Toby stood beside the ring now, leaning against the fence rail, watching the next set of names called out.
“Zak of Highmarsh versus Tomas of Windvale!”
Zak grinned, clapping Toby on the shoulder. “My turn to make Master proud.”
“Or to make him sigh,” Reece muttered.
Zak pointed a finger at him. “Have faith, brother. I’m about to redefine elegance.”
Toby smirked. “Elegance isn’t tripping your opponent by accident.”
“That’s called innovation.”
Tomas of Windvale was a lanky man, all limbs and impatience, with a reach that could have matched a polearm. Zak looked almost small opposite him, but there was a glint in his eye—that spark he got right before he did something reckless.
The herald signaled.
Tomas lunged at once, testing Zak’s guard with long sweeping strikes. Zak blocked high, backpedaling, his boots sliding slightly in the packed dirt. The crowd murmured, expecting a quick defeat.
Then Zak ducked under a blow, stepped in, and smacked the man’s knee with a short, brutal jab. Tomas stumbled, swore, and swung down wildly—only for Zak to spin sideways and bring his wooden sword up in a clean, solid tap to the man’s ribs.
“Point!” shouted the officiant. “Zak of Highmarsh!”
Zak backed away, grinning wide, raising the practice blade in mock salute. “Told you. Elegance.”
Toby laughed, shaking his head. “Master would’ve called that luck.”
“Master,” Zak said, breathless but proud, “taught me to use what’s in front of me. Today that was Tomas’s kneecap.”
Reece clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m victorious,” Zak corrected, and swaggered off toward the refreshment barrels like a conquering hero.
***
When Reece’s name was called next, he didn’t move right away. His hands flexed nervously on the hilt of his wooden sword, eyes scanning the crowd.
“You’ve got this,” Toby said. “Breathe like Master always says.”
Zak added, “And if you panic, just imagine your opponent’s a giant frog. Worked for me once.”
Reece snorted a quiet laugh, tension easing. “Right. A giant frog.”
His opponent, Ser Harlen of Draynar, was heavier and older—the kind of man who’d likely seen war at least once. He carried himself with confidence, rolling his shoulders like someone used to bruising and winning.
When the fight began, Harlen came on strong, swinging heavy blows meant to overwhelm. Reece didn’t counter—he waited. Every strike he parried with the calm, methodical rhythm Maxwell had drilled into him: Don’t fight the storm. Let it pass.
He gave ground slowly, letting Harlen tire himself. Then, when the man overreached, Reece stepped forward with precision—one, two, three controlled strikes that tapped shoulder, arm, and side before the older fighter could reset.
The officiant raised his hand. “Victory to Reece of Highmarsh!”
***
The crowd actually cheered that one, and Toby found himself grinning. There was something oddly satisfying in the rhythm of Reece’s movements, each one clean, deliberate, and patient.
Zak leaned on the rail. “Look at him, all calm and knightly. It’s sickening.”
Toby chuckled. “He’s turning into Master. Just shorter and less miserable.”
Reece wiped sweat from his brow, but couldn’t stop the small, proud smile forming.
By midday, the sun burned hot overhead. The boys took turns under the shade of the stands, gulping water, sharing roasted nuts from a paper pouch Zak had bartered off a vendor. The noise of the crowd had thickened into a steady hum.
“Next bout—Zak of Highmarsh versus Cress the Carter!”
Toby chuckled at the name. “Be nice. He probably fights for bread money.”
Zak grinned. “Then he’s about to earn a bruise and a story.”
***
Cress was a burly man in patched leather, probably twice Zak’s weight and a full head taller. When they touched swords in salute, Zak could feel the man’s confidence in the way he smiled—smug, like someone who’d already won. He was looking in a mirror, and knew what to do about that.
At the signal, Zak darted forward, testing quick strikes at the man’s guard. Cress absorbed them easily, barely moving. Then he swung one-handed, the blow loud enough to make the crowd wince. Zak caught it barely on his parry, the shock rattling his arms.
Too strong to match head-on.
He circled, panting, eyes flicking over the ground. Maxwell’s voice echoed in his head: Power means nothing if it’s not aimed. Wait for the gap. Everything has rhythm.
Zak waited. Cress lunged again, heavy and predictable—Zak slipped aside, sweeping his leg and jabbing a short strike to the man’s wrist. The sword flew free. The crowd erupted. Cress blinked in disbelief, rubbing his arm.
Zak offered him a respectful nod. “Good fight, friend.”
Cress grunted but clasped Zak’s wrist in good sport.
Toby laughed as Zak returned. “You’re sure you weren’t born lucky?”
Zak’s grin was wild and proud. “Master says, ‘Better to be prepared than lucky.’ So I prepared to be lucky.”
Reece groaned. “He definitely didn’t say that.”
***
“Next match—Reece of Highmarsh versus Ser Alex of Amberwood!”
All three young squires stiffened sharply on the final word.
Stolen novel; please report.
