The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 366: Friendly Duel

The heavy iron gates of the training yard seemed to groan under the weight of the tension as the two monarchs faced each other.

The blizzard held its breath, the snow falling in thick, lazy flakes that vanished the moment they touched the packed earth.

Caelen gripped his Solmire steel, the leather wrap of the hilt groaning under his squeeze.

He looked at Soren, at the shimmering skin and the eyes that glowed with a predatory blue light, and felt the familiar, bitter taste of an underdog’s defiance.

"Magic or no magic?" Caelen asked, his voice cutting through the crisp air like a whetstone.

The crowd, a growing ring of knights, stable hands, and high-ranking guards, went deathly silent.

Every man there knew the truth: if Soren called upon the frost, if he tapped into the ancestral well of magic, Caelen would be frozen into a statue before he could take a single step.

Soren met his gaze, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before his shoulders relaxed into a posture of terrifyingly casual grace.

"No magic," Soren declared, his voice firm and carrying. Caelen’s brows flickered in surprise, a reaction Soren caught with a slight, arrogant smirk.

"You earned that much when we first met years ago, Caelen. I won’t insult a king by using an unfair advantage in a test of steel. Besides," he added, his voice dropping into a low, confident register that set the crowd murmuring, "I don’t need it to beat you."

Caelen’s jaw tightened until the muscles corded. "We’ll see."

They moved to their positions, twenty paces apart, a circle of cleared earth between them. Ryse and Jorel stood at the edge, their faces grim masks of concentration.

Ryse’s eyes darted to Soren, noting the way the Emperor didn’t even settle into a traditional guard; he stood loose, his sword hanging low, looking more like a man waiting for a dance than a duel.

Jorel whispered to Ryse, "The Emperor’s holding back his magic, but something about him feels... different. He looks more... scary." Ryse only nodded, his hand white-knuckled on his own hilt. "This is going to be brutal."

Ryse stepped forward, his hand slicing through the air. "First blood or yield! BEGIN!"

They exploded. To the common guards watching from the ramparts, it was as if the air itself had warped.

One second they were twenty paces apart; the next, the yard rang with a bone-shaking crack as their blades collided in the center of the ring.

The sound was violent, a sharp, clean song of steel that vibrated in the chests of everyone present.

They broke apart instantly, Caelen testing the waters with a lightning-fast thrust that would have gutted a lesser man.

Soren deflected it with an effortless flick of his wrist, his footwork so perfect he seemed to be sliding on ice even where there was only dirt.

Caelen followed up with a slash, a feint, and a second slash, but Soren simply stepped back, his movements economical and fluid, his eyes never leaving Caelen’s.

Then, the rhythm changed. Soren stopped reacting and began to dictate. He became aggressive, his blade becoming a silver blur as he launched a three-strike combination, high, low, and a mid-level thrust, delivered with such blistering speed that Caelen was forced into a desperate, retreating defense.

Every time Caelen’s blade met Soren’s, the impact jarred his teeth. Soren was strong, inhumanly so. He wasn’t just fast; he was heavy, each strike carrying the momentum of a mountain.

"The Emperor’s toying with him," a guard whispered, and he wasn’t wrong.

Soren was dancing around Caelen, striking from unexpected angles, a cocky, confident smile playing on his lips. He lunged and, instead of cutting, slapped the flat of his blade against Caelen’s shoulder.

It was a humiliating touch, a reminder that Soren could have taken the arm if he wished.

"Come now, Caelen," Soren taunted, circling him with light feet. "You can do better than this. I thought you were the hero of the south."

Caelen breathed hard, his lungs burning in the frigid air. The taunt struck deep, but instead of shattering him, it acted as a catalyst.

He’s treating me like a novice, Caelen thought, his internal voice turning cold and sharp.

He remembered the years of grit, the monsters he’d slain when he had nothing but his own two hands and a blunt blade.

He was the man who became a legend without a drop of magic in his veins. His stance shifted. His breathing slowed. His focus became absolute, the world narrowing down to the tip of Soren’s sword.

Soren lunged again, expecting the same defensive retreat. Instead, Caelen did the unthinkable: he stepped into the strike. It was a move of pure, calculated madness.

He deflected Soren’s blade at the very last micro-second, using the Emperor’s own immense momentum against him.

Soren, caught off-balance for a fraction of a heartbeat, tried to pivot, but Caelen was already there.

With a blur of motion, Caelen’s blade caught Soren’s shoulder with the flat of the steel.

The crowd erupted. "HE HIT HIM!"

Soren stepped back, a look of genuine, delighted surprise flashing across his face.

He touched his shoulder, looking at the smudge on his tunic, and his smile widened, becoming something wilder. "There you are," Soren laughed. "That’s more like it!"

Now it was Caelen who pressed the advantage. His style was brutal and efficient, stripped of the flowery grace of the court. He was relentless.

He launched a high slash that Soren blocked, but Caelen immediately transitioned into a low feint, catching Soren’s thigh with the flat of his blade.

A second hit. The crowd was roaring now, caught in the fever of the match. Caelen was matching Soren’s speed with pure, practiced reflex, his footwork perfect as he forced the Emperor to react, to think, to struggle.

Jorel stared in shock, whispering to Ryse, "He’s actually pushing him." Ryse gripped the railing, a grim smile on his face. "Never underestimate a man with nothing left to lose."

For two full minutes, the yard became a theater of impossible skill. Neither gained an inch. It was a constant, metallic ringing, strike, parry, counter-strike, roll.

They were moving so fast they were a blur to anyone but the veteran warriors. The smiles were gone now.

Soren was focused, his brow furrowed, realizing that Caelen’s lack of magic was compensated for by a lifetime of survival.

Caelen was a wolf cornered, snapping at everything that moved.

Then came the opening. Soren, perhaps fueled by the new, surging energy in his blood, overextended slightly on a deep thrust. It was a mistake a younger Soren wouldn’t have made, but the "new" Soren was still learning his own strength.

Caelen saw it. He sidestepped, deflected Soren’s blade toward the ground, and brought his own hilt up in a rising arc. He caught Soren in the ribs, not with the edge, but with a hit so hard it forced the air from the Emperor’s lungs.

Soren stumbled back, his boots skidding, his back hitting the stone wall of the rampart.

In a heartbeat, Caelen was there. He lunged, his blade stopping a hair’s breadth from Soren’s throat.

The yard fell into a silence so profound you could hear the snowflakes landing on the stone. Caelen stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin, his eyes wide with a triumphant, desperate fire. "Yield," Caelen panted, the word a command.

Ryse stood with his mouth open. Jorel stared, unable to believe the Emperor had been cornered by a magicless man. Soren sat pinned against the wall, the Solmire steel cold against his skin.

But as the silence stretched, Soren’s eyes didn’t show panic. They didn’t show defeat.

They were bright, glowing with a soft, amused sapphire light. A slow, terrifyingly calm smile played at the corners of his lips as he looked up the length of the blade at Caelen.

He didn’t look like a man who had lost. He looked like a man who was finally having fun.