Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 58: Another Duel
Chapter 58 - Another Duel
Alaster's sword gleams in the winter light, the blade trembling slightly in his grip. His friends form a loose ring, jeering at me, their voices a cocktail of outrage and expectation. I just keep my hands in my pockets, chin tilted, watching him like he's a stray dog
"Draw!" Alaster roars, taking a lunging step forward, sword aimed straight for my chest.
I sidestep, easy as breathing, boots scraping the stone. He almost stumbles past me, his momentum unchecked. I don't even bother to look at the blade. "Careful," I say, my voice low and unhurried. "You'll hurt yourself."
I can barely hear his response over the ringing in my ears the kind that comes not from fear, but anticipation. This is going exactly as I'd hoped. I wanted a moment like this. A stage. And now I have one.
More black-robed figures are drifting in at the edges other first years just arriving from their trains, confusion written all over their faces as they approach the scene. The civilians have been cleared, the porters and travelers herded away by the guards, leaving this stretch at the end of the train station eerily open. Only the the original ring of elites, a few regular soldiers, and the ever-increasing trickle of new Elites remain, all suddenly aware that something worth watching is about to happen.
Alaster lunges at me, sword flashing, face twisted with righteous fury. I still don't even bother drawing my blade, just pivot out of the way, letting his blade cut nothing but cold air. "You might want to keep your feet planted," I say, tone light, "unless your family crest gives you wings."
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His face burns red, and he shouts something again—some threat or curse—but I'm too busy laughing. His form is a mess. Feet too wide, shoulders too stiff, his blade sings only of pride, not discipline. Compared to the drills I've been forced through by the Cain and the teachers at the castle, this is almost insulting. If this is the kind of competition I'm going to face from the other first years, then I've been worried for absolutely nothing.
He snarls, coming at me again, and I slip past the arc of his sword like it's nothing, hands in my pockets, feet dancing over the frost-slick stone. Each time he misses, I toss out another barb "Nice swing bud. Did you know people with big feet like yours are proven to be smaller in other areas?" The new arrivals start to murmur, some grinning, most wide-eyed, all of them seeing exactly what I want them to see.
My smile fades.
It's gone on long enough.
I let my amusement bleed away, replacing it with the cold mask I wore for most of my childhood that was then refined by Cain's lessons, it's arrogant, careless. The laughter dies in my throat, and when I speak again, it's not for the crowd or for sport. It's for Alaster.
"You swing like a child playing soldier," I sneer as he charges, sweat beading on his brow. "All that noble training and you're still this slow?
His face contorts, eyes wild, but I'm done just dodging. When he lunges, I step inside his reach and drive my knee hard into his thigh. He howls, staggers, and I follow with a calculated kick to his ribs that sends him sprawling. The crowd of new arrivals flinches, some gasping, others laughing outright now. I circle him, never letting him find his footing, my kicks striking with surgical precision never enough to cripple, just enough to humiliate.
"You're not even worth my blade," I proclaim, voice cold. "You want to act like you're better than everyone else, but I've seen Shine addicts fight with more skill than you."
"You going to stand up, or are you finished embarrassing yourself?" I taunt, voice low and venomous.
That's when something shifts. Alaster's orange eyes blaze and his body stiffens, then trembles. I pause for half a second, watching as a glow no, a pulse flares across the veins of his neck. His mouth stretches open in a silent scream, and then I hear the sound of breaking bones. What the fuck is this?
His uniform splits at the seams. His body twists, enlarges, muscles ballooning grotesquely as his skin darkens and thickens. In the space of a heartbeat, the boy is gone what's left is a monster, towering over me, easily over 13 feet tall, veins crawling with pulsating orange light his sword now comedically small in his massive fist.
What type of fucked up mark of power is that. Are you kidding me?
The crowd goes silent, then erupts, a surge of excited shouts and wild, hungry cheering. First years press closer, faces alight with the thrill of spectacle, all thoughts of fear or caution burned away by the promise of violence. I just laugh, low and cold, the sound echoing off the stone and steel.
"Fine, fine," I say, rolling my shoulders. "You want a real fight? I won't hold back now that you've gone and used some freak-ass mark."
I draw my sword in one fluid motion, the metal singing in the air. Alaster if he's even still got a mind in there just grunts, thick and guttural, like speech has been punched out of him by his own transformation. Then he moves. Fast—so fast it's almost impossible, that massive body blurring as he swings for my throat. For a split second, I'm honestly surprised, barely twisting out of the way as his blade whistles past, close enough to ruffle my hair. My heart stutters, adrenaline spiking.
Monster-Alaster roars, a guttural sound that rattles the air like thunder trapped in a cave. He charges again, faster than he has any right to be. His massive feet crack the stone beneath him, every step an explosion of force. The stationed soldiers near the outskirts of the plaza squint, unable to follow his movements. Their eyes aren't trained for this kind of battle hell, even some of the first years in the crowd look overwhelmed, their excitement curdling into unease.
All my focus narrows to the fight. I drop into my battle art aether flow, letting instinct and training take over, reading the shifting weight of the monster's stance, the twitch before each blow. I weave around the strikes, blade sliding against his, turning raw power into glancing misses. It's not enough to just dodge, his reach is too long, his strength too overwhelming. Every parry jars my arms to the bone. Form means nothing here his sheer size and raw strength defy form, defy logic. It's like fighting a landslide with a stick. I parry, redirect, twist out of reach but it takes everything. And even then, I can't gain ground I keep it barley even. Every time our weapons clash, the force cracks the stone beneath us. Dust and broken stone erupt beneath our feet.
The crowd of elites maybe sixty or more now scatters back. Most are still cheering like this is a spectacle. Idiots.
Then, at the edge of my mind, the voices start to bleed through. Hungry and eager. Stop holding back. That thing isn't human anymore. An Abomination. Kill it, kill it, kill it— Their whispers slip past my control, fanning the flames of my pulse and making me tighten the grip on my sword.
I'm so focused on the next attack that I don't see the kick until it's too late. Alaster's foot, wide as a damn shield slams into my side, sending me skidding across the stone. Pain rips through me and the world tilts, frost scraping my palms as I catch myself using my momentum to land a backflip. The crowd gasps shocked that I finally took a hit. Then they erupt in cheers. Some calling for Alaster to end me and others to my shock calling for me focus.
I push up slowly, hate twisting my mouth into a snarl. The crowd blurs at the edges, their cheers like static. All I see is the monster-Alaster towering above, roaring for more. The voices in my skull scream for blood, and for the first time since stepping onto this platform, I let them rise. I decide, right then, that this fucker isn't leaving in one piece.