Amberwood? Toby’s gut tightened. What are they doing here?
Alex stepped forward—tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp-eyed, his black and red tabard bearing the rearing stag of his house. Every step held a quiet purpose, the kind that had long since burned away any trace of arrogance.
He looked the three squires over before the match, gaze like a blade.
“So,” he said, voice low but hard-edged, “you’re the new blood out of Highmarsh. Sire Kay’s lads.”
He let the words hang, then added, “The Falcon’s brood.”
Toby felt the prickle at the back of his neck. “That’s right.”
Alex’s expression didn’t soften. “I knew your banners the moment I saw them. My closest friend—Ser Anson, first son of Hudson—died at the Falcon’s Fury. Cut down by Sire Ray himself.”
He took a step closer, just enough to make Reece flinch. “Funny, isn’t it? The sins of old men keep getting handed down to boys.”
Zak’s grin faltered. “You’ve got the wrong lads, Ser. We didn’t start that war.”
Alex’s eyes stayed on Reece. “No. But you carry his crest. His colors. The Falcon’s mark. That’s enough.”
He turned, heading for the ring. “Let’s see if the Falcon’s next generation fights as well as it kills.”
Reece swallowed hard. “Saints… why me?”
Zak clapped him on the shoulder. “Because fate’s got a cruel sense of humor. But it’s not our fault Hudson decided to march his men into Highmarsh.”
Toby nodded slowly. “No. But grief doesn’t care whose banner you wear.” He looked toward Alex in the ring. “He lost a friend. I know what that feels like.” Then, more firmly: “But Zak’s right. We didn’t start the war—and we don’t carry their guilt. We’re Falcons. That’s who we answer to.”
Zak smirked. “Falcons don’t bow to enemies.”
Reece managed a shaky breath, half a laugh. “You two are terrible at pep talks.”
“Maybe,” Zak said. “But you’ve got this! Master Maxwell trained us harder than we thought possible—and we survived that.”
“Thanks,” Reece muttered. “For the faith.”
Reece followed Alex to the ring. The officiant’s voice rang out above the crowd.
“Match begins on my mark!”
Ser Alex stood ready. He carried an air calm and cold. A man carrying years of bitterness in his stance. Reece faced him, fingers white on the hilt, trying to steady his breath.
The first strike came fast—Alex pressing forward, each blow deliberate and heavy. Reece blocked, stumbled, regained his footing. The crowd leaned in, the rhythm of wood on wood echoing like thunder in the frost-bitten air.
Toby gripped the railing. “Keep your feet, Reece. Wait for the opening.”
Zak leaned beside him, eyes alight. “Three silvers says he pulls a Maxwell feint!”
“Make it four,” Toby said, not looking away.
Another clash—Reece ducked, spun, barely deflecting a downward cut that would’ve floored him. He moved by instinct now, hands remembering drills beaten into muscle over endless mornings. Then, as Alex raised his blade for another crushing blow, Reece feinted left and struck clean across the ribs.
Crack.
Alex’s weapon flew from his grasp, skidding through the dirt.
The officiant raised his hand. “Victory—Reece of Highmarsh!”
The crowd cheered. Reece stood panting, disbelief and exhaustion tangled on his face.
Zak whooped. “Ha! He won!”
Toby exhaled a laugh, tension bleeding out of him. “Looks like I owe you two weeks of my stipend.”
Ser Alex straightened, met Reece’s gaze, and nodded. It was a small thing, heavy with meaning.
“Clean feint,” he said quietly.
Reece bowed, still breathless. “Thank you, Ser.”
“Next time we meet,” Alex said. “It might be with metal.”
Reece swallowed. “Let’s hope that day never comes.”
Alex’s face softened, and something that almost became a grin touched his lips. “Indeed. Let’s hope.”
When Reece returned to the rail, Zak clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt him forward.
“Falcons don’t fall.”
Reece smiled, faint and tired. Toby only watched him for a moment—proud, and a little humbled. Grief might run deep, but pride and purpose could still rise above it.
By the time the afternoon bell rang, Reece and Zak had advanced through their opening rounds. Their bodies ached, but the thrill hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sharpened. They sat together under the shade of a canvas awning, sharing bread and water.
Zak stretched his sore arm. “Think Master Maxwell would’ve let us enter?”
Toby shook his head. “He’d have said it was a waste of coin.”
Reece smiled. “Then he’d still have come to watch.”
“Just to make us nervous.”
“Exactly.”
For a moment, they all went quiet, watching the sunlight dance off the wooden blades in the field—watching squires and knights test themselves, the air filled with sweat, cheers, and the rhythm of practice given purpose.
Toby leaned back, exhaling. “You know… I think he’d be proud.”
Zak’s grin softened. “Yeah. But I’m still not telling him how much it cost.”
They all laughed, the sound bright and easy under the wide blue sky. Toby’s name had yet to be called. The waiting gnawed at him more than any fight could have. Every cheer from the crowd felt like a drumbeat counting down to something inevitable.
