I Died and Became a Noble's Heir-Chapter 352: WARNING
Jack’s laugh was sharp as breaking glass. "That’s rich coming from someone who got his ass handed to him by a clap."
The insult landed perfectly. Rhys’s composure cracked fractionally, color rising in his pale cheeks. Around the garrison, nobles who’d witnessed their previous duel couldn’t quite suppress their snickers.
"Thunder Clap," Jack continued as he spoke down to Rhys. "That’s all it took to end our last fight. One technique. One moment. And you were done. So forgive me if I find your accusations about borrowed power somewhat... ironic."
"That was...." Rhys started.
"A comprehensive demonstration of the difference between us," Jack interrupted. "But please, continue telling yourself that divine blessing is the only reason you lost. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
The elf’s hands clenched into fists; his carefully maintained composure fractured under Jack’s dismantling of his pride. This was precisely what Jack wanted. Get Rhys angry, get him emotional, make him fight stupid, and humiliate him.
"You think you’re strong," Rhys snarled, his melodious voice turning harsh. "You think killing one dragon makes you special. But you’re just a child playing with forces you don’t understand. A fake chosen one propped up by circumstances and divine favor rather than genuine capability."
"A fake chosen one," Jack repeated slowly, as if tasting the words. "Interesting assessment. Tell me, Rhys, how many disaster-class threats have you killed? How many armies have you defeated? How many times have you defended entire cities from annihilation?"
He took a step forward, red lightning crackling more visibly around his body.
"Because my count is at least one dragon, one army of fifteen thousand, and one siege that should have ended with my family’s destruction. What’s your count? How many impressive victories have you achieved with all that elven longevity and supposed superiority?"
Rhys’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. His expression cycled through fury and embarrassment as he struggled to formulate a response that didn’t make him sound even more inadequate.
"That’s what I thought," Jack said with false sympathy. "All talk, no substance. Just another arrogant elf convinced that living a long time makes you inherently better than humans who actually accomplish things."
The crowd was eating it up. Nobles whispered to each other with barely suppressed glee, enjoying the verbal evisceration as much as they’d enjoy the physical one to follow.
Jack’s gaze tracked past Rhys to the massive bodyguard standing behind him. "Speaking of substance, I have a question. When you surrender, and you will surrender, Rhys, will your bodyguard fight for you? Or are you actually going to face me yourself?"
The bodyguard shifted uncomfortably, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. Rhys’s face flushed with humiliation and rage at the implication that he’d hide behind hired protection.
"I fight my own battles, Kaiser," Rhys spat, his composure completely shattered now. "My bodyguard is here to ensure no one interferes with our duel. Not to fight in my place."
"How noble," Jack’s grin widened. "I was worried you might try to have him take your beating for you. Again."
"Again?" Rhys’s voice cracked slightly. "I never..."
"Didn’t you, though?" Jack interrupted. "Last time we fought, you had plenty of supporters ready to jump in if things went poorly. The only reason they didn’t was because you tried to use magic in a sword fight, and my father almost killed you because of that."
The garrison erupted in laughter that was quickly suppressed but impossible to hide. Even some of the servants were struggling to maintain professional neutrality, their lips twitching at the discussion unfolding.
Rhys looked murderous. His pale eyes were filled with fury that transcended mere anger and entered the realm of genuine hatred. His hands moved to his daggers, fingers curling around hilts with white-knuckled intensity.
"Are we going to continue exchanging witty banter," Rhys hissed, "or are we actually going to fight?"
Jack’s expression shifted. The playful mockery drained away, replaced by something colder, more focused.
Red lightning intensified around his body, crackling across his skin in violent patterns that cast the garrison in crimson light.
"We’re going to fight," Jack confirmed, his voice dropping to something more dangerous. "And when we’re done, you’re going to understand exactly why challenging me was the worst decision you’ve made in your very long, very wasted life."
He took a fighting stance, weight balanced, hands loose at his sides, red lightning dancing between his fingers like eager serpents.
"Whenever you’re ready, Rhys," Jack said quietly, his red eyes blazing with anticipation. "Come show me this genuine capability you keep talking about. Prove I’m just a fake. Demonstrate your elven superiority. Don’t be afraid to use magic; I wouldn’t want you to have a reason to complain.
His grin returned.
Rhys exploded forward with speed that would have impressed most observers.
The elf struck high, then low, then high again. A three-strike combination designed to overwhelm defenses through sheer speed and variation.
His blades traced silver arcs through the air, each movement was placed perfectly.
Jack swayed backward, his body moving with minimal effort. The first dagger passed inches from his throat. He pivoted left, letting the second blade slice through empty air where his ribs had been. The third strike met nothing but the space Jack had occupied a fraction of a second earlier.
Rhys pressed the attack with escalating aggression. His daggers became a blur of silver light, striking from impossible angles with speeds that made the weapons nearly invisible.
Jack continued his effortless evasion to the point it became insulting. He didn’t block or counter. He moved exactly enough to make each strike miss by the narrowest margins.
His red eyes tracked Rhys’s patterns with analytical precision, cataloging every habit, every tell, every fractional hesitation that betrayed the elf’s intentions.
’He’s faster than before,’ Jack noted, ducking under a horizontal slash that would have opened his throat. ’Much faster. His technique has improved significantly.’
Rhys spun, using momentum to add power to a diagonal cut aimed at Jack’s shoulder. Jack sidestepped, letting the blade whistle past close enough to stir his hair.
’System,’ Jack thought, maintaining his evasive rhythm while his mind worked in parallel. ’Is this the same Rhys Luffiel I fought previously? Something feels different.’
[Affirmative. Target is Rhys Luffiel. Significant power increase detected since previous encounter.]
’How significant?’
[Activating Flawed Sight for detailed analysis.]
[Rhys Luffiel - Level 26]
Description: Bastard Child of Maelor
Class: Wind Mage
Strength: 45
Stamina: 45
Agility: 72
Vitality: 95
Endurance: 60
Magic: 125
Mana: 2,320
HP: 9,500
Magic Talent Rank: A
Martial Talent Rank: B
Affinity: Wind, Water
Bastard Child of Maelor. Jack thought intensely for a moment.
’System who is Maelor?’
[Maelor is the 42nd Eleven King of Caeloria.]
Rhys was a prince. An illegitimate prince, certainly, but royal blood nonetheless.
Jack’s grin widened as he caught Rhys’s next strike between his palms. The elf’s eyes widened with shock as his attack froze completely.
"Tell me, Rhys," Jack said grinning from ear to ear. Holding the dagger motionless despite the elf’s straining muscles. "Who is Maelor?"
His winter-ice eyes blazed with hatred so pure it transcended rational thought.
"How..." Rhys’s voice came out strangled. "How do you know that name?"
"So you’re a bastard prince. The Elf King’s unwanted offspring. That explains the arrogance, at least. Royal blood tends to inflate egos." Jack said quietly so just the two of them could hear it.
[WARNING: EXTERNAL ENHANCEMENT DETECTED]
