Leon’s acceptance didn’t mean that the spar could begin right away. Unlike Cedric, who was a guest in the Revolutionary Army, Lyon was its de facto commander. He couldn’t simply go off on his own with ten thousand soldiers standing behind him.

Leon was in the same position. By coming out here in Grania’s stead, he was representing Portroi itself. As a representative of a faction, he couldn’t just duel with the leader of the other group out of nowhere.

“Then, please give a bit of time,” Lyon said.

After hearing from Leon that the Gateway City was in no condition to handle ten thousand soldiers, Lyon decided to pull his army back to the foot of the mountain to make camp.

No matter how charismatic a commander, ten thousand troops were no small number. If he allowed them into a city that was already on edge, where order and security were barely being maintained, trouble was inevitable. They could even end up clashing with Leon’s group by accident.

Once Lyon and his troops began retreating from sight, Leon also sent Karen back toward the city.

“Karen, could you go tell Master Grania about this?”

“Got it! I’ll be right back!”

Without knowing the full story, Grania might misinterpret the army’s movements. Leon also thought that although the old mage’s loyalty to the Clyde Empire was never particularly strong, if he learned that the legitimate heir capable of opposing the Mad Emperor was right before him, perhaps that frail spirit of his might find a spark of purpose again.

Grania’s wounds were not only physical; his heart was gravely injured. Being betrayed by his disciple, Edgar, wasn’t just the loss of a relationship. It was like watching his legacy, a lifetime of accumulated knowledge and wisdom, crumble in an instant.

To restore him, his heart had to be healed before his body. Hatred and vengeance could only carry him so far. If meeting Lyon could reignite even a sliver of will within him, then that was enough.

“I didn’t think you’d agree so easily, Hero Leon,” Elahan remarked.

“Hm? Why not?”

“What that man named Lyon asked for wasn’t just a duel. In truth, it was a request for a teaching, was it not? And one that’s almost shameless for a warrior to ask.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

Leon scratched the back of his head awkwardly, remembering his own Academy days. Explaining the full story to Elahan, who knew nothing of that time, would’ve been too long and frankly, embarrassing.

“But I was far more shameless back then,” he said with a small smile. “Consider this my way of repaying that debt.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s all old story. Nothing worth retelling.”

Thinking back, he truly owed Lyon a great deal during those Academy years. He had challenged him to duels every day, always taking and never giving anything back. The one who had shaped Leon into who he was now was none other than Lyon himself.

El-Cid remarked, —True. You were pathetic back then. Beaten every single day. But that humiliation tempered your mind. That much credit belongs to him.

Right? Leon agreed silently.

The techniques and stamina he’d gained through those years were trivial compared to the true reward: mental fortitude.

Like strength and skill, willpower wasn’t something one was born with. It had to be nurtured—hardened through experience, forged in trial.

Had Leon never met Lyon, never fought him, and simply trained alone within his limits, he might never have reached that unyielding spirit he now possessed.

Conviction and resolve alone weren’t enough. Only when beaten, broken, and reforged by hardship did one’s spirit truly grow strong.

—You spent three years swallowing defeat every single day, turning even that inferiority into nourishment for growth. It’s no wonder you managed to grasp the foundations of Psychokinesis even before you could use Aura.

That was an outcome even El-Cid hadn’t expected. What Leon put himself through back in the Academy was endless, monotonous repetition of the basics, so dull it bordered on meaningless. Yet that stubborn persistence had built a mind that transcended flesh, even in a boy who couldn’t yet wield Aura.

—There’s an old saying.

What saying?

—'What the wise dismiss as impossible, the fool accomplishes through relentless persistence.’ That fool will move mountains through sheer stubbornness.

It was, in every sense, the perfect saying for Leon. To surpass Rodrick was as close to impossible as one could get. That was why so many geniuses never dared even speak his name and were content to revere him from afar.

But those who only gazed upward could never take flight. Only fools who stumbled, fell, and tried again without end could one day spread wings of wax toward the sun.

“Hero Leon,” Elahan called, snapping Leon out of his daydream.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lost in thought. By the time he came to, the ten-thousand-strong army had already pulled back to the foothills, their dust clouds gone from the horizon.

And there, he saw Lyon returning, accompanied by Chloe and Gilbert. The idol of his younger days was approaching once again.

“Alright,” Leon said quietly. “Shall we move to a better spot?”

It had been years. He couldn’t even remember how many. Lyon, now the challenger, simply nodded once in answer.

***

A short while later, Leon’s and Lyon’s parties met at a place out of the sight of both Portroi and the revolutionary army. Karen, who had returned from her brief errand to the fortress, was now back and stood beside Elahan, both watching the duel unfold. Behind Lyon stood Gilbert and Chloe, and behind Leon stood Elahan and Karen, almost like official overseers of the spar.

“Shall we begin?” Leon said.

“Yes,” Lyon replied, not a beat late.

Both drew their swords almost at the same time. Lyon’s gaze lingered briefly on Leon’s blade before he forced himself to look away.

The Holy Sword, El-Cid, was the very symbol of the Hero, and something Lyon had once believed, for nearly twenty years, would one day be his. To see it instead in Leon’s hands, the man who had lost to him countless times was, inevitably, hard to accept. And, naturally, it stung a little.

Leon, on the other hand, was already focused on the duel.

