The Duelhouse wasn’t some grim stone arena or blood-stained training ground.

  It looked… fancy.

  A white-marble building, three stories tall, gleamed under the sun. The stone fa?ade was spotless, polished to a shine that reflected the golden afternoon light. Its black-tiled roof sloped steeply, trimmed with silver gutterwork shaped like blades. House Einhart’s banners hung proudly across the front.

  It had only a handful of windows, all tinted glass. Marrow, vertical slits framed with wrought-iron filigree. Between the symmetry and the austerity, it looked more like a nobleman’s private gallery than a club for magical sparring maniacs.

  Vierna raised a brow and read aloud.

  “By the Decree of Arkmarschall Leopold, this institution is hereby declared as legal.”

  Lina muttered. “Well… at least it’s not some seedy tavern with a backroom pit.”

  “Hey!” Alb said, scandalized. “If I wanted to bring you two somewhere private, I’d just bring you home.”

  “Damn it, stop with the creepiness,” Lina snapped, eyes twitching. “And you—” she turned to glare at Vierna “—stop enabling him.”

  “What?” Vierna blinked, deadpan. “He’s funny.”

  The trio approached the door.

  A guard stepped forward. “Halt. No entry without permission.”

  Alb tipped his absurd hat forward, then removed it entirely with a flourish. “Hanselt, my good man, Pier around?”

  The guard squinted. “Figures. Only one lunatic wears western straw around here. Pier’s not here. And the girls?”

  “These are my darl—”

  “Good day, kind guard,” Lina cut in smoothly, planting her feet with trained grace. “I’m Lina, this is Vierna. We’d like to observe a duel today, if that’s permitted.”

  Hanselt crossed his arms. “Like I said. No permission, no entry.”

  Then Vierna stepped forward, her tone calm but strangely poetic.

  “Good master guard,” she said. “We are seekers of the dueling arts. Not to intrude, but to learn. For what is the Reich without duel? Breathless. Hollow. We are humble, yes—but to witness even a glimpse of such elegance would be a blessing. And is this not the very house where Mage Pier once danced with flame?”

  Alb and Lina stared at each other. Who is this girl?

  Hanselt blinked, then gave a small, almost sheepish bow.

  “Well. I didn’t realize you were such a polite and enthusiastic soul despite being so young,” he said. “Forgive my rigidness. I thought you were just another uncultured cur Alb dragged into one of his messes.”

  “Hey—!” Alb protested.

  Hanselt ignored him. “Clearly, I was mistaken. Please accept my apologies.”

  “No apology needed, Herr...?” Vierna asked, calm as ever.

  “Hanselt, good Frau,” he replied with a nod. “And let me say this — Das Duellhaus always welcomes someone so charming and eager to learn the noble art of dueling.”

  He opened the door and gestured them in. “Please. And do keep Herr Alb in check. Last time he ‘wove poetry into spellwork,’ we lost two windows and half a chandelier.”

  Vierna smiled. “You can count on us, Herr Hanselt. It’s a pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Hanselt said, stepping aside.

  They entered as a unit. The hall inside was tastefully adorned. Polished floors, vaulted ceiling, and golden chandeliers glowing with restrained dignity. Alb peeled away without a word, heading straight for a large Marble board besides the Main door. Dozens of names danced on its surface, rearranging themselves with each flicker of magic embedded within.

  Behind him Lina and Vierna looked around

  “How do you know Mage Pier?” Lina asked

  “Well… I just heard Alb say the name. He sounded like he knew what he was talking about, so I rolled with it.”

  Lina gave Vierna a look. Apparently, this was no longer like when she had stuttered in front of the supply depot officer.

  By the time Alb returned, a familiar smirk curled his lips, equal parts smug and theatrical.

  “I know who we should watch. Trust me—give me a second. Their names are Volker Eisenwald and Ilse Morgenrot.”

  “Are they good?” Vierna asked.

  “They’re more than good. I’ve sparred with them myself. But when you see them… you’ll understand.”

  “Okay,” Vierna said simply. “Let’s go.”

  They passed through a dark-wood corridor and reached an arched doorway lined with silver veins. As Alb pushed the handle down, the door didn't open—it vanished.

  The world twisted.

  One step forward, and they weren’t in the Duelhaus anymore.

  Rows of floating stone bleachers hovered over an obsidian arena. Candles shimmered without flame. An entire stadium suspended in air, cloaked by stars that weren’t part of any known sky.

