Chương 53: 36 - Holy Duel

From the moment the fight began, Ivan knew this would be his toughest battle ever. The One-Eyed Reaper had not earned her nickname for nothing, and if age and retirement had dulled her, he couldn't tell. She had as much experience as he did, if not more. While he was at the church's beck and call, only active when there was an incident with more powerful demons, she had been working as a ranger, traveling the country and slaying dangerous beasts and hunting the remnants of the demon army.

But he was still confident. While she had been hunting beasts below her level, he had trained his entire life to fight powerful humanoids. Powerful demons almost always took human or nearly human forms, and such opponents were his specialty. And should she try to pull any tricks, he had faith. This was a Holy Duel, and he had the Lord on his side.

Igrette stabbed at his face, aiming for his eye slit, and he tilted his head to the side, letting it slide off his mana-infused helmet while responding with a half-sword thrust of his own. She redirected his blade upward with her own, and at the same time crouched down slightly and delivered a low kick to his calf. She was far too quick for him to deflect with his sword, but he was able to reinforce his leg with mana.

The force of the collision sent snow flying everywhere, clearing the ground a dozen feet in every direction, but his leg didn't budge. He tried bringing his sword down upon her in a vertical slash while she pulled back, but she just spun out of the way, and his sword hit nothing but air. She's fast. The two fighters exchanged a few more futile thrusts, with Igrettes scraping against Ivan's armor, and Ivan's hitting empty air.

Both tried a few minor spells too, sending gusts of wind to knock each other off balance, or trying flashes of light to blind the other, but neither fighter were particularly proficient with spellcasting, and both were too experienced to be caught. Still, the exchange taught Ivan one crucial fact. She was better than he was. It was very subtle, but she reacted more quickly, and in their exchanges, she seemed to be thinking one step further than him. It was not much at all, but there was a clear gap in skill.

Or perhaps it was talent. Their fight was too fast for either of them to be making any kinds of calculations. It was pure instinct that kept her ahead of him, and it nullified whatever slight advantage Ivan's expertise with humanoid opponents gave him. But it doesn't matter. Combat had never been his strong suit, while the One-Eyed Reaper had been earning international attention before she even became an adult. She was in a realm of talent that he would never touch. … At least when it came to combat instincts.

But Ivan had not gotten to where he was for no reason. While he may have been lacking in battle instincts—at least compared to her—he knew there was one area that she could not hope to rival him: power. Pure, raw power. Ever since he was a child, his mana capacity had been abnormal, and with the church's training, he was able to harness that inborn talent to strengthen his body beyond what should have been possible for someone of his level.

Now, not only did his mana pool rival some seventh layer mages, but even without any additional enhancements, his body was stronger than adamantium. With his armor, he was practically invulnerable, and even if Igrette was faster and more skilled than him, he only needed to land one blow. Enough messing around. Igrette launched another flurry of stabs at him, but this time, he ignored them, pushing mana into his armor so that her blade could not damage it. He could see what she was trying to do.

They had worked together in the past, and she knew about his advantages. She was probably trying to win in a battle of attrition, using minimal effort to make him waste mana. She was playing to her strengths, and now it was his turn to play to his. While her stabs clattered uselessly against his armor, he gripped the handle of his sword in both hands and poured mana into it as he swung horizontally, sending an arc of mana flying at her.

She was forced to flatten herself against the ground to avoid it, which reduced her mobility as he continued his horizontal swing into a vertical one. Ivan continued his assault, putting Igrette on the defensive, constantly retreating to escape his devastating attacks. She tried to counter with more precise strikes of her own, but Ivan barely acknowledged them, letting them wash over his armor as he continued.

Slash marks covered the ground, and the air was full of loose snow kicked up by the shockwaves of each attack, but even after a dozen strikes, he still had not managed to hit her. The terrain was not an area that favored either of them. It was completely open with no cover, and no walls. He could not corner her, but she also had no cover from him. It seemed almost like it would be a stalemate until one of them slipped up or ran out of mana.

