Ethan and Frerart cshed, their battle an eruption of raw power, each strike carrying the force to shatter walls.

  The duel was locked in a dead heat. Whenever Ethan nded a blow, Frerart returned it in kind.

  Ethan’s swordsmanship was a gruesome dance, a macabre ritual honed by countless vampire masters and baptized in the blood of the fallen. Every movement was precise, every ssh weaving a crimson symphony of death.

  Frerart’s technique, however, was different—sharp, minimalist, and devoid of excess. His was the swordsmanship of a killer, forged not for artistry but for a single purpose: to end lives, whether they be of foolish men or monstrous beasts.

  Deflecting a horizontal ssh, Ethan pivoted, his body moving as one with his bde. A sinister red glow gathered at its tip, pulsating with ominous energy.

  With a sharp flick, the energy erupted into an arc, slicing into Frerart’s stomach. But before Ethan could press the advantage, the wound was already sealing.

  "I still have plenty of Life Force left. I won’t be dying anytime soon," Frerart said, his voice calm, almost amused.

  Ethan narrowed his eyes. "I never thought I’d ask this, but… what’s your level?"

  The old warrior chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. "Hohoho… Young one, young one… It’s not polite to ask such things. But since you’ve given me a good fight, I’ll humor you."

  Frerart pnted his sword into the ground and let out a roar, his voice carrying a weight both unseen and insidious.

  "As a knight, a general, and a citizen of Drakan, I invoke a duel to the death with Ethan of Engnd."

  [Duel to the death accepted. A duel proposed by a Drakanian citizen cannot be canceled.]

  "Shit! You bastard!" Ethan cursed as golden barriers surged up around them, cutting them off from the rest of the battlefield.

  Frerart smirked. "Did your parents not teach you to respect your elders?"

  And then he was in front of Ethan—faster than a thought, faster than sight. His sword was already descending, a stroke meant to cleave Ethan in half.

  Ethan barely blocked, his arms trembling under the sheer force of Frerart’s blow.

  From his perspective, the old warrior’s bde was a scythe—Death’s own hand reaching for him, vast and inevitable.

  He jumped, barely dodging a strike aimed at his legs, and retaliated with a kick to the old man’s head.

  But Frerart was gone.

  Before Ethan could react, a boot smmed into his chest, sending him hurtling backward.

  His regeneration fred at full power, sealing even the smallest wounds, but at the cost of rapidly draining his Life Force.

  Then, like a bullet train, Frerart was upon him again, his bde fshing in a merciless arc.

  "You’re pathetic at the basics, boy. Any Drakanian citizen knows at least the fundamentals. But you… you rely on cheap tricks and desperate gambits."

  Ethan’s sword moved on instinct, twirling in his grip like a blooming flower.

  Now that he thought about it, he truly didn’t know how to wield a bde properly. It was Crimson Fencing that carried him, not his own skill.

  Frerart evaded his barrage effortlessly, then made a swift gesture with his free hand.

  "Reitha."

  A golden light surged around his sword.

  Ethan flinched as his skin began to burn, his Blood Aura visibly weakening under its radiance.

  The battle raged on.

  Another exchange, another round of steel meeting steel. Both fighters gasped for breath, exhaustion weighing down their limbs.

  Still, the fire in their eyes refused to dim.

  "You… why?" Ethan asked between ragged breaths.

  "I know what’s coming, child," Frerart murmured. "Fate is immutable. And I have already seen mine."

  He smiled. A soft, almost gentle smile.

  "I will help you fulfill yours."

  He lunged.

  Ethan barely registered the movement before pain consumed him.

  "Aghh!"

  Frerart’s bde tore from his shoulder down to the center of his chest.

  Hot blood poured from the wound like ink spilling onto parchment, its scent thick and metallic, saturating the air with a cruel, demonic perfume.

  His arm hung on by mere threads of flesh.

  Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his sword with his remaining hand and hurled it forward at an impossible speed.

  A sickening sound echoed through the battlefield as the bde tore through Frerart’s golden armor like it was paper.

  His arm was already regenerating.

  Before the general could recover, Ethan charged.

  Kicking Frerart’s sword aside, he did what he did best.

  He fought.

  Martial arts.

  He didn’t expect to be better than the old man.

  But he didn’t need to be.

  A jab. A right cross. A knee strike. A low kick.

  A relentless flurry of blows, his fists crashing against Frerart’s defenses, his own bones fracturing under the strain.

  But he didn’t stop.

  He kept swinging. Kept bleeding. Kept pushing forward.

  Both fighters stood at the brink, bodies broken, faces mangled beyond recognition.

  They struck like starving beasts, driven by nothing but sheer will.

  Then, in the midst of it all, Frerart spoke.

  "You know… I don’t like this world much. It’s so… sad. Always killing just to survive. There’s no peace, no respite."

  Ethan’s eyes widened.

  No.

  He knew what Frerart was doing.

  "Don’t, old man. Don’t you dare."

  But it was too te.

  Frerart was holding back his own Life Force.

  He was killing himself.

  The old warrior smiled.

  "My fate is sealed, child. They have assured me that I will be saved. Go. Make your own legend."

  His eyes fluttered shut.

  Ethan didn’t know why.

  Didn’t know why grief gripped his chest like a vice.

  This was his enemy.

  And yet, he felt so damn sad.

  And then, he heard it.

  That wretched, soulless voice he already despised.

  [You have killed a Drakanian-F Rank (Level 81) Frerart Drakan.]

  "You son of a bitch!" Ethan roared.

  He bent down, lifting the general’s body.

  The battlefield had gone silent.

  The war had stopped.

  The system’s cold, lifeless voice droned on, oblivious to the weight of what had just happened.

  [The General of Drakan has fallen. Rewards will be distributed to Earth’s forces. A ceasefire will st for two days.]

  "So damn helpful now, huh?! Now you step in, you useless bitch!"

  Drakanian soldiers stood frozen, panting, trembling.

  Their commander was gone.

  They were either going to die or be ensved.

  Ethan tossed the body to a random soldier.

  "Take him," he said. "And don’t come back."

  "But—"

  "Go. Get the hell out of here."

  He exhaled.

  "Tell your king… I want to talk."

  And with that, Ethan turned away.

  He didn’t remember much after that.

  His body moved on its own, carrying him to his tent.

  Colpsing onto his cot, he barely noticed how soft it felt.

  Maybe it was just exhaustion.

  Maybe, just for tonight, he could rest.