In the quiet, finely furnished living room of the Ravengard estate, Duke Kaisel and Marquis Benedict sat across from one another. The silence hung heavy between them, disturbed only by the occasional soft clink of porcelain as Kaisel sipped his tea and turned a page of his book.
After delivering the letter, exchanging formal greetings, and explaining the reason for their visit, young Lord Anton had excused himself, leaving the two high-ranking nobles alone.
"Sigh… Why did young Lord Anton leave me alone with him?" Benedict thought as he took a slow sip of his own tea. "This Duke Kaisel… He's not the talkative type. He's acting like I'm invisible. It's awkward just sitting here…"
Unable to endure the oppressive silence any longer, Benedict cleared his throat.
"Duke Kaisel," Benedict ventured, breaking the heavy silence, "would you mind showing me the knights you've gathered?"
Kaisel glanced up from his book, his sharp eyes meeting Benedict's. He closed it with a soft thud, set his teacup down with deliberate grace, and rose from his seat.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Curious, are we?" he said, voice low and smooth. "Very well. Come. See for yourself."
He turned, his coat sweeping behind him as he strode toward the door, leaving Benedict scrambling slightly to follow.
With that, they exited the room and made their way down the grand hallway. The noble house of Ravengard, despite its fall from grace years ago, still retained its old elegance, now sharpened with a quiet, dangerous edge.
Soon, they arrived at the training grounds.
The clang of metal filled the air. Rows of knights moved in practiced rhythm—some sparring, others drilling formations, all under the sunlit expanse of the open yard. Benedict's eyes widened slightly.
There were more knights than he had expected. Far more. And they were not ordinary knights. Most had muscular builds, trained stances, and sharp eyes. Among them, one figure towered above the rest—a massive man wielding a great sword with frightening ease.
"That one... Is he even human?" Benedict stared in disbelief. "How did Kaisel manage this…?"
He quickly masked his expression and gave a casual nod. "Hmm. This is quite impressive—better than I imagined. How did you gather so many trained knights?"
Kaisel's lips curled into a faint smile. "I have my ways."
"Can't he ever talk like a normal person?" Benedict thought with a sigh. "Why does he always have to play the silent, mysterious type?"
At that moment, a young man approached. He was of similar age to Kaisel, tall with a well-honed physique, dressed in grey training attire and dark brown pants tucked into black boots. His hair was dark green, streaked with strands of grey, and his eyes were a deep forest green. He carried a broad sword with ease.
He stopped before them and bowed slightly.
"Greetings, my lord. Marquis Benedict," he said respectfully.
Kaisel gave a nod. Benedict tilted his head. "And you are…?"
"This is Ezra," Kaisel introduced. "Captain of my knights."
Benedict blinked. "Him?" His mind reeled. Ezra looked no older than Kaisel. A knight's captain was usually a seasoned man in his forties or fifties—someone intimidating with a battle-hardened aura. Ezra looked… young.
Kaisel noticed the doubt on Benedict's face and said, calmly and firmly, "He may look my age, but don't be mistaken. Ezra is strong."
"O-oh, I didn't say anything…" Benedict stammered, realizing he'd been too transparent.
Kaisel gave him a sidelong glance. "Why not have a duel between our knights?"
Benedict's eyes flicked toward him. Certainly! Here's a more polished, novel-style version of your paragraph with smoother flow and richer detail:
Duels between knights of different noble houses were a common sight—occasions meant to showcase each house's strength and skill. These contests often took place during grand social gatherings or lavish banquets, where nobles gathered to observe and measure the power behind every banner. Typically, such challenges were exchanged only between houses of equal standing; for a lower-ranked noble to issue a challenge to a higher-ranked one was considered a grave breach of etiquette—an affront bordering on disrespect.
Yet, the rules of nobility were not always rigid. With careful discussion and mutual consent, it was possible for a higher-ranking noble to challenge a house of lesser rank—and, conversely, for the lower house to respond in kind. Such moments required diplomacy, tact, and the delicate balance of pride and honor.