And while it might have seemed like Ivan was wasting mana, the mana that Igrette had to expend to move quickly enough to avoid his strikes was not small either, and her capacity was much lower than his. Still, one of them needed to make a move. This couldn't go on forever, and both knew it. Ivan started changing his attacks slightly. Their battle had taken them all around the ancient amphitheater, and they were now halfway up the snowy bowl, so he started directing the fight back downward toward the center.

He was sure that Igrette noticed, but it didn't matter, because she didn't have much of a choice if she didn't want to get cut in half. He swung diagonally from the right, forcing her to dodge left, heading back downhill, and then he lunged forward, stabbing upward from where his sword's trajectory had ended. She evaded the strike again, so he flowed into an overhead swing, stepping forward to bring himself in range. At the same time, Igrette thrust her own sword forward, just like she had done many times before.

Except this time, it was different. She was aiming lower. Much lower. What is she–? His foot reached where it should have hit the ground, except he found no solid footing. Her attack had obliterated the ground below where he was about to step, and the next thing he knew, he was falling into a faceplant. Oh. With his arms above his head, he was forced to abort his attack to catch himself, and Igrette used the reprieve to flip her sword around, grabbing it by the blade and swinging the hilt down at his falling form.

Ivan poured mana into his armor, but his head still rang when the crossguard hit the back of his helmet, and he could feel that the armor had been dented. Before he even hit the ground, a second strike hit, this time aimed at his shoulder joint. His armor protected him from what certainly would have been an injury, but it was again dented, and when he tried pushing himself to his feet, he could feel that the joint wasn't moving as smoothly as it had been. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere.

Support the author by seeking out the original. He rolled out of the way of another blow aimed at his back, but was unable to dodge the next one, which hit him in the neck. This was the most powerful blow yet, and while he did not take any direct damage, the strike dented not only the helmet's bevor, but it pressed it into the gorget, and when he managed to get to his feet, the dented metal was locking his neck in place.

He took another three strikes that left superficial dents before he managed to get back to his feet, stumbling backward. Dazed and unable to turn his head, it was his turn to be on the defensive as Igrette pressed forward, swinging her sword like a hammer, trying to punch through his armor wherever she could. Her raw power was not much compared to his defensive ability, but every strike he took had a chance of reducing his mobility.

He could power through the problem with his shoulder joint, but as she darted around him, constantly leaving his line of sight, he realized that the helmet would be a problem. He leapt backward, empowering his legs enough that the ground cracked from the force, and using that moment he had in the air, he reached up and tore his helmet off. The damage prevented it from coming off easily, but without being empowered by his mana, he was able to tear through the metal like paper and toss it to the side.

With his head exposed, Igrette flipped her sword back around, sending stab after stab at his exposed face. He managed to evade and deflect most of them, but when one of them slid across his cheekbone, drawing a drop of blood, doubt crept into his mind. This was a Holy Duel, and he had accepted. The Lord was watching, and the victor would be the one with his favor. Both fighters were similar in strength, and the battle was completely fair. And he was losing. No, he thought, gritting his teeth.

He had the pope on his side, and therefore God. She was misguided and being manipulated by a demon. He would not let his faith waver just because of a minor obstacle like this. He was not so weak. He pushed aside his growing unease, and began casting a gravity spell on his body. Igrette lifted her sword to stab at him again, but Ivan struck first, using his increased gravity to stomp downward shattering and shaking the ground.

Igrette's attack faltered when her footing failed, while Ivan had been prepared, and lunged forward, swinging down. Igrette was still fast, and he saw her trying to dodge, but this time, she was just a split second slow. She was able to get her body out of the way, but her left arm trailed behind, and the blade of Ivan's greatsword cut cleanly through it just above the elbow. Before the arm could hit the ground, Ivan was already swinging his sword again as Igrette retreated backward.

The tables had turned, and he wasn't going to let his advantage go to waste. Igrette wore a constant grimace as she danced around his attacks. She was still far faster than Ivan, but she seemed less steady. She fought with skill and precision, and even if she only needed her right arm to wield her sword, the loss of her left still affected her balance. Ivan dodged her stabs, and avoided the pitfalls she tried to create in front of him while continuing to swing his sword at her, each time getting closer and closer.