He tried to steady his breathing, to recall Maxwell’s words—patience isn’t stillness; it’s readiness. But the longer it took, the harder that became.
Then the herald’s voice rose above the noise.
“Toby of Highmarsh—versus Sire Nigel of Sanderland!”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The noise of laughter and chatter dimmed until even the banners seemed to still in the wind. Sanderland—the eastern coastal fief known for its blue skies and white shores—bred knights famous for their grace and speed. Sire Nigel was one of them: young still, but already a name whispered in respect among squires.
Zak let out a low whistle. “You’ve pulled a storm, lad.”
Reece frowned. “Wasn’t that the name listed as last years champion?”
Toby nodded, feeling his pulse settle into a calm rhythm. “Then I’ll see if lightning strikes twice.”
Sire Nigel stepped into the ring in polished half-plate, the sun catching every edge. His tabard of deep blue and gold shimmered like the sea he’d come from. He raised his sword in a formal salute to Toby. Toby returned the gesture, his wooden blade feeling heavier than it should have.
The herald dropped his hand. “Begin!”
Sire Nigel moved first—fast. His strikes flowed like surf, fluid and relentless, each one cutting through the air with precision that spoke of hundreds of hours drilled in sunlight and salt wind. Toby parried once, twice, barely turning aside the rhythm before a third blow caught his guard and nearly drove him backward. The crowd murmured.
Toby stepped back, forcing breath into his chest, forcing calm. He remembered the rhythm Maxwell had made him feel. The rise and fall, the pause between breaths, and the beat beneath every movement. He waited.
When Sire Nigel struck again, Toby sidestepped instead of blocking, his blade flicking up in a quick counter. Their swords met—a clean crack—and for a heartbeat both men grinned. Then the duel shifted. Sire Nigel’s blows came faster now, sharper, his footwork driving Toby toward the edge. The pressure mounted like a tide.
And then, suddenly, the air itself seemed to thrum. Toby felt a familiar pressure on his skin. A faint shimmer around Nigel’s shoulders—the tell-tale ripple of the Physical Art. He pushed in with impossible speed, a blur of motion that sent Toby’s sword half-a-pace too slow. The crowd gasped.
For an instant Toby saw Sire Ray in his mind—cutting through men and metal alike, fire and purpose burning in his every movement. He felt the same pressure building in his chest, the same pull between will and instinct. He stepped into the rhythm. The world slowed. He breathed, and the pulse of the Art answered.
When Sire Nigel’s strike came, Toby met it—their blades locking with a crash that sent dust spiraling upward. The air between them shimmered, two waves colliding. Toby gritted his teeth and drove forward, twisting at the last moment.
The clash broke. Sire Nigel’s sword flew from his grasp, tumbling end over end before landing in the dirt. The silence that followed was deafening. Toby stood there, chest heaving, the faint shimmer fading from his skin. Across from him, Sire Nigel straightened slowly, blinking in disbelief—then laughter bubbled from his throat.
“Well fought,” he said, voice carrying easily. He bent to retrieve his weapon, then offered Toby a nod that was almost a bow. “You matched me, and more. Not many can stand against the tide.”
Toby lowered his sword. “Highmarsh stands firm, my lord.”
At that, Sire Nigel’s smile widened. “Highmarsh, eh? The Falcon’s land.” He extended his hand. “Then I’ll remember your name, Toby of Highmarsh. You carry your colors well.”
They clasped wrists, warrior to warrior, and the crowd roared. From the sidelines, Zak was cheering loudest of all, hands cupped to his mouth.
“That’s it, lad! That’s our Falcon!”
Reece just shook his head in disbelief, smiling quietly.
Toby stepped from the ring, legs trembling from exertion and something deeper—awe, maybe. He’d faced a knight of renown, and lived not only to tell it but to win.
The thrill coursed through him like lightning, but beneath it was something steadier: a pride that didn’t need shouting. For the first time, he felt it fully—what it meant to belong to a banner, to a name. He exhaled, letting the noise of the crowd wash over him.
“Highmarsh endures,” he murmured under his breath.
And for once, he believed it.
Featured Virtual Reality Novel
Fantasy
Virtual Reality
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Romance
E-Sports
Daniel Dantas, the best New Avalon Online player in his country, has lost everything after a corruption scandal destroyed his organization and took away his greatest possession: his legendary knight avatar.
Now buried in debt and hated by everyone, Daniel will start again after a mysterious stranger tells him to create a level-1 druid. So, after months spent deep in depression and with nothing to lose, he returns to New Avalon and discovers that the most overlooked class in the game has the potential to carry him back to the top. Not only that, but the druid will prove to be the most fun and unique experience he has ever had in the game.
But the path to glory is steeper than ever.
The grind begins anew… and the world is about to witness the rise of the Legendary Druid.
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They tried to bring him down—but he’ll rise again, stronger than ever, as the Legendary Druid.