Chapter 190: Honor Duel

“Lyes!” Ackerman rushed forward and grabbed the young knight by the shoulder. “Have you lost your mind?! What are you doing?!”

The young knight called Lyes looked up, and Ackerman froze. Tears were already streaming down his face.

“Captain…” Lyes cried out without restraint. “Sir Pascal once told me he hoped to see an age of peace someday, so he could return to his estate and take care of his fruit trees instead of fighting wars for the selfish desires and filthy interests of those damned nobles…”

Ackerman’s hand trembled violently on his shoulder. He had heard those same words before.

“Captain, do you remember?” Lyes shouted through his tears. “Those last words Sir Pascal said on the battlefield? He hoped… someone would witness the rebirth of Elfin… Captain, maybe Coldsteel City isn’t as bad as we thought. If there’s truly a chance for that future, then I want to fulfill the dream Sir Pascal never got to see!”

Ackerman could no longer say a word. His heart felt tightly clenched as bitterness rose in his throat.

Clang.

Another member of the guard bent down and picked up a sword from the floor. Then a third. A fourth. More and more followed, the sharp sound of steel striking stone echoing throughout the empty warehouse.

Soon, everyone except Ackerman himself was holding a weapon.

Nolan, who had silently watched everything unfold, finally spoke again, “Ten seconds left.”

Ackerman closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Memories flooded through his mind—past battles, Pascal’s final wishes, his comrades’ choices, the words of the enemy before him.

Then he suddenly opened his eyes, bent down fiercely, and snatched up the final sword lying on the ground.

Shing!

The moment Ackerman gripped the weapon, he twisted his wrist and pointed the blade directly at Nolan.

The Black Armored Legion soldiers behind Nolan reacted instantly, stepping forward in unison to shield him as their weapons leveled toward the newly armed prisoners. The atmosphere turned razor-sharp in an instant.

Nolan merely raised a hand and lightly patted the guard in front of him on the shoulder, signaling them to relax. Then he stepped past them and faced Ackerman’s blade alone.

Seeing Nolan’s reaction—and the utterly calm gaze in those eyes—Ackerman swallowed hard.

“You gave weapons back to us,” he asked hoarsely. “Aren’t you afraid we’ll fight to the death?”

“No,” Nolan replied. “Because I trust Sir Pascal’s judgment.”

That sentence cut deeper than any sword.

Ackerman felt the last of his resistance shatter completely. His sword arm slowly lowered.

“I… I have one final condition.” After a pause, he corrected himself. “No. A request.”

“Speak.”

Ackerman lifted his head, the last fire burning in his eyes. “I want to duel you. A proper duel of honor! This is the final duty I must fulfill as captain of Sir Pascal’s personal guards!”

When he finished speaking, he stared nervously at Nolan.

In Ackerman’s eyes, Nolan had absolutely no reason to agree. He was the victor, the lord of Coldsteel City, commander of an elite army. He could simply walk away and there would be nothing Ackerman could do. This challenge was merely the final powerless consolation of a defeated man.

But Nolan only looked quietly into his eyes before answering, “Fine.” He tilted his