She was struggling to stay out of the way, and a few times, he managed to catch the hem of her robes, sending pieces of fabric fluttering away in the wind. His doubts faded as his victory seemed to become more and more certain. Igrette was slowing down, and without her left arm, she would not be able to wield the same power she had when puncturing his armor. His victory was all but assured.

They reached the center of the amphitheater again, now cleared of snow, exposing the frozen grass and half-hidden stones beneath. Igrette took a step back to avoid his sword, then stumbled. Her foot had slipped on a lose stone, and she lost her balance. It's over. Ivan swung his sword horizontally at her, prepared to cleave her in half. A flash of pity and sorrow crossed his mind. Misguided as she may have been, the One-Eyed Reaper was a war hero who had saved countless lives.

Such a storied life should never have met such an ignoble end. Then, mid-swing, his sword started losing power. What? The blade bit into her side, cutting six inches deep, but then it stopped. It shouldn't have stopped. He had put enough mana into that swing to cut her in two five times over. But that mana was now leaking out at an alarming rate. He tried to pull it back, but it refused to listen. He tried to pull his sword back, but his body refused to listen to him.

Only then did he notice the glint of steel right below his chin. He could not turn his head, but he was able to glance downward, and saw that Igrette's blade was embedded in his throat, almost all the way up to the hilt. While his sword was halfway into her side, she had stepped forward and thrust hers all the way into his throat, straight through his spine. I didn't even see her move… It was over. Her wound was dire, and possibly even fatal, but he would be dead in just a few more seconds.

He had lost the Holy Duel. That meant Igrette was right. The boy wasn't a demon. The pope was mistaken. Or worse. Lord help us all. As he fell to the ground, the world seemed to be moving in slow motion. His life flashed before his eyes. All those years spent working for the church, slaying demons at their behest. How many other times had this happened? How many of the possessions he resolved had actually been possessions? Who had even given him this order? Was it the pope, or someone impersonating him? Forgive me…

Lord… The last thing he saw before his death was Igrette stumbling backward and falling to the ground herself, as the boy came sprinting down the hill toward her. What have I done? Barely a second after the hippogriff landed at the orphanage's front door, the front door opened, and an elderly woman wearing the white robes of an abbess came rushing out to greet him. The duke and his personal guard, Tanner, dismounted as she walked up to him, and stared at the duke.

"You are Jonny's father," she said. Archibald pursed his lips.

"Where is he?"

"Not here," said the abbess.

"A High Inquisitor came. He believed Jonny was a demon. Sister Igrette challenged him to a Holy Duel, and they went into the woods."

"A Holy Duel?" exclaimed the duke.

"And they took Jonny?"

"Yes."

"I'll be back," said the duke, turning back to the hippogriff.

"Tanner, let's–""Wait!" said the Abbess.

"Take me. I'm a healer. But I can't leave the orphanage alone. There were assassins, and–""Assassins?!" exclaimed the duke.

"We have them subdued inside, but I am the only one powerful enough to keep watch over them." Archibald glanced between her and Tanner, then nodded.

"Tanner, stay here and watch the assassins. Interrogate them if you can. And if the other inquisitors arrive, try to delay them. Abbess, you will come with me."

"Other inquisitors?" asked the abbess.

"Yes, there are more," said Archibald.

"We don't have time to waste. We need to move. Let's go." Archibald helped the Abbess up onto the hippogriff, then jumped on in front of her, grabbing the reins and flicking them, sending the hippogriff into the and racing off into the woods.

"You are Duke Archibald Meyer, yes?" asked the abbess once they were in the air.

"Yes. And you are Abbess Helen Fritz?"

"That is me. Why did you send your son to us?"

"It's complicated."

"Were you perhaps ordered to send him here by someone?" Archibald glanced back at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Duke Meyer… How much do you know about your son?"