  “Spatial magic,” Vierna whispered.

  “What? Like storage spell or something?” Lina asked.

  “Yes but in a bigger scale,” Albrecht said. “The spell connects a stable pocket dimension to a real-world anchor. Usually supported by something like a manakern from refined beast cores turned into dense energy batteries.”

  “Being a member of Das Duellhaus isn’t cheap. This is where the money goes.” He continued.

  “How much are we talking?” Lina narrowed her eyes.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand Shingles. Monthly.”

  “What?” Lina’s voice cracked. “And you said ‘ugh’ to a two hundred Shingles meal?!”

  “Hey! That came from my salary as a lowly soldier, okay?”

  Vierna watched him from the side.

  No way. No common soldier makes that much.

  Just who are you, Alb?

  They emerged into a wide, open field, flat as a dueling board and rimmed with pale trees that shimmered faintly in the false starlight. The floating arena offered no seats beyond the suspended bleachers, and even those were sparsely filled. A dozen spectators at most. Whispers drifted across the space like passing wind.

  It was a spar.

  At the far end of the floor stood the pair.

  Volker Eisenwald. Ilse Morgenrot.

  Ilse stepped forward first. Graceful. Lethal. Her frame was nothing short of stunning. Voluptuous yet controlled, wrapped in tight-fitted dueling garb that hugged her curves without sacrificing movement. She looked like a dancer who’d been taught to kill.

  Beside her stood Volker. A contrast in build, but not in discipline. Nearly Vierna’s age, but already a block of muscle carved by training. His raven hair was slicked back, and his stance screamed readiness. He wore the same black and silver sparring garb, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal arms that had earned their shape the hard way.

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  “That’s them,” Alb said casually, arms crossed as he took a seat. “Enjoy.”

  The trio sat, the tension humming in the air

  “They look serious,” Lina muttered.

  “They are,” Alb replied.

  Vierna leaned forward slightly.

  A referee shout from the edge. “Begin”

  A single breath passed—and Volker moved.

  Steel shimmered into existence in his hand—a conjured Seitenrapier (side rapier), elegant and narrow. Not a blade for brute force, but for speed, control, and precision.

  “Enhancement: Flüchtiger Leib" (Fleeting Body)

  His body surged forward, launched like an arrow from a longbow. The ground beneath his boots cracked faintly from the burst. In a blink, he crossed half the arena, aimed directly at Ilse’s centerline.

  Ilse was ready.

  She raised one hand, calm as glass, and a glowing rune spun into existence before her, circular, white, etched mid-air with dizzying complexity. It pulsed once, and the temperature shifted.

  “Gabelblitz des Arkenlichts” (Forked Lightning of the Arcane Light)

  Forked white lightning erupted from the rune it shot toward Volker in jagged pulses.

  But Volker didn’t stop his advance.

  He twisted left, then right—zig-zagging with sharp, almost mechanical precision. The enhanced momentum from Flüchtiger Leib made him feel weightless, unbound by inertia. The bolts grazed inches from his shoulders, cracked just behind his heels, and scorched the air with each near-miss.

  Seeing her first spell only half succeed—meant to halt Volker’s advance, not merely slow it—Ilse moved again.

  Another rune whirled into the air, smaller this time, orbiting her palm in a tight loop.

  “Klausar’s Scattering Light”

  A sphere of condensed lightning shot forward, fast and focused, launched straight from the drawn sigil. It blazed across the field like a comet—but halfway to its target, it ruptured.

  With a violent pop, the orb scattered into a storm of smaller bolts—fanned out like shrapnel.

  Volker saw the barrage coming and shifted his stance.

  His Seitenrapier pulsed with white light—its blade suddenly lined with a translucent arcane barrier.

  With calculated grace, he swept the blade through the air—deflecting bolt after bolt. Each shard of lightning curved around him and ricocheted toward the source.

  Straight back at Ilse.

  “What? How can he do that?” Vierna blinked.

  “It’s deflection,” Alb explained. “He’s reading Ilse’s mana structure mid-cast. But doing that—while being targeted by two spells? That takes serious training.”

  “I can’t believe Ilse casted two spells at once.” Vierna said.

  “Not just that,” Alb smirked. “Both were intermediate-grade magic. No beginner trick. And Ilse’s only twenty.”

