Morax’s Soul Fragment.

  I knew that item far too well.

  In Dreadspire, it was infamous, one of the most toxic, overpowered metas ever to exist. Entire communities had torn themselves apart arguing over it, but the conclusion was always the same.

  For barbarians, the item was a holy grail.

  Its active skill turned any fight into a bloodbath. With Morax’s Fragment, you didn’t just win fights.

  You ran people over.

  And I had memorized every detail.

  The exact strength multiplier.

  The Frenzy trigger conditions.

  The way it scaled with missing health.

  But most importantly, I knew what the item didn’t tell.

  A hidden flaw.

  A threefold increase in damage taken from wind-element attacks.

  Not listed. Not hinted. Not documented anywhere.

  I’d discovered it by accident, through countless test runs and more deaths than I cared to remember. A weakness so severe that once you knew it, Morax’s Fragment stopped looking like a blessing.

  It started looking like a loaded trap.

  And then there was Guz.

  Thanks to his loud-mouthed teammates, I knew something else just as important: he only had one Soul Fragment.

  With my current condition, far stronger than before, dealing with him wasn’t just possible.

  It was easy.

  That was why I felt a surge of excitement when I saw him again.

  This wasn’t a coincidence.

  This was opportunity.

  I didn’t hesitate. The moment Guz challenged me to a duel, I accepted.

  What he didn’t realize was that this fight had been decided long before we stepped into the arena.

  From the moment he confronted me, he was already walking into a trap.

  Still, there was one problem.

  Storm Bolt.

  Short cooldown. Instant cast. Guaranteed stun.

  You didn’t dodge Storm Bolt. You endured it and prayed you survived what came after.

  Fortunately, I had something Guz didn’t know about.

  Ooborosk’s Mantle.

  A subtle effect. Almost laughable on paper.

  Negative status duration reduced by fifteen percent.

  Fifteen percent didn’t sound like much.

  But in a duel where a single second decided life or death, it was the difference between being helpless…

  …and striking back.

  So I acted.

  Every time Storm Bolt hit me, I retreated.

  Not because I feared Guz’s follow-up combo, but because I wanted him to misunderstand what was happening.

  Distance hid the truth.

  From his perspective, the stun lasted exactly as long as it should have. He never noticed that I was recovering early. Never realized his control wasn’t absolute.

  And so, he grew confident.

  Careless.

  Which was why, in the final exchange, I didn’t run when Storm Bolt struck me one last time.

  The world snapped into that familiar, suffocating stillness.

  Lightning crawled across my nerves, locking my limbs in place and freezing breath in my chest. I felt the stun bite, harder than the last one, or so it seemed, yet beneath it something else stirred.

  A tremor in my fingers.

  The weight in my legs easing a fraction sooner than it should have.

  I counted without numbers, measuring the stun not in seconds, but in sensation. Pressure loosening. Balance returning. Control bleeding back into my body like warmth after numbness.

  Guz stepped forward.

  He saw a frozen opponent. A helpless druid. He didn’t see the way my shoulders settled, or how my stance shifted just a hair.

  To Guz, it must have looked like the end.

  He grinned, slow and satisfied, already tasting victory as he stepped closer. “Heh. That’s it,” he said, voice thick with triumph. “It’s over.”

  I let him believe it.

  The stun shattered.

  I stepped forward.

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  Not to dodge. Not to cast.

  My fist met his skull. Not with the soft touch of a healer, but with the bone-shattering density of a monster. The same raw, merciless strength I’d used to bring down Ooborosk, the creature that had nearly killed me.

  The impact cracked through the arena like a breaking beam. Guz’s body lifted off the ground, his weapon spinning uselessly from his grip as he was hurled backward. He hit the stone hard, bounced once, and went still.

  The silence that followed was heavier than any roar.

  Then the stands erupted.

  Laughter. Shouts. Voices colliding in disbelief. People pointed openly now, some doubled over, others staring as if they’d just watched reality misfire.

  The laughter wasn’t kind.

  It wasn’t admiration, either. It carried a sharper edge, the sound of a long-standing social hierarchy being corrected. I caught fragments as it washed over the arena. Druid. Monster. Did you see that?

  Faces turned toward me not with awe, but calculation. Smiles faded into thoughtful frowns. Some people leaned closer to their companions, already reshaping the story into something they could repeat later.

  This wasn’t just a duel anymore.

  It was a precedent being established.

  And reputations had a way of spreading.

  Not far from him, Guz’s teammates didn’t move. They looked at his unmoving body, then at me, and finally at each other. Without a word, they turned away, abandoning him to his shame.

  Because this wasn’t just a loss. It was an erasure of his identity.

  A warrior, put down by a single, physical blow from a druid.

  That strike didn’t just break his body.

  It shattered his pride.

  From this day on, every victory would feel thinner. No boast would ever sound the same. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory would always surface.

  The moment he charged in with absolute confidence…

  …and was put down by someone he believed was beneath him.

  And that…

  That was a lesson Guz would carry for the rest of his life.

  ***

  The druids swarmed toward me just as I bent down to claim my reward, the Storm Breaker. Its polished surface gleamed under the sunlight, crackling faintly with residual energy, as if it, too, was catching its breath after the duel.

  Out of the crowd, Orin was the first to break through, waving both arms wildly in the air like an excited child.

  “There he is!” she shouted with a beaming grin. “Our champion!”

