The Runesmith

The sound was like a hammer striking an anvil: sharp, clear, and far louder than anyone expected. Sparks burst in a violent spray as Hadrian’s strike was knocked off course. His mace twisted away, the head gouging a shallow groove into the packed sand instead of Roland’s chest. For an instant, the crowd went silent. Their laughter died in their throats as the “rusted knight,” who had looked so pitiful only moments before, stood tall like an unmoving titan.

“What?”

*BOOM*

Hadrian’s small eyes bulged as something slammed into his chest. He was sent flying backward as if struck by an ogre. His arms flailed, the spiked mace nearly slipping from his grasp, but he clung to it even as his body spun and crashed into the sand. He tumbled across the arena before slamming against the stone wall with a thunderous crack. Dust rained down, and the nobles gasped in unison.

A barrier of magic flickered to life around the jousting arena, shielding the nobles from the dirt cloud kicked up by Hadrian’s impact. The Aura Knight groaned, half-buried in the dirt at the very edge of the dueling ring. His gleaming mithril armor was no longer immaculate, dulled by dust clinging to every joint and crease. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, coughing, his face twisted in disbelief.

The nobles had expected Roland to be crushed within moments. Instead, it was Hadrian who now looked like a man thrown from his horse. To make matters worse, a large dirty footprint stained his chest, the mark of the kick that had sent him flying. While humiliating on its own, the true disgrace followed moments later.

As Hadrian staggered up, his headgear, or rather, the carefully trimmed bowl of hair that crowned it, shifted. Confusion rippled through the crowd as the wig slid sideways, then toppled into the dirt.

Silence held for a heartbeat before the arena erupted in laughter. The nobles could not contain themselves at the sight of the mighty Aura Knight losing his hair. Hadrian stood frozen, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight, dust clinging to the sweat on his scalp. His face flushed crimson, veins bulged at his temples, and his teeth clenched. The laughter only deepened his fury.

“Y-you bastard!” 

He roared and spun about, shouting as his furious glare fell on his squire waiting just outside the arena.

“My helmet! Now!”

The poor boy scrambled, nearly tripping over himself as he rushed forward with the missing piece of Hadrian’s equipment. Meanwhile, the nobles were beside themselves, many of the ladies fanning their faces frantically as they tried and failed to stifle their laughter. Gentlemen leaned back with broad smiles, delighted by this unexpected comedy.

However, amid the laughter, a group of people remained silent as they watched the man sitting in the middle, Ivan Valerian. His face burned with embarrassment and his knuckles turned white as he crushed the crystal glass of wine in his hand. The red liquid dribbled across his fingers, but he either did not care or failed to notice in his rage. Every snicker and every muffled chuckle from the gallery cut into his pride like a blade.

Arthur’s lips curved upward ever so slightly. He tilted his glass with lazy indifference as though the laughter meant nothing to him, yet his eyes gleamed with delight. He glanced at his brother, who was fuming, then turned toward Roland, who stood motionless in the center of the ring, appearing not to care at all.

“Is he doing that on purpose?” 

Arthur muttered to himself while watching Hadrian snatch the helmet from his squire. He rammed it onto his head with a metallic clang. His anger was palpable, and his aura flared violently around him. Crimson light seeped through the armor, and the magical symbols etched into it magnified the glow. The sand beneath his feet darkened and turned black as a wave of energy rippled across the dueling ground. The laughter of the nobles faltered as they realized the fight was about to continue.

“Enough!” 

He roared, his voice raw with fury. 

“No more tricks. No more mockery. I will crush you!”

Roland did not move. His mismatched armor looked duller than ever beneath the shimmering heat, yet the war pick in his grip remained steady. His masked gaze fixed on Hadrian, and he lifted his shoulders in a mocking shrug. Without speaking a word, he raised his shield and waited for the attack, daring his opponent to strike.

“The duel resumes!”

The judge, shaken by what had just occurred, urged the men to continue. Hadrian charged, faster this time, his body blurring beneath the aura mantle he was now covered in. His mace howled through the air as it descended on his enemy. The crowd gasped when sparks erupted from the collision. The ground beneath the two knights cracked, and a shockwave blasted outward in every direction.

The mace slammed into Roland’s shield with a deafening crash, activating the protective barrier around the arena. Some of the nobles fell from their seats as the ground rumbled beneath their feet. The force reverberated through the arena, yet Roland did not fall. His stance, though strained, held steady against the crushing power.

Hadrian snarled, wrenching his mace free and swinging again. He struck faster and harder, each blow raining down like a smith’s hammer. Yet the so-called rusted knight never buckled. His shield intercepted most of the strikes, and many others missed entirely. With quick steps he began retreating, moving backward while the knight covered in Aura chased him and shouted.

