The kid steps out of the tent with a ridiculous attire to my eyes. He's wearing a flashy orange and yellow leather armor with a winged helmet while wielding a sword in the jagged shape of a flame. The crowd goes wild with cheers.

“Please tell me I forgot we had a few beers and I'm actually drunk.” I whisper.

“This certainly is a different culture.” Idali deadpans with a slight look of confusion as the Lordling makes flourishes with his sword.

“They weren't cheering for a duel to the death. This is a damn spectacle to them.” I grunt. “The Templars aren't here because it's a show, the peasant who died probably got blamed for taking things too seriously and getting hurt as a consequence.”

“You're reading a lot into this.” She notes.

“This is still the Empire, rogue Templars in a Count's demesne? I should have known it too unlikely to be true. My conclusion feels like the only plausible one.” I explain.

Idali nods absently as she watches the Lord demonstrate his skills with a look of baffled amazement. As the Count's kid slices through a bundle of brambles held up by a soldier to show off the sharpness of his blade, I start fidgeting with my umbrella, eager to see Rowland end this mockery.

My overly tall and large underling finally steps out of his tent in his hard leather armor while holding the large claymore he lifted off a soldier in Hafjord in his hands.

“Nice toys, are you even aware whose body it is you ransacked?” Jerome coldly questions, his expression falling.

“Boooh!” The crowd explodes.

Rowland calmly raises his arms to settle into a high stance with the claymore held high above his head, clearly intending to follow my advice to bash the Noble till he drops.

The Lord extends his left arm out with his palm held up while pulling his dominant arm back and placing his odd sword's blade on his palm. I can't help but wince at the sight of such a useless posture but the people seem to eat it up.

I doubt Edusa realized how popular these idiots are. Or maybe she did, and that's why she put them on the list for me to handle. Either she's trying to undermine my reputation, she doesn't know which seems unlikely, or she seeks justice for the dead low born but can't hand it out herself.

“Come, I'll give you first blow.” The Lord challenges Rowland.

“I've no need, and I fear you may not stand back up if I agree.” My cute little subordinate replies.

“You'll swallow that arrogance and choke on it.” Jerome snorts.

The Lordling takes a half-step forward, acting more careful with his moves than his tongue. People cheer him on while Rowland stands immobile, completely static as he waits for his opponent to enter his range.

“Shall we bet what kind of construct that flamboyant Lord is going to use?” Idali asks.

“The answer is in the question, what would be the point?” I return with an amused sigh.

As we discuss this in the center of a cheering crowd, Grand-Epic Lordling Jerome thrusts out with his jagged sword which slides along his Noble palm to pierce the air towards Rowland. Oh, and it lights up into a blaze of fire.

“Much impressed, what combatants, what skill on display.” I deadpan as Rowland takes a step back and completely dodges the stab.

“What kind of scabbard does he put that thing in?” Idali questions.

“Actually, yea, how does he...” I pause to watch Rowland bring his claymore down in one powerful blow, forcing the Noble to almost panically leap back. “He probably has a servant dressed in a jester outfit wrap it up in oil-cloth and carry it around while blowing a trumpet.” I venture a guess.

Idali hangs her head back and silently laughs her ass off. I repress a chuckle as Rowland slashes wide with his large blade. Jerome unexpectedly flicks his jagged blade vertical to block.

The claymore impacts the flaming weapon, briefly catching fire as the Noble attempts to lock weapons but fails because Rowland didn't hold back in the least, his blow utterly destroyed the Lordling's stance who is now retreating with a grim expression.

Rowland stops on the spot with his knees half-bent and a straight back to once more raise his claymore overhead. I disapprove of his passive approach but, to be fair, his shoulder may still hurt and it may be a good idea for him to be conservative with his stamina since he has little knowledge about his opponent's capabilities.

“Jessica!” Nahl calls out from afar.

