And something moved within the settling dust.

  MILESTONES

  Patreon Subscriptions - 3 Bonus Advance Chapters

  Dreadspire: The Weakest Druid on my