“Stand still, damn you!”

Hadrian’s fury grew as he failed to land a proper blow. Even though his opponent’s shield looked like a pile of rust, it refused to break. Instead, the spikes on his mace bent and lost their sharpness. The crowd saw a knight fighting defensively, and at first they cheered, but soon they began to realize that something was wrong.

“Is this how these fights usually go?”

“Lord Ivan’s knight is winning… right?”

“I am not sure.”

“He is an Aura knight. The other one should already be crushed!”

“Is he playing with him?”

Roland’s armor rattled with every sidestep. His mismatched plates clanked awkwardly, but his movements never faltered. Within his gaze, the enemy’s attacks unfolded as mana phantoms. Although Hadrian kept increasing his speed and power through aura, Roland’s skill allowed him to predict every strike. The force behind each blow was real and would cause serious damage if one landed cleanly, yet none of them did.

‘This armor will not last much longer. I should finish this soon.’

The armor was not truly rusted, but it was inferior compared to his usual runic equipment. He had focused on enhancing himself with stat-boosting magic and simple rune spells. That was enough to contend with this opponent, but if the fight dragged on, he would be in danger. His adversary was still a powerful Aura master who did not rely entirely on his weapons.

As the fight continued, no runes appeared on his body thanks to the rune concealment skill. If this had been his past self, his entire armor would have been glowing like a beacon. He was constantly using runic magic, yet with the skill active none of it showed. The drawback was a constant strain on his mana. The drain had begun at ten percent and steadily increased each time he used a rune.

‘It has reached twenty percent now. Eventually, it will overwhelm me.’

It was time to raise the intensity. He had remained on the defensive long enough. One reason was to test how well he could conceal his runes, and the other was to exhaust his opponent. Aura functioned differently from mana. It strengthened physical fighters, enhancing them beyond human limits, but it carried risks. It was tied directly to their health and stamina. Prolonged use took a heavy toll, and his opponent was already beginning to slow down.

Hadrian’s face twisted crimson beneath the helm. His breath grew ragged, his aura flared wildly, and the crimson haze seared the sand black with every step. Yet no matter how much strength he poured into each strike, he could not break through. 

“STOP RUNNING!”

“As you wish…”

Roland finally spoke back to the man who had swung wildly at him. His opponent had lost any sense of strategy. At first, his strikes carried intent, measured with feints and precision. Now everything had fallen apart, collapsing into a frenzied storm of random blows that only served to exhaust him.

This was one of the greatest weaknesses in this world. Strength came from levels and the steady rise of skills. Battles were usually decided by a few key factors. The first was the sheer difference in levels, the second was the type of class, and the third was the range of skills a fighter possessed. Few people ever trained to face opponents of equal standing because such encounters were rare and difficult to prepare for. The gap created by levels and experience was rarely something that could be overcome with strategies. Rather than focusing on combat tactics, most simply devoted themselves to pushing their abilities higher, as though no limit truly existed.

This overreliance on skills left many unable to contend with those who matched them in raw stats. Roland was below this man’s level and only managed to endure through the aid of his armor and magic. If Hadrian had remained calm and recognized the opponent before him, victory might have been within reach. Instead, drained of stamina, his aura attacks were faltering, his speed was slowing, and his reactions were already diminishing.

Roland’s shield caught another blow, the clang ringing through the air. Dust rose, veiling the fighters and making it difficult for the nobles to follow the exchange. Hadrian staggered back, chest heaving, his aura flickering like a torch on the verge of burning out. He tried to wrench his mangled mace free from the shield, but it would not budge. A strange bluish force held it fast, crackling like lightning.

This was Roland’s moment. He had cast a spell that magnetized the knight’s mace to his shield. With a sharp pull, he dragged the weapon downward, forcing Hadrian to open his flank. From the start, Roland had noticed that this man would never let go of his weapon. To certain knights, abandoning a weapon was as disgraceful as losing an honorable duel. Today, that stubborn pride would cost Hadrian dearly.

Roland had many ways to finish the fight. He could call upon the skill “Overlord’s Might” and unleash his full strength, turning the man into nothing more than a punching bag while cloaked in violet light. Yet he did not wish to reveal all his cards. The spectators still believed him to be nothing more than a rune mage. To confuse them, he would do something no mage could ever achieve: he would wield aura.

Roland’s hand tightened on the haft of the warpick. Mana surged through the runes hidden beneath his armor, weaving along secret circuits. Ordinarily, the power would have glowed and betrayed him, but his concealment skill kept the flow hidden. To the nobles watching from the stands, what came next would look like something entirely different.

