Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel-Chapter 747: The King is petty.
King Silmarien finally spoke.
His voice was calm, almost gentle, yet it carried effortlessly across the clearing.
"Well then, brother," he said, eyes settling on Aetherion. "Will you take the sword… and face the human? Or will you turn away?"
The words struck like a gauntlet thrown at Aetherion's feet.
Aetherion snorted.
Without ceremony, he reached out and snatched a sword from the hands of a nearby guard, the steel ringing sharply as it cleared its sheath. In one fluid motion, he vaulted onto the podium, boots landing hard against the wooden platform.
The sound echoed.
At once, several guards hurried forward, gripping the heavy frame of the guillotine and dragging it aside, clearing the space for the duel.
Before anyone could speak, Silmarien raised a single hand.
The guards froze.
With a small motion of his fingers, he gestured to the side. A stool was quickly brought forward. Silmarien took it and sat at the very edge of the podium, close enough that the clash of blades would pass within arm's reach.
"In that case," he said evenly, folding his hands in his lap, "I will act as referee."
A murmur swept through the gathered elves.
Not far from the Regent, a noble leaned in, his face tight with unease. He whispered urgently, eyes flicking between the figures on the platform.
"This was supposed to be an ambush," he hissed. "We were meant to kill the king outright. So why does it feel like we are no longer the ones in control?"
The Regent clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into his robes.
"Quiet," he muttered back. "This is only a minor hiccup."
His gaze hardened as he watched Aetherion grip his sword.
"We still have more men than the king. More blades. More voices."
He exhaled slowly.
"Aetherion only needs to do one thing."
"Prove he is worthy."
The air grew tense, thick with expectation, as steel met steel and the duel loomed only a breath away.
Steel rang out like a struck bell.
The moment their swords met, a sharp, violent clang tore through the clearing, sparks leaping as Chiron and Aetherion slid past one another. Aetherion moved first—fast, precise, every step drilled into him by centuries of elven martial tradition. His blade traced elegant arcs, forcing Chiron back step by step.
At first, it was clear.
Aetherion was winning.
His strikes came clean and controlled, pushing Chiron toward the edge of the podium. The elf's posture was perfect, shoulders squared, footwork immaculate. Several times, his blade grazed Chiron's coat, slicing cloth, drawing shallow lines of red across skin.
The crowd murmured.
Silmarien watched with his chin resting lightly on his hand.
Then Chiron changed.
It was subtle—so subtle most missed it. His grip loosened, then tightened. His stance shifted from defensive to fluid, his movements no longer retreating but circling. He stopped meeting Aetherion's strength head-on and instead let the blade slide, deflect, twist.
Aetherion frowned.
Their swords clashed again—
—but this time Chiron was inside his guard.
Aetherion barely managed to parry, forced to stumble back as Chiron's blade skimmed his shoulder, drawing blood. The crowd gasped.
Silmarien's lips curled upward.
"Oh my," he said loudly, amusement dripping from every word. "Brother, is that really all? You trained for centuries and still swing like that?"
Aetherion snarled and lunged.
Chiron met him, steel against steel, the sound rising into a rapid, brutal rhythm. Chiron's movements became sharper, more efficient, each strike aimed not to kill but to humiliate—a nick on the wrist, a slice along the thigh, a calculated cut that forced Aetherion to adjust again and again.
Silmarien laughed softly.
"Careful, Aetherion," he called. "At this rate, people will start wondering if your mother dropped you on your head. Honestly, that shape—was your skull always that much like a corn?"
Aetherion's jaw tightened.
Their blades locked. Chiron twisted free and kicked Aetherion back a step.
"And your legs," Silmarien continued lazily, tapping the arm of his stool. "So stiff. No grace at all. You move like rotten roots in winter."
Aetherion roared and attacked wildly.
Every once in a while, Aethetion would throw a hateful glance towards his brother.
No doubt, the insults were getting to him.
What he did not know was that it was all a part of the plan.
Right now, while Chiron had a focused look on his face as he fought, his eyes smiled I a knowing manner.
And that was it.
Aetherion's elegance was gone.
His swings became heavier, faster, reckless. Chiron weaved through them, blade flashing, carving shallow lines across Aetherion's arms and torso. Blood stained the podium.
"Pathetic," Silmarien said, voice sharp now. "To think you ever believed you were fit to wear a crown."
That was it.
Aetherion's breathing turned ragged. Veins bulged at his temples. His eyes burned with fury as he forced Chiron back with sheer aggression, driving him toward the center of the platform.
For a moment—just a moment—Aetherion saw victory.
He raised his sword high, muscles screaming, ready to bring it down in a decisive strike.
Then he heard Silmarien again.
"You disgrace Father's blood."
Something snapped.
Aetherion screamed, not with his mouth—but with his soul.
Lightning exploded from his body.
Brilliant arcs of blue-white elemental energy tore outward in every direction, cracking the air itself. The wooden podium splintered beneath the force. Guards were thrown back, nobles shielding their eyes as thunder roared without clouds.
Electric veins crawled over Aetherion's skin, his hair lifting as raw lightning surged around him, burning scorch marks into the ground.
The sword duel was over.
Elemental power had entered the stage.
This was not a good thing. After all, the entire challenge had been to duel without the use of energies.
Aetherion using elemental energy was him going against the rules of the duel.
The elven race were a prideful people. They naturally saw such act as shameful.
And to have done it before the people of the kingdom.
Before the nobles, and before the Mother Tree. What a disgrace.
