The trainees following Derrick burst into ughter. Around the training ground, others turned to watch—some curious, while small groups of trainees whispered among themselves, smirking as if anticipating a good show.
Elise pced a hand behind Lucien, a silent gesture of concern—urging him not to engage.
Lucien stepped forward, causing Elise's hand to trail downward.
Crossing his arms, he spoke. "Why are you following me, Derrick?"
What the f*ck does this brat want?
Derrick spoke with a smug smirk. "Following you? No, no, no, my brother." He shook his head as if wounded by the accusation, yet his grin never faded. "It's our training time, isn't it? Our father would be so disappointed if he knew we were neglecting it."
Oh, gods, how much do I want to rearrange his face.
The trainees around him giggled, some whispering with sneers on their faces. Behind Lucien, Elise stood silently, her head bowed.
Lucien tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? Then by all means, don't let me stop you. Go train, Derrick. I'd hate for our father to be disappointed in his golden son."
Derrick's smug smile vanished. The trainees around him muffled their ughter. Gritting his teeth, he gred at them, making them cough and quickly avert their eyes.
With a strained smile and narrowed eyes, he said, "Let's have a spar, Lucien. Surely you wouldn't refuse."
The youngest bastard was already a well-known punching bag—skinny, fragile, with barely any muscle to his name. His bones jutted out beneath his skin, a perfect target. The trainees smirked, already predicting his refusal.
But Lucien only nodded, a small smile pying on his lips. "Let's do it."
The people around frowned. Elise tugged at his sleeve, her eyes wavering, lips parting as if to speak but falling silent.
Lucien blinked slowly, a quiet reassurance.
Derrick and Lucien moved toward the center of the training ground, where a rectangur sparring ring y, spanning the length of four armored knights standing shoulder to shoulder—ample space for proper footwork, feints, and maneuvering. For two boys of their size, however, it felt vast, as if built for warriors far greater than them.
A few people gathered around them, but most didn't bother. They knew this wouldn't be a match—just one fighter overwhelming the other.
The fragile, skinny Lucien stood no chance against Derrick, who was stronger, healthier, and nearly six years older. He had more mana, more training, and more confidence. Even now, bruises marred Lucien's face, arms, and legs—a testament to his defeats.
They stood a few feet apart as a trainee approached, handing both of them wooden swords.
Derrick smirked. "You shouldn't have come today."
Lucien didn't answer.
Derrick shook his head, his smirk twisting into something cruel. "You aren't welcome in this family. You know that, right? Or are you too blind to see it?"
Lucien blinked but remained impassive.
Derrick ground his teeth. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Or are you too scared to speak?"
Lucien finally broke his silence. "Do you want to keep talking or start the match?"
Derrick clenched his jaw. His gre burned into Lucien. "Let's see if you can walk after this."
The referee stepped forward, raising his hand to signal the start.
Derrick lunged. His sword came down in a wide, heavy swing, using his weight for momentum.
Lucien stepped back, narrowly avoiding it.
Derrick followed up with a stab—too fast for someone like Lucien to dodge.
The spectators watched with gleaming eyes.
But as if he had anticipated it, Lucien had already sidestepped.
Derrick took a step back, catching his breath. "What's wrong? Why aren't you fighting? Already thinking of running away?"
Lucien's cheek twitched. "You talk too much." He raised a hand and beckoned him forward. "Come if you want some."
Falling for the provocation, Derrick rushed in with full force. His sword stabbed—Lucien sidestepped. A left swing—dodged. A downward cut—Lucien rolled backward.
This time, I got him.
Derrick lunged with a stab.
But Lucien, as if seeing the future, deflected it.
The audience held their breath. For the first time, every spectator on the field was watching, their eyes wide in disbelief.
Is this really Lucien? How?
Sweat dripped from Derrick's face. His veins bulged, his breath came fast and ragged. His grip tightened on the sword.
"You're so done."
His strikes became even faster. Lucien's eyes widened.
This bastard is using mana.
The spectators realized it too, sighing in acceptance. If young master Derrick was using mana, then this fight would end in serious injury. Yet, not a single one of them moved to stop it.
Except Elise.
Elise, watching from the sidelines, rushed to the referee, desperation in her voice, she spoke.
"Please, stop the match! Master Lucien can't fight anymore—it's going to get serious."
The referee shrugged. "Listen, maid. If I stop this fight, I'm getting kicked out of the household. I like my job. You should too."
Elise clenched her dress, helpless.
Derrick's relentless attacks continued. Lucien was struggling now—both their breaths were coming faster, their bodies drenched in sweat.
I can't dodge forever.
His sword wouldn't hold up much longer either—one solid strike from Derrick's mana-enhanced blows, and it would likely snap.
Derrick feinted, then suddenly swept low—lightning fast.
Lucien barely leaped over the attack, sweat dripping from his chin as he hung in the air for a fleeting second.
Derrick's grin widened.
With his full strength, he thrust forward.
Lucien had no time. No space to maneuver.
The sword neared his stomach—
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
His sword twisted at the st second.
Striking Derrick's wrist with pinpoint precision—
A sharp crack.
The wooden bde spun through the air.
Blood dripped onto the dirt.
Derrick screamed, clutching his hand as crimson oozed between his fingers. The ground drank his blood eagerly.
Silence.
Everyone stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Lucien exhaled, lowering his sword to his waist.
That should do it.
Zexusgo