I turn to find him and Uhla slowly splitting the crowd to make their way in our general direction. I lift up my umbrella and wave it far above my head. They change course and head our way.

“Take this!” Jerome exclaims.

The Lordling makes his sword burst into flames to block his opponent's vision and leaps forward with decent enough speed to deliver a quick thrust. Rowland barely manages to dodge the blow aimed at his side.

The mere proximity of the weapon to his leather armor causes flames to climb on it. Rowland quickly gets them under control but it costs him an opportunity to immediately counter-attack the Lordling.

Thankfully, the Count's kid pushes his luck and slashes thigh-high, allowing Rowland to block with his claymore's guard and retaliate by smacking his pommel into the Lord's helmet which sends him reeling back.

“Oooh!”

The crowd jeers at the move, apparently considered bad manners from Rowland despite Jerome having used flames to launch a sneak attack not a minute ago.

“Is he going to be okay?” Uhla worriedly asks.

“Yea, I'll intervene if it goes wrong.” I reassure her.

The two exchange a few blows but the Lord's blocks grow more effective as if he's switched to strengthening himself. Rowland tries to overwhelm him but doesn't really succeed because not only does his large weapon mean he lacks speed but his opponent's liberal use of flames is causing him issues.

Still, the expressions of the high born in the stands have fallen and plenty of them now look embarrassed rather than disdainful. Rowland launches a low sweeping blow at Jerome who hurriedly raises his shins to avoid it but the swing catches the tip of his left boot.

The Lordling is sent spinning and staggering back. Rowland rushes in with a speed he hadn't previously used to end the fight with a hard swing but a golden shield suspiciously takes shape in front of his claymore, blocking it.

“Enough! End it, Jerome!” The Count bellows.

His kid snarls as he barely manages to recover his footing. I perk up with a frown. Jerome extends his sword out and launches a cone of flames at Rowland, definitely using more flow than is allowed.

Orange and yellow flames lash out and almost entirely cover Rowland's figure. A shadow forms in the center that darkens by the moment and he rushes out of the blaze with an ovaloid air-shield protecting his torso.

Pretty good. The construct quickly vanishes which further dispersing the flames to reveal my fragile, gentle, and sensible subordinate bringing down his claymore with a bloodthirsty grin on his face.

The large weapon crosses with the jagged blade the Lordling is using and is hooked by one of the points. Unfortunately for Jerome, his impractical sword is ripped out of his hands which causes the claymore to smash into his chest.

The yellow-orange dyed hard leather jacket flashes golden with energy but the defensive construct quickly breaks under Rowland's full strength assault. The weapon stays stuck to the man even as it is brought down.

The Noble is thrown down to smack into the ground and bounce off before crashing again to roll in the sand, stopping on his belly. Satisfied by Rowland peacefully ending the fight by likely shattering the man's rib-cage, I glance up to the stands.

The Count is gaping in disbelief while the rest of the 'important' spectators can't seem to believe their eyes. The crowd has been stricken silent as well so I take my time to enjoy it with a smile.

“Maybe we should go now?” Idali casually notes.

“Right, we have to leave!” Uhla exclaims.

“Which direction?” Nahl professionally asks.

“Ahead, we have to congratulate Rowland.” I tell them.

As I hop over the fence, Rowland flips Jerome over with his foot and crouches to casually check his pulse. After a moment he glances up to me and shakes his head to express he yet breathes.

“Might as well end him.” I tell him as I make my way under a thousand dazed eyes. “He's likely crippled beyond recovery at this point.”

“No! There is a line we shouldn't cross!” Uhla intervenes. “They were fighting and now he's defeated.”

“A line that Lordling stepped over without a thought with his attempt to char Rowland like a pork-chop.” I comment, making him wince.

“Did you have to be that detailed?” He asks.

“You! Get away from my son!” The Count erupts.

“Finally.” I mutter. “Or what, Lordling? You'll cheat too and then also get your ass kicked?” I yell.

