The wind had died down.In the arena, the stands were full. Imperial knights, elite soldiers—all gathered to watch.Some had come to see Julius crush an outsider. Others... to understand what lurked beneath the dark-eyed colossus.
The two men faced each other:One in ceremonial garb.The other shirtless, a simple wooden sword in his single hand, his prosthetic arm detached and lying on the ground like discarded armor.
A symbolic duel.But in the air… nothing felt like a game.
Julius was the first to move.He dashed forward like a flash of light, unleashing a flurry of strikes with perfect military grace.Lunges, slashes, thrusts—each movement calculated, precise, flawless.
Guts didn't flinch.His massive body shifted just enough to dodge, his blade catching each blow with an almost lazy ease.Wood struck wood, again and again, but Guts never lost his footing.He stepped back—once, twice…But his eyes never wavered.He wasn't defending out of weakness.
He was watching.Measuring.And more than anything…
He was enjoying himself.
Guts (inner thought, a smirk tugging at his lips):He's fast. Good footwork. But… he hits like a dancer.
In the stands, the fervor faded.Cheers turned into murmurs.Now only the sharp clack of wood echoed—Julius's short breaths, and Guts's utter silence.
A knight whispered, concerned:"He's taking everything… without even striking back?"
Julius, focused, pressed harder.A more aggressive combination, a pattern he reserved for serious duels.His wooden blade cut through the air, grazed Guts's face——and was stopped cold by a single flick of Guts's wrist.
Still, Guts didn't strike back.But his eyes…
His eyes burned with an ancient fire.A fire Julius had never seen in any man before.
And suddenly, doubt crept in.
Julius (flash of thought):Why do I feel… like I'm the one being judged?
He stepped back, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.The arena held its breath.Even Reinhard, arms crossed, said nothing.Even Felix—usually so talkative—was biting his lip.
Everyone felt it…
The fight had shifted.
Julius struck again.Harder. Faster.Fueled by rage.And fear.
Yes—Julius was afraid.For the first time, he doubted his own victory.
His attacks grew faster, more refined, more desperate.Each move executed with perfect technique.But none of it mattered.
Guts blocked everything.Without effort.Without strain.
No sweat. No breath.Just the occasional step back—half a step, a quarter—More for fun than out of pressure.His gaze never left Julius.
And in that gaze…There was something more.
A quiet thrill. A flame.
Guts was having fun.
Julius, on the other hand, was fading.Wearing down.Losing hope.
Why?Why didn't his attacks land?Why didn't this mountain fall?Why did this man—this outsider, with no title, no crest—endure everything so effortlessly?
Then Julius screamed inside.He drew on what strength he had left—his pride, his fury, his desperation.And he struck.A wild, instinctive, violent blow.
This time, his blade hit home.A bead of blood slid from beneath Guts's eye.
The crowd fell silent.
Julius, panting, allowed himself a smile.Not of triumph.But of despair.
As if clinging to this single point of impact proved he still belonged.
But in that strike, he'd dropped his guard.
Just for a moment.
A moment too long.
And Guts retaliated.
Not with his sword.
With his foot.
A horizontal kick—sharp, brutal—straight to Julius's ribs.
A crack.
Blinding pain.
Julius was thrown to the ground.His breath vanished.His vision blurred.
The audience held its breath.
Flat on the floor, the young knight clutched his side, unable to rise.The blow had been clean.Devastating.Final.
And in that heavy silence, Guts's voice rang out—calm, almost fatherly:
Guts:"You gonna get back up… or are you calling it quits already?You're not bad.But you're missing something—Experience."