Crimson arcs of energy crawled across the mismatched plates of Roland’s armor, flaring outward like waves of heat. The air around him warped and crackled as grains of sand rose from the ground, swirling in a spiral at his feet. To their eyes, this was aura and not energy emulation through runes.

Hadrian froze, his bloodshot eyes narrowing behind the slit of his helm. He lifted his shield to guard his side, but the warpick shot forward with extreme speed. Its spike shone with aura as it crashed against the knight’s shield. For a heartbeat, it seemed the block had held. Then came the grinding screech of tearing mithril as the warpick punched through the metal and drove on.

The spike burst through Hadrian’s shield with a shriek that split the arena. The nobles gasped, some rising to their feet, their jeweled cups forgotten or dropped and shattered. The warpick did not stop at the shield as it drove onward and slammed into Hadrian’s breastplate.

*CRACK!*

The sound was wet, a mix of groaning metal and breaking ribs. A crimson shockwave rippled through the arena, visible to all, as if the very air had ignited from the clash of energies. Sand and dust erupted in every direction, whipping across the dueling ring in a violent storm.

An armored body flew like a rag doll, spinning through the air until it smashed against the arena’s barrier. The mana shield glowed bright blue under the impact, spiderweb cracks racing across its surface. Mages on the side began chanting, weaving spells to mend the tear and safeguard the nobles seated beyond.

The crowd recoiled. Nobles in the front rows shielded their faces, some shrieking as the barrier groaned but held, keeping Hadrian’s broken body from bursting through into their midst. The aura knight slid down the shimmering wall, leaving a red smear of blood in his wake. He collapsed in a heap not far from where Ivan sat, coughing with teeth shattered and blood spilling from his mouth.

A silence heavier than death swallowed the arena. Roland looked to his right arm, the one that had wielded the warpick. His weapon still pulsed with energy, though it was mangled into an unrecognizable mess. The armor on that side had been torn clean away after a single activation of the emulated aura. The technique remained volatile and difficult to control, and his mana had been almost completely drained by just one strike. Yet the result was what mattered.

In the distance, he saw both his enemy and his master. Ivan Valerian’s face was twisted with fury, the veins in his temple swelling as if they might burst. His wife touched his arm gently in an attempt to calm him, but he pushed her hand away. Blood dribbled from his lip where he had bitten it in indignation.

“Get up…GET UP YOU USELESS FOOL!”

Ivan shouted loudly, but Hadrian did not respond. Instead, he slumped forward with his life hanging in the balance. This angered the Valerian brother, and soon he glared at Roland, who stood in the middle of the ring.

“IMPOSSIBLE! GUARDS, APPREHEND THAT MAN! HE MUST HAVE CHEATED!”

The other nobles murmured among themselves, displeased by Ivan’s outburst. It was clear that this young master was unaccustomed to losing wagers, yet his behavior only worsened his standing. He lacked the prominence to make such accusations, and the guards ignored his command, turning instead toward the other members of the Valerian family. The three brothers and their mothers remained silent. Even his own mother simply lifted her fan to hide her face in shame.

“Younger Brother, I saw no cheating. The battle was honorable.”

The first to rebuke him was Julius, the eldest son. With his status as the most likely heir to the duchy, the nobles sided with him in an instant and nodded in agreement. Soon after, the second oldest spoke.

“Truly pathetic. ”

Theodore said little, but his anger was evident. Arthur and Roland had long been thorns in his side, and their victory was surely not the outcome he had hoped for. Tybalt, however, merely continued clapping with a faint smile, as if he had just witnessed something amusing.

“Hah, did you see that? One strike and it was over. Though if one of my magic knights had been in that duel, the result would have been very different.”

Roland looked around and for a moment, worried that he might be seized and thrown into a dungeon. It seemed, however, that the rules governing these events offered him some protection. Even though Ivan continued to protest, the louder he became the more strangely the other nobles regarded him. Eventually, as expected, he turned his head toward Arthur, since Arthur was the only target he could confront without suffering any consequences.

“You Bas…”

The man tried to shout and rage again, but for some reason he stopped. His wife was firmly holding his hand as if in protest, and he turned to look at her. The gaze was difficult to read from where Roland stood, yet it appeared strange. Soon the red began to fade from the man’s face. It seemed the woman had the power to calm this Valerian brother, and she had done so before he made an even greater fool of himself.

Arthur, however, seemed ready to exchange harsh words and gloat, although it did not appear he would have the chance.

“Bah…”

Ivan did not accept defeat, but instead of fighting he stormed out. Many of those around him followed, although some chose to remain. Now, many eyes were on Arthur, and for the first time since his arrival, people seemed interested in him.