  “Wait, seriously? Twenty years old and she’s got jugs that big?” Lina blinked.

  “Hahaha! Yeah. I tried to court her back then. Got zapped for my troubles. So much for romance during battle.”

  “And smart too,” Lina grinned. “I like this girl.”

  Ilse raised her hand again, this time drawing a brown circular rune at her palm. She pointed it downward.

  The ground erupted.

  A makeshift earthen wall burst forth, shielding her just in time as the reflected lightning slammed against it in a crackling wave.

  “That spell didn’t need a name?” Lina asked.

  “Basic earth manipulation,” Alb replied. “Doesn’t need naming. She just does it—like breathing.”

  “Why didn’t she deflect it back?” Vierna asked.

  “A deflected spell carries two mana structure now—the original caster’s and the deflector’s,” Alb explained. “To deflect a spell, you need to analyze it. Doing that with one structure is already hard. With two?” He exhaled. “Only time I saw that done was when General Berbaris sparred with Arkmarschall Leopold.”

  Vierna blinked.

  He saw a sparring match between two of the most powerful officers in the military.

  There was no way Alb was just "a lowly soldier.”

  As the wave of deflected lightning shrapnel died down, Ilse clenched her fist. And hit the earthen wall in front of her.

  It cracked—then exploded forward. Chunks of hardened dirt became airborne projectiles, whistling through the air toward Volker like jagged bullets.

  “Fireball.”

  His hand stretched outward. A massive fireball burst to life at his palm—deep red, surging with inner pressure. With one forward thrust, he launched it straight into the oncoming barrage. It detonated mid-air, incinerating the earthen shards in a plume of scorched dust.

  Ilse’s eyes narrowed. Another fireball coming.

  She raised her palm, another rune flashing into being—this time, blue and angular.

  A flat magic manifested in her hand. But she didn’t wait for the fireball to strike.

  With practiced aim, she threw the spell forward like a throwing knife.

  The spell collided with the incoming fire—and turned it.

  The blazing mass curled back through the sky, redirected straight toward Volker.

  “Wait—you can do that?” Vierna blinked.

  “Yes,” Alb nodded. “long range deflection, we called it Hijacking.”

  “Then how do you stop your own spell from getting tossed back?” Lina asked, arms folded.

  “There are several methods, the hard way was to make your spells look fancy, that way your mana signature is harder to read. But the most no brainer thing? Fire it from point-blank.”

  Seeing the fireball veer back toward him, Volker shouted:

  “Tausend Stitche: Compressed.” (A Thousand Stabs: Compressed)

  His blade lit up — a dense glow pulsing at the core.

  He lunged with a single thrust, compact but furious — an attack infused with the intent of a hundred strikes, funneled into one blow.

  The blade launched forward like an arrow against a hurricane.

  And when it hit the fireball —

  It punctured straight through.

  Like a balloon meeting a needle, the flaming sphere collapsed inward and scattered to dust.

  The sky flashed, then fell quiet.

  Both duelists knew — continuing with ranged spells would be like trying to scoop water with a fork.

  Ilse run, “Enhancement: Drachenschuppe.” (Enhancement: Dragon Scale)

  Her arms darkened—flesh turning to iron. Black scales shimmered down her forearms, then, an explosive step, she lunged.

  The clash was instant.

  Bare fists met forged steel. Volker’s Seitenrapier slashed, parried, and danced—but Ilse moved like a predator. Elbows, knees, and iron-clad palms struck from every angle. The sound of blows—raw and brutal—echoed through the arena. And it continued for a while. Both mage are too engorged to think of a spell.

  Volkar leap back a little, as to give him a breathing room from Ilse’s unarmed melee attack. Not long after he leaped again.

  “Tausend Stiche: Strafender Reigen!” (A Thousand Stabs: Punishing Dance!)

  Volker’s blade gleamed violet.

  Then it vanished in motion.

  His rapier became a storm of thrusts—too fast to count. A thousand spears of pressure aimed directly at Ilse.

  She weaved between them with barely space to breathe—twisting, ducking, bending.

  And then she caught the blade.

  “Wrath of Artusiar.”

  A rune flickered across her cheek as heat surged through her body.

  Ilse opened her mouth—and roared.

  A massive ball of flame burst from her mouth, conjured and expelled like dragon’s wrath.

  But Volker’s jaw clenched.