I guess I can’t use Aura Blade. If I manifest the Sun Sword, I’ll burn this whole place and Lyon altogether.

The wall that marked the realm of Aura Masters was absurdly high. Anything below that realm could never surpass it. The outcome of this duel was determined from the start, and it was that Lyon would lose. What mattered was how it would happen.

With Lyon finally getting rid of his stray thoughts, their eyes met across the midpoint, and the air between them grew taut, stretched like a pulled string. Then, for some reason, an inexplicable sense of déjà vu made both of them grin at the same moment.

“Hah.”

“Heh.”

Then, just as quickly, their expressions went blank. Lyon was the first to move.

“Here I come.”

He stepped forward fast enough that the gap that had been there between them disappeared in the blink of an eye. He then reappeared right before Leon, bringing his blade down from above.

The slash fell like a thunderbolt. Leon, however, deflected it with the Holy Sword without the slightest tremor in his stance. With the screech of metal, sparks flew as steel scraped steel.

Neither had said a word, but it was as if they had silently agreed—no Aura.

A contest of pure swordsmanship, is it? Fine by me. Leon thought.

His specialty was overwhelming his foe with sheer power output, but there was no need for that here. In a duel where the difference in strength was already clear, what mattered was technique alone. If it came down purely to swordsmanship, Lyon could still stand against him for a little bit.

With a sequence of clashes, the two blades screamed.

Aura aside, the physicality of both sides had long since transcended the limits of human ability. They moved so fast their afterimages trailed behind, each strike aimed unerringly at the other’s vital points.

A thrust to the throat was parried by a slash to the wrist. The instant Lyon stepped back to recover, Leon read his movement and struck at his flank, showing a near-perfect parry and riposte.

Though the Aura-less blade couldn’t pierce armor to reach the flesh, the impact alone was enough to make Lyon grunt as the air was forced from his lungs. Seeing that, Leon halted his sword for a moment.

“That’s not all you’ve got, is it?” he asked Lyon.

Though he staggered, Lyon did not fall. Eyes blazing, he charged again.

“Don’t insult me!” he cried.

“That’s more like it!”

Seeing a reflection of his younger self, Leon met his resolve with genuine delight.

Lyon realized that thrusts weren’t going to do the job. Even without Aura, the gap between them was too great.

Against a stronger swordsman, a thrust was fatal. If it were read, the counter would come instantly. In that case, he needed to make his slashes more intricate, aimed to seal off Leon’s movement entirely.

Noticing Lyon’s change in strategy, El-Cid remarked, —As expected of a genius. He makes his decisions quickly.

Indeed, the moment Lyon began to swing in earnest, the roughness in his form vanished, gaps in his strokes replaced by killing intent so sharp it was tangible. With their physical abilities nearly evened out, his technique was no longer easy to break. Even so, Leon didn’t hesitate to throw himself straight into the whirlwind of strikes.

“What?!” Lyon shouted, startled.

“Don’t lose your composure over something like this.”

Leon’s tone was flat as he brushed aside the descending blade with effortless precision.

Lyon had improved, no doubt, but the world was littered with stronger, craftier opponents. This kind of tactical play was something Leon had already learned to deal with years ago.

In the end, swordsmanship was prediction. No one could calculate every possibility. The key was preparing for what couldn’t be predicted and adapting to it.

That was where Lyon still fell short.

“Keugh!”

Leon read every line of Lyon’s swordplay, countering from angles he couldn’t anticipate. He didn’t overthink it. He simply disrupted his opponent’s calculations, forced a single opening, and broke through.

He had thought that, after the Academy, after leading a rebellion, Lyon would have gained real combat sense. But he found himself disappointed.

“Still too soft!”

Leon’s sword flashed forward in a straight line. One step, a thrust aimed for the heart. However, Lyon’s form, broken from his prior attack, was a beat too late. He barely managed to bring his blade up, just enough to deflect the strike from his heart, but not enough to save his collarbone.

A crack rang out. The shock had pierced through his armor and snapped bone.

“G-geugh!”

Lyon bit down hard on his lip as his left arm fell limp. A broken collarbone meant he could no longer move that shoulder.

“Elahan, heal him,” Leon said.

“Yes.”

As Chloe and Gilbert froze in shock, Leon gave a simple command. A soft, sacred light enveloped Lyon, mending his injury. A broken bone took only seconds to heal.

However, though his body was restored, the pain—or perhaps something deeper—remained. Cold sweat dotted his brow as he gasped for breath.

Hm... It’s not just the pain.

Leon saw clearly that what was tormenting Lyon wasn’t physical agony. He recognized that expression too well—the look of self-loathing, of shame so heavy one couldn’t lift their head. The same face Leon himself had seen in the mirror every single day, long ago.

So he spoke.

“Does it hurt?”

A simple question—so obvious it made the others glance at him—but Leon’s eyes never left Lyon.

And Lyon seemed to understand something in that question. No answer came back, but Leon continued anyway.

“That pain is the piece you’ve been missing. I didn’t understand it back then, but now... I think I do. Lyon, you have one fatal flaw as a warrior.”

“A fatal flaw...? What do you mean?”

“You don’t understand weakness,” Leon said plainly. “The sword you wield is a strong man’s sword. And that’s exactly why you can’t win against me.”