“So we are picking a fight after all.” Idali cheerfully notes.

“Send for the Alemplar and bring me my armor!” The Count snaps to an aide as he glares at me. “Who are you people?”

“I'm Jessica Freepath, they're wild kittens I picked up on the way.” I jokingly reply. “Their names don't concern you, what does is that I'll put you down if you try to stop us from leaving.” A gasp goes through the crowd and the Count stiffens.

“Leaving?!” He exclaims in outrage.

Mild reaction. Braggart. I give Idali my umbrella and throw my cloak aside to draw my long broadsword. A half-dozen servants arrive carrying parts of a plate armor while another half-dozen rush into the arena to put Jerome on a stretcher.

Much noise follows but I rest my blade on my shoulder and ignore everything, considering the fact the Count is fitting on an embroidered gambeson to be answer enough. He then puts on a chain-mail, and finally signals the servants to strap the plate armor on him.

“Jessica, let's just go, please.” Uhla utters as the Lord walks down the steps with a look of fury. “He may be wrong, but you used his son to provoke him.”

“...” Her argument hits me hard because she speaks the truth, and that hurts. It isn't to say the man wouldn't have sought to fight Rowland or me without my taunts but I do what she said I did. “A bit late now.” I remark, feeling a prickling sensation in my heart. My response surprises Uhla so much she startles.

“Then, let's not kill anyone... okay?” She proposes.

“Deal.” I contritely acknowledge, thinking of my brother and how much better I could have handled it.

“I'll cut your last arm off, girl.” The Count bellows as he walks down the stand's steps. “And then tie you to my horse to drag you back to Hafjord so you face your doom!”

The crowd erupts in support with righteous exclamations of fury towards us. It hits me that they did not feel or express this outrage when the peasant died to the Lordling's hands.

The truth is that, for them as for my brother, the condemnation and punishments are normal, even natural, for the transgression committed. It is dictated by social status and they support this despite being on the wrong end of the scales.

“That Count's really not making it easy to hold back. Go off near the cliff so you don't get in my way.” I calmly tell them. “Away from the crowd and stand.” I add so they don't question too much why I chose to send them there.

The Count fits his helmet on his head and draws a hand-and-a-half bastard sword that looks to be made of quality steel without many embellishments to it, other than a crest and a small jewel on the pommel. The weapon should perfectly suit Rowland to balance his ability to use speed and strength.

“You'll fight with that armor then?” I ask with a smirk. “It looks as thick as you.”

“Thus is the privilege earned by the generations of Nobles that safeguarded these lands and guided people to prosperity.” The elder Lordling coldly responds.

“I will simply have to rip it off then, it'll make the fight more fun.” I comment mostly to myself.

The Count responds by way of activating his armor's runic constructs and uses a lion's leap to charge me. I lazily side-step while bending backward to dodge the slash aimed at my throat by a few centimeters.

I reach out to his armor's runes with my flow. I find a locked construct that disallows interference but also notice that the link between the man and the construct isn't as solid as it could be.

The issue is that the armor is too close to him so it is next to impossible for me to break his connection from a distance, no matter how 'soft' it seems for me. I start inspecting the runes themselves as Aisha did for the institute's security.

As I do, the Count tries to cut me with his sword but I can easily play around him without resorting to my perception construct because not only is he alone so I can focus entirely on him but his plate armor is slowing him down quite a bit.

I keep probing the runes with thin almost invisible streams of flow until I find one in his chest-plate that seems central to the armor's constructs. Unfortunately, the Count gets frustrated right at this moment.

Runes on his gauntlets turn golden and tongues of intense flames burst out, forcing me to lion's leap out of reach from both these as well as my work inspecting of the runes or waste flow blocking such a worthless attack.

With my line of sight so blocked, I decide to casually leap a couple more times in random directions to throw him off. A dozen air-needles, two fireballs, and an air-blade impact the areas I left.

