From Bankrupt Noble to God-Tier Warrior: I Just Broke the Re

Chapter 3: Blade and Wit

Sila didn't waste time with a formal salute. He moved like a striking viper, his rapier a silver blur.

"Too slow, Arto!" Sila sneered, his blade whistling inches from Arto’s cheek.

Arto scrambled backward, his boots sliding on the grit-covered stone. "Lara, he’s faster than he looks!"

"Obviously! He’s a peacock with a needle, not a statue! Pivot your right foot or he’s going to turn your ribs into a kebab!"

"I’m trying to keep my balance!" Arto yelled, barely parrying a stinging thrust that vibrated through his rusted broadsword.

"Balance is for yoga classes, Arto! Fight dirty! He’s expecting a gentleman’s duel. Give him a street brawl."

Sila laughed, a sharp, patronizing sound. "Is that all? I expected a frantic death dance, but this is just pathetic. You’re not even swinging anymore, you’re just waving iron at me."

"Maybe I’m just pacing myself, Sila," Arto retorted, his lungs burning as he deflected another strike.

"You’re exhausting yourself. It’s like watching a fish flop on a dock."

"Focus, Arto!" Lara’s voice shrieked in his mind. "He’s winding up for a high-line thrust. The vanity strike. He’s telegraphing it with his left hip. Do you see it?"

"I see it! What do I do?"

"Don't block it. Slide under it. If you block, that rusted piece of junk will shatter."

Arto dropped low, his knees groaning. The rapier hummed over his head, slicing a lock of his hair.

"Close! Too close!" Lara shouted. "Now, kick the loose stone toward his shins! Distract him!"

"That’s a move for a playground, not a duel!"

"Do you want to survive or do you want a gold star for decorum? Kick it!"

Arto lunged forward, not with his sword, but with his boot, slamming his heel into a jagged piece of masonry. It skittered across the floor, catching Sila mid-step.

"What in the—" Sila stumbled, his practiced rhythm breaking.

"Now! Hook his ankle with your pommel!"

Arto didn't hesitate. He swung the hilt of his broadsword, catching Sila behind the knee. It wasn't elegant. It was clumsy and violent, and it sent the noble sprawling onto the dusty floor with a grunt of shock.

"A cheap trick!" Sila snarled, scrambling to find his footing, his face flushing with crimson rage. "You absolute peasant!"

"I’m a project manager, Sila. We specialize in low-cost, high-impact results," Arto panted, pointing his blade unsteadily at the man’s throat.

"I’ll have your head for that. That wasn't a move; that was an insult to the art of the blade!"

"The art of the blade didn't save you from the floor, did it?" Arto said, his hand shaking but his gaze hardening.

"Arto, finish it," Lara hissed. "He’s reaching for a backup dagger in his boot. If he stands up, you’re dead."

"I don't know how to finish it! I can't kill a man!"

"You aren't killing him! You're disarming him! Jam the blade into his sword arm. Just enough to make him drop the steel."

Sila lunged upward, his eyes wild. "Die in the dirt where you belong!"

Arto didn't think. He stepped into the momentum, forcing his broadsword down in a heavy, downward arc. It didn't strike with finesse; it struck with the weight of a falling anvil. There was a sickening clack of metal on metal, and Sila’s rapier flew from his grip, clattering into the darkness of the hallway.

Sila froze, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with disbelief. Arto stood over him, the tip of his rusted blade hovering inches from Sila’s neck.

"It’s over, Sila," Arto breathed, sweat stinging his eyes. "Get out."

Sila stared at the blade, then up at Arto. The sneer was gone, replaced by a cold, jagged hatred that promised far more than a simple duel.

"You think this is a victory?" Sila whispered, his voice trembling with a different kind of intensity. "You’ve just signed your own death warrant. The Valerius name was already a laughingstock, but now? You’ve made it a target."

"At least I’m still standing in my own house," Arto replied, though his legs felt like jelly.

"For now," Sila spat, rising slowly. He didn't bother picking up his blade. He backed away, his eyes never leaving Arto’s face. "The capital doesn't forget a humiliation, Arto. And neither do I. You’ve drawn blood—or at least, you’ve broken the rules. Don't think you can hide behind your walls forever. I’ll be back. And next time, there won't be any room for tricks."

"Is that a threat?" Arto asked, keeping his point steady until Sila turned.

"It’s a promise," Sila hissed, turning on his heel and stalking toward the door. "Enjoy your little ruin while you can. It’s going to be your tomb soon enough."

As the iron door slammed shut, echoing like a thunderclap through the hall, Arto’s knees finally gave out. He collapsed against the pillar, the sword clattering onto the floorboards.

"You’re alive," Lara noted, her voice strangely quiet. "And you didn't even throw up on your shoes. I’m almost impressed."

"He said he’d be back," Arto muttered, staring at the empty doorway. "He’s going to tell everyone, isn't he?"

"Oh, definitely. By sunrise, you’ll be the talk of the capital. A disgrace who fights like a street urchin."

"And that’s supposed to be good?"

"Arto," Lara laughed, a dark, dangerous sound. "In a city of vultures, being a dangerous, unpredictable mutt is the only way to keep them from eating you alive. You’ve stopped being a joke. You’ve just become a problem."

Arto looked down at his trembling hands. The rush of adrenaline was fading, replaced by a cold, sinking realization of what was coming next.

"What happens tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Lara’s voice drifted, sounding suddenly miles away. "Tomorrow, the real fun begins. Because if I know Sila, he isn't coming back alone."