Marquis Benedict wished to test the mettle of Ezra and Kaisel's knights, but the difference in their ranks—him a marquis, Kaisel a duke—made a direct challenge problematic. To issue one himself would risk offending the duke's dignity. It was, therefore, no surprise when Kaisel himself brought up the matter first—turning the duel into a gracious invitation rather than a potential insult.
"…Alright," Benedict said after a moment.
Kaisel nodded and sent a knight to fetch Benedict's escort.
Not long after, four knights entered the grounds and bowed respectfully to both nobles.
"My lord, Duke Kaisel," they greeted.
Benedict pointed to the man standing at the front. "This is Arno, my knights' captain."
Arno Hensley was a seasoned man in his forties, with brown hair and eyes, clad in polished steel armor that bore Benedict's household crest on the shoulder. As expected of a captain, he looked disciplined and experienced. He had followed Benedict to Ravengard Duchy as protocol demanded.
"Arno," Benedict said, "we'll be having a friendly duel with Duke Kaisel's knights."
"Yes, my lord," Arno replied without hesitation.
"How about a duel between our captains?" Benedict suggested.
"Fine," Kaisel agreed.
Benedict turned to Arno and gestured to Ezra. "This is your opponent. He's the captain of the Ravengard knights."
Arno's gaze narrowed. He hadn't expected the knight's captain to be so young. Doubt crept into his mind. "Isn't he too inexperienced? Being a captain isn't just about strength—it's about wisdom, command, and the scars of war."
The knights and retainers cleared a space in the middle of the field, forming a circle around the two captains.
Arno stepped forward and drew his blade, saluting in knightly fashion. "My name is Arno Hensley. Captain of the Benedict household knights."
Ezra responded calmly, drawing his own sword with practiced ease. "Ezra Valtieri. Captain of the Ravengard knights."
Kaisel's voice rang out, clear and firm.
"No mana. Only skill. First to drop their sword loses."
Both men nodded.
"Begin."
The moment the signal was given, Arno surged forward.
He wasted no time, covering the ground in an instant. He slashed horizontally from the right with strength and precision, intending to end the duel before it could even begin. He wasn't going to underestimate Ezra—he would strike fast, hard, and honorably.
"This is how a knight proves his worth—by showing strength, not arrogance."
The steel gleamed through the air.
Ezra stood still.
Arno's eyes widened as Ezra's calm, unreadable expression held steady under the pressure. There was no haste in Ezra's stance, no wildness in his gaze—only quiet calculation.
Suddenly, Ezra shifted his weight just slightly to his right, barely noticeable to anyone except the most experienced eye. This subtle movement was meant to bait Arno into committing to a heavy downward strike.
Clang!
Steel met steel as Ezra's blade intercepted Arno's strike. But Ezra's parry wasn't rigid or textbook—it was fluid and adaptive, like water shifting to absorb a sudden impact. He didn't meet force with force; instead, he guided Arno's momentum away, deflecting the strike off its intended path. This wasn't just defense—it was an invitation for Arno to overextend.
Arno blinked, confused. Did he just block that... without even moving his arm? he thought, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face.
Ezra's calm was unnerving. His body was relaxed, conserving energy. Every movement was precise and economical. He knew he could end this quickly if he waited for the right moment.
Arno tried again, launching a barrage of fast, heavy slashes designed to overwhelm. But Ezra's footwork was light and deliberate—he shifted his weight subtly between strikes, staying balanced and poised to counter. His sword didn't simply block; it read the angles and timing of each attack, slipping just enough to turn Arno's power against him.
Arno's breathing quickened. He realized Ezra wasn't just defending—he was learning, adapting mid-fight.
Then, Ezra suddenly closed the distance, stepping inside Arno's guard. His next strike was low and fast—a sweeping blow aimed not to injure, but to test Arno's defense and reaction time.
Arno raised his blade to block, but Ezra's blow came with a twisting torque that sent vibrations up his arms. The impact was like a hammer striking a shield, rattling Arno's grip.
Ezra's eyes never left Arno's. His next move was a deceptive feint—a slash that started wide to the left, then curved sharply to the right at the last moment. This wasn't a wild flourish; it was a deliberate trick designed to break Arno's rhythm and force a mistake.
To be continued.