“Missed.” I call out, aiming to be as helpful as possible.

“Die!” The Count rages, no doubt experiencing some degree of frustration.

“So rude.” I complain.

His armor entirely lights up and he sprints at me with his sword held horizontal and to his right side for a wide hack. I roll my eyes and dig my heels in with my right leg forth. I flip my sword inside my palm, switching to a backhanded grip, and set it at a diagonal angle to block.

His hand-and-a-half sword causes me to buckle on impact because I didn't bother using flow other than to strengthen my body but I quickly, and forcefully, redirect the momentum over my head while angling my upper body back.

Shrrclink. The bastard blade slides along my broadsword and impacts my guard. I flick it up and away with a lion strike. Shrclik. The weapon slashes widely into the air over my head while the plated Noble threatens to barrel into me.

I flexibly allow my right leg to slide away and spin around my left to slide around the charging count's right flank. As he flashes past me, I slash down behind my back with the broadsword I kept high while infusing it with a few portions of unstructured energy.

Klank. The kinetic impact is so consequent a cloud of dust arises from the sand under the man's feet as they slide. He stumbles forth and is forced to slam his left hand on the ground to avoid tripping.

I spin around to find a consequent dent in the plate protecting his back and smirk. I lion's step to cross the few meters separating us, landing right behind him before he can recover his stance.

The crowd lets out a collective gasp and many fearful warnings arise despite the fact I merely place the back of my hand on the man's shoulder. I infiltrate the runic construct engraved into the steel armor and concentrate on the central rune.

I break and seize control of it for a brief moment before he regains control, only long enough to initiate one specific and relatively simple process. I thrust out while spinning my wrist to threaten his throat, forcing the Count to defend himself.

With no time to check what I did, he doesn't realize that he had lost from the moment he charged me with such abandon. He uses a lion's leap to both buy space and turn in mid-air to face me.

As he lands, before he can even adopt a low guarded stance, pieces of his plate armor start falling off like so many leaves from trees in autumn. The Noble is quickly left with only his helmet, gauntlets, and boots on him.

“That's an indecent get-up for a high-born.” I jokingly remark as I look down at the man in gambeson and chain-mail.

“You, wench!” He screams, failing to even put together a sentence.

“Alright, playtime's over.” I lazily speak up.

Energy courses through my body and snaps into place, shaping lion's constructs that cover the entirety of my body. I flash right up to the man in a split-second with next to no warning and slam my pommel into his sternum.

Crk. The discreet sound and the man's suddenly paling cheeks raise my mood so I follow up with a low-kick at his left knee. Snap. As the Count crumbles, I launch my knee up and land a second blow to his sternum. Rrk.

The strike sends the man flying a meter away to land hard on his back into the arena's sand. I lion's step to his side once more and stomp on his right wrist to force him to release his grip on the bastard sword while seeking to sneak the point of my broadsword past the padded cloth protecting his neck.

“I lost! I lost!” The man panically exclaims as he perceives his imminent death.

“Yes, we're all aware.” I drawl. “But I suppose that means I've no need to have you publicly acknowledge it.” I add while taking my weapon back.

“Wh, what do you want?” The elder Lordling asks, regaining some self-control.

“Naught. You get to live because she asked me to spare you.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder. “You know why I agreed? Because you're utterly irrelevant.” I half-lie.

Before the Count can respond, I throw a quick kick at his helmet to knock him out, or at least daze him long enough he won't bother me for the immediate future. I sheathe my sword, crouch, and pick up the hand-and-a-half sword before walking over to the others.

“Congratulations.” Idali tells me with a small smile and her hand on her Vuskyt spear, ready to use it on the soldiers no doubt already closing in on us.

“That's your prize, a bastard for a bastard.” I cheerfully tell Rowland as I throw him the weapon. He almost fumbles the blade but does manage to catch the guard by the tips of his fingers.