As Lucien roamed the crowded city streets, he came upon a field marked with fading white chalk in the middle of a broad plaza, surrounded by makeshift stands and shouting onlookers. It wasn't an official arena—just a commandeered space turned into a festival ring—but its energy was unmistakable.
Within the chalked perimeter, various peasants, squires, and even a few off-duty knights dueled one another with wooden swords, armor clinking with each clash. Each bout was fought for different reasons: coin, personal glory, reputation—and occasionally, for the favor of a watching lover, their eyes bright with anticipation.
Lucien stepped closer to the crowd encircling the field, boots crunching over scattered straw and old rose petals, remnants of earlier performances. Shouts rose around him, the air alive with roars of encouragement, cheers for favored fighters, and the occasional boo. A few names were being chanted with vigor, clearly local champions or crowd favorites.
"Now this is my kind of fun,"
He mused aloud, the corners of his lips curling as he scanned the crowd for any standout combatants—technique, poise, rhythm. He wasn't here for entertainment alone; his eyes searched with surgical precision, dissecting footwork and posture for talent buried under noise and dust.
Just then, a firm hand landed on his shoulder—rough, calloused, and heavy with experience. A soldier's grip. A warrior's presence.
"Hmm?"
Lucien turned, his crimson gaze settling on a figure who stepped into view—and instantly, recognition sparked.
The man had striking blue hair, tousled yet purposeful, and piercing gold eyes that shone even in the midday light. A faded scar cut diagonally across his right eye, a mark of hard-earned survival. Yet despite the blemish, his face retained an undeniably handsome quality—refined bone structure, a faint smirk that gave him a roguish edge. He stood at Lucien's height, shoulders squared, bearing a similar aura of lethal capability.
"Hey, aren't you the bloody duke of the south—or whatever your title is these days?"
The man grinned, tone casual, as though greeting an old friend in a tavern rather than one of the Empire's most feared vassals.
Lucien's brow arched ever so slightly. Of course. There was only one man arrogant—or familiar—enough to greet him that way.
The famous Sword Saint of the West.
Marquess Arthur von Reinhardt.
Where Lucien's reputation was forged in terror and domination—his legacy written in ash and conquest—Arthur was his mirror image: a battlefield icon celebrated for charisma, mercy, and peerless swordsmanship. He was the kind of general who gave rousing speeches before battle and offered mercy after victory. His legend wasn't drenched in blood—it gleamed like a polished blade in sunlight.
"Marquess Reinhardt," Lucien said smoothly, brushing the man's hand off with polite detachment and crossing his arms. His smile was cool, amused, but cautious. "What business do you have with me?"
Arthur chuckled lightly and clapped Lucien on the shoulder again, unbothered by the gesture's informality—despite Lucien outranking him.
"It's nothing important, I assure you. I just wanted to meet you in person. We're both frontier vassals, after all. Bit rare for our paths to cross—what with you ruling the far south and me stuck in the mountains of the west."
His tone was friendly, almost too friendly, but not without sincerity.
Lucien inclined his head slightly, expression still unreadable. "I see. I agree it's quite rare. But surely," he said, voice lowering, "you have other reasons than mere banter?"
He glanced sideways toward the arena again, just in time to see one fighter collapse to the dirt, a wooden blade pressed to his throat in silent surrender. The crowd cheered wildly.
Arthur followed his gaze, then turned back with a grin.
"Well, now that you mention it…" he said, arms akimbo, gold eyes gleaming. "How about a quick duel? I've heard stories—beast of the southern campaign and all that. Though I can't say I agree with your methods, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious."
His challenge was lighthearted, but there was a spark beneath the words—a competitor's spark. Eager. Bright. Foolish.
Nearby spectators quieted at the mention of a duel, eyes widening as they recognized both names. Whispers flitted like wind across the plaza.
'The Sword Saint… and the Beast?
In Lucien's mind, another thought stirred.
Naive… no wonder he died when the Thalanor Dominion launched their offensive.
I never heard much from him in my past life…
But this time, fate had rewritten the board. And the pieces moved differently.
"Sure," Lucien replied, tone calm and measured. "It should be a nice way to gain a new perspective on combat."
He extended a gloved hand, palm open in invitation, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His crimson eyes gleamed—not just with interest, but with cunning.
I could use him…