  Behind her, more familiar faces appeared. Riven, Sable, and a handful of other druids I recognized from training sessions.

  And then, from the far back of the crowd, I saw her.

  Vallen Raenhir stood at the edge of the crowd.

  She didn’t hurry. She didn’t cheer. She walked forward with slow, deliberate steps, arms folded, her expression as composed as ever. Too composed.

  “Eryndor, that was incredible!” Sable exclaimed as she reached me, giving my shoulder a hearty slap. “You had me on edge the whole time!”

  Orin rushed up next, arms crossed in exaggerated reproach. “You really scared me, you know.” Then she laughed. “But that was awesome.”

  Before I could reply, Fenric threw his arm around my back.

  “Here he is, our hero!” he roared, grinning from ear to ear. Without warning, he nodded at Riven and Alton.

  “Wait… what are you—?!”

  Too late.

  The three of them hoisted me into the air and tossed me upward like a sack of flour.

  “MIGHTY DRUID!” they shouted in unison as I flailed midair, half-laughing, half-panicking.

  I felt my cheeks burn from the attention, but deep down, I couldn’t deny the surge of happiness swelling in my chest. The circle around us widened, then thickened, voices overlapping as strangers joined in, calling my name like they’d always known it.

  For a moment, I let myself bask in it. The thrill of victory. The joy of being seen. The warmth of belonging.

  Still, a thread of tension lingered beneath it all, thin and unwelcome, like the pressure in the air before rain. Victories like this were never free.

  As the noise swelled around me, my eyes drifted toward the edge of the square.

  Vallen had stopped walking.

  She watched the spectacle in silence, her gaze steady, assessing not the fight I’d won but what would come after. When our eyes met, she gave no nod or smile.

  She simply looked at me, a long, thoughtful stare that felt like a bucket of cold water over my head. Then, she turned and vanished into the shadows of the nearby colonnade.

  The celebration thinned slowly, like a tide retreating from a shore it no longer owned.

  One by one, the crowds peeled away, called off by duties, fatigue, or the simple fact that the square no longer felt like a place where anything new would happen. The Royal Guards reclaimed the arena with practiced efficiency, ushering onlookers aside and restoring order as if chaos were something that could be swept up and stored away.

  I remained near the edge of the square, Storm Breaker resting against my shoulder.

  Up close, the weapon felt heavier than it looked, not in weight, but in implication. The lightning etched along its surface had dimmed to a faint glow, but every so often, a quiet crackle rippled beneath the metal.

  “So,” Orin said, rocking back on her heels beside me. “Do rare weapons usually feel this… grumpy?”

  I snorted despite myself. “I think it’s still deciding whether it likes me.”

  “That’s reassuring,” she said solemnly, then glanced around. “You heading back to the grove with us?”

  “In a bit,” I replied. “I want to make sure this gets registered properly first.”

  She nodded, then hesitated. “Hey. About earlier.”

  I looked at her.

  “When you didn’t move,” she said softly. “After the stun. I thought—” She shook her head, smiling again, but there was a flicker of something unsettled in her eyes. “Just… don’t do that again.”

  I didn’t promise anything.

  “Eryndor,” Alton said, giving my back a firm pat. “Instructor’s waiting.”

  I turned.

  Vallen Raenhir was no longer in the crowd. She was standing beneath the deep shadow of a marble arch, half-obscured by banners snapping lazily in the breeze.

  I walked toward her, the cheers of the druids behind me sounding suddenly distant, like a memory from an hour ago rather than a minute.

  “Enjoying your victory?” she asked as I entered the shade of the arch.

  “I am,” I said. “Should I not be?”

  Her lips curved faintly. Not quite a smile. “On the contrary. Victories should be enjoyed. They tend to be… rare.”

  She stepped closer. Each footfall measured. Controlled.

  “I wanted to congratulate you,” she continued. “Not for winning, but for how you won.”

  That caught my attention.

  “You didn’t panic. You let him think he was in control.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Storm Breaker. “You’ve grown stronger.”

  “That’s what the Tower does to people.”

  She shook her head. “No.” A faint pause. “You’ve surpassed most of them.”

  We stood there for a moment, the noise of the city flowing around us like water around stone. None of the other druids dared to speak.

  “Word travels fast,” Vallen said at last. “Especially when a druid humiliates an heir in front of a crowd.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Intent doesn’t matter. Impact does.”

  I waited.

  “Whether you like it or not,” she continued, “you’re in the spotlight now. Your duel record will be archived permanently.”

  She turned then, gesturing toward the administrative hall overlooking the square. “And records attract attention.”

  The word lingered between us.

  “I assume this is the part where you warn me.”

  “No,” she replied calmly. “This is the part where I advise you.”

  She glanced over my shoulder. “When someone with power acknowledges you, doors begin to open. And once you step through them, there’s no going back to how things were.”

  “That sounds… comforting,” I said dryly.

  For the first time, a hint of amusement touched her expression. Then it vanished.

  “Choose carefully which doors you walk through, Eryndor,” she said. “Some paths are far less beautiful once you’re standing on them.”

  She paused, then added quietly, “And be careful. People will be watching.”

  “Not only those who support you,” she continued, her voice lowering, "but those who would love nothing more than to see you fall.”

  Her gaze hardened.

  “Especially the Winston family.”

  She met my eyes.

  “You didn’t just win a duel. You made an enemy of a noble house.”

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