  “Sturmdrachenklage!” (Lament of the Storm Dragon)

  Water churned in his throat, and a sphere the size of his head launched forward—liquid spinning, pressure coiled.

  The fire and water collided mid-air.

  BOOM—

  Steam exploded outward, blinding the field in a white haze. A wave of mist washed over the bleachers.

  Through the fog, the two duelists leapt back—silhouettes marked by breath and burn.

  But without realizing it—

  Ilse froze.

  Volker was already beside her.

  His Seitenrapier hovered just beneath her chin, the tip kissing her throat with quiet finality.

  Her eyes widened.

  “...”

  She scanned the mist, pupils narrowing. The silhouettes… the leap back…

  It wasn’t real.

  Volker had used the explosion of mist to cast an illusion—an afterimage of himself retreating. While her eyes followed the false motion, the real Volker had veered right to dampen the spell recoil concealed perfectly by the swirling fog.

  By the time she reset her stance, she’d unknowingly exposed her left.

  And that was where he waited.

  Ilse raised her hand—open, palm outward.

  A gesture of surrender.

  Just like that, the duel ended. Not with overwhelming spells. Not with brute force. But with strategy.

  Volker lowered his rapier, chest rising and falling with each breath.

  “Nice match.”

  Ilse smiled faintly, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek.

  “The way you used the fog?” she nodded. “Brilliant, if I may say so.”

  Volker offered his hand.

  “Your double casting… that wasn’t something to take lightly.”

  She took it.

  They shook hands.

  The audience applauded.

  “What I wanted you two to see,” Alb said, folding his arms, “is that mana count isn’t everything. Ilse is clearly superior to Volker in raw energy—but she still lost. Why? Because strategy, timing, and training matter.” He glanced at them both. “So despite your Feintborn Blessings—if you train like hell, you can do what Volker just did.”

  Vierna stared at him, stunned.

  He picked this duel on purpose.

  He knew their condition. Knew what they needed to see.

  Alb hadn’t dragged them here for entertainment.

  He wanted to inspire them.

  “I have to admit, Alb,” Lina said, still watching the mist drift. “You know how to have fun.”

  “Hehehehe.” Alb chuckled, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Volker! Ilse! Nice one!”

  Both duelists turned and waved back—casual, familiar.

  Alb was a regular here.

  The trio began walking toward the exit, their steps slow—still processing the duel.

  “I noticed something,” Vierna said, glancing back at the fading mist. “The way they worded their spells. Some were in Common Tongue. Others… Reichtongue. Does that make a difference?”

  “Big one,” Alb nodded. “Common Tongue spells are easier to cast. Faster. Reichtongue spells are harder, more draining—but they pack way more firepower.”

  “So… can any spell in Common be translated to Reichtongue?” Vierna asked.

  “Exactly,” Alb said. “That’s how you increase intensity. Take Volker’s fireball for example. If he’d said Brandkugel instead, it would’ve hit twice as hard.”

  “Then why didn’t he?” Lina frowned.

  “To conserve mana,” Alb said simply. “You noticed how he blinked right when the steam hit?”

  “What?” Lina blinked. “No he didn’t. I mean—I didn’t see—”

  “Hehehe,” Alb grinned. “You need glasses, it seems. Right, Vierna?”

  “...I’m sorry, Alb,” Vierna murmured. “I think I need glasses too.”

  Alb smiled faintly.

  "Well… he did blink," he added. "Volkar's mastery of Blink is still haphazard. He burns too much mana on it, and if he hadn't caught Ilse with that feint, he would've lost."

  He tilted his head slightly, almost amused.

  “Volker’s always been the betting type.”

  She was stunned.

  Even Ilse didn’t catch that movement.

  How did Alb see it—when even seasoned duelists missed it?

  They lingered in the Duelhaus a while longer. The shimmering arena faded back into polished marble and quiet gold. Alb showed them the plaques and glass cases lining the halls—relics of famous duels and burned-out jackets from reckless students. He recounted stories of Pier, once a no-name soldier who earned the Arkmarschall’s favor after surviving a beast rampage barehanded. That favor became funding. The funding became a temple for duelists.

  The tales ranged from ridiculous to oddly moving. Lina half-smiled. Vierna listened quietly. Alb looked younger when he talked like this—less like a jester, more like someone who actually cared.

  By the time they stepped outside, the sun had dipped low behind the rooftops.

  It was just past four.

  And something was waiting for them.