Will of the Battlefield

Roars erupted even before the beginning of the round, for everyone knew this pairing wasn’t a coincidence.

The officials never admitted it, nor did they need to. Bentram wanted a spectacle. More importantly, they wanted that irresponsible mouth to suffer a second time. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

The crowd loved Thane. The kingdom loved Thane.

And everyone knew the simplest truth of all. In a pure one-versus-one fight, Thane had already beaten Donovan badly.

Now they intended to show it again, only bigger and louder. Without excuses, hindrances, or special privileges that worked as shortcuts for winning.

Across the battlefield, Donovan understood exactly what was happening. He moved first to the weapon rack and took one of his own.

The Drevlorn noble stepped into the arena carrying his long mace.

This time, there would be no bare fists, no arrogance, no showing off.

His body was still in pain and bruised, as well as his face for everyone to see, along with the loss.

The swelling beneath one eye had yet to disappear, as well as the sensation of the last punch. He realized something the hard way.

Never fight a monster on its terms.

The wooden mace rested comfortably in his grip.

Familiar and reliable, like an extension of his body.

The moment Thane saw it, he scratched his cheek. "That’s good."

Donovan narrowed his eyes. "Good what?"

"You brought your stick." Thane pointed.

The crowd laughed.

Donovan’s eye twitched. "It is a mace," he corrected.

"But it looks like a stick," Thane argued.

"It is a mace," Donovan repeated, his tone unchanged.

Thane nodded thoughtfully. "An angry stick."

The referee immediately intervened before Donovan committed a crime. "Begin."

The arena exploded.

Just like last time, Donovan dashed at Thane first, but unlike their previous battle, there was no intention of wasting time or comparing strength to one another.

No insults, no posturing. The noble exploded forward.

The mace whistled through the air. Thane immediately stepped back.

The first strike missed by inches, but the second did not.

THAAG.

The wooden head slammed into Thane’s shoulder.

Pain shot down the giant’s arm as the crowd gasped.

Donovan continued, with no wasted movement and no unnecessary aggression.

Every strike served a purpose.

A diagonal swing, a feint, then a reverse strike.

Thane raised his forearm.

BAAMM.

The impact echoed throughout the arena. The giant grimaced.

His entire arm vibrated, and Donovan pivoted. His mace swept low.

Thane jumped. The weapon passed beneath him.

For a moment, the crowd thought he had escaped.

Then Donovan rotated his wrists and the mace changed direction.

The wooden head rose sharply.

THUD.

It smashed into Thane’s ribs before he could regain his balance, resulting in a staggering motion.

The audience fell silent. This looked nothing like yesterday.

Donovan wasn’t fighting emotionally. He wasn’t trying to prove anything.

He wasn’t trying to humiliate anyone.

This was a fight he wanted to win, nothing more, nothing less.

And that made him dangerous. Very dangerous.

Etno watched from the sidelines, his eyes narrowed.

Yesterday’s Donovan had been reckless, while today’s Donovan was disciplined and clearheaded.

The difference was substantial, though it was unfavorable for Thane, who seemed unfamiliar with weapons this time.

Did he underestimate him again, expect another victory... or was he just unfamiliar with weapons in the first place?

His opinion leaned toward the latter. Thane had been fighting based on instinct alone from what he had seen.

A body gifted naturally, and maybe trained in a certain profession that gave him toughness. Aside from that, there was not the slightest trace of formal training seen on him.

On the arena floor, Thane was unaware of Etno’s thoughts, nor would he have been bothered if he was. He had more problems to solve.

The giant swung a massive fist. Donovan slipped underneath.

The mace struck again.

CRACK.

This time it hit Thane’s thigh. The giant nearly lost his balance.

Another strike followed immediately. The wooden head smashed into his side.

Then another. His shoulder, his arm, and his ribs.

Each impact landed with brutal precision.

The mace was not merely hurting him. The force of impact disrupted his balance and form.

Destroying his rhythm while controlling distance... forcing mistakes until Thane finally lunged.

His hand shot forward, attempting to grab the weapon.

Donovan pulled it back instantly. The giant caught nothing.

The mace immediately shot forward again.

THUD.

A loud yet somewhat dull impact landed directly across Thane’s forehead, opening a new path for his blood to flow externally.

The crowd gasped as the giant stumbled.

The world tilted briefly. Warm blood ran down his face.

Somewhere in the stands, several Bentram supporters grew nervous.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was supposed to be Thane’s victory.

Instead, Donovan was dominating the pace. Again Thane tried, and again he reached for the weapon.

Donovan’s footwork was too sharp. Too disciplined and too practiced.

The mace moved like it belonged there, like it had been born in Donovan’s hands.

Every time Thane thought he understood its path, it changed.

Every time he thought he could catch it, it slipped away.

Then punished him for trying.

THUD.

A strike landed across his shoulder.

THUD.

Another hit his ribs.

CRACK.

Another clipped his jaw.

Blood sprayed onto the stone. Thane retreated several steps, breathing heavily.

The crowd’s cheering had faded.

Concern replaced excitement, because for the first time during the examinations, Thane looked overwhelmed.

Etno did not see it as overpowered, but as confused by the abnormal sensation that should not have happened.

But this time, it was both by technique, weapon familiarity, and decisiveness.

Donovan advanced steadily, without any arrogance or taunting, but only focus and discipline.

Only the relentless pressure of a trained fighter using the weapon he knew best.

Etno quietly nodded.

Now this was the Donovan he had expected, a true child born into a family of nobles and trained properly.

Not yesterday’s fool. This was the genuine warrior he looked forward to.

The mace spun once, twice, then came another crushing strike.

Thane barely raised his arms in time. The impact still forced him backward.

His feet dug trenches into the arena floor. The giant’s vision blurred momentarily.

Pain radiated through his entire body. His forehead bled.

His arms ached.

His ribs screamed.

Then something finally clicked.

Thane realized his mistake. Yesterday, he fought a proud noble. Today, he was fighting a trained soldier.

Those were not the same thing. Not even close.

The realization arrived a little late. Another strike smashed into his shoulder.

The giant grunted, then another hit his side.

His knees buckled. The crowd rose from their seats.

The impact had been brutal. Thane dropped onto one knee.

Blood dripped from his forehead. His breathing grew heavier.

Across from him, Donovan stood poised and ready.

The mace rested over one shoulder. Not a hint of mockery remained on his face.

The giant looked up. Blood rolled down his cheek.

His head throbbed, and his body was hurt. And for the first time that morning, he understood a dangerous truth.

He had underestimated Donovan, very badly.

This was Donovan Young at his best, armed and experienced, exactly how a child of a noble who was born to become a general should be.

A fighter who knew exactly what he was doing.

Thane lifted his gaze. His eyes were as clear as ever, but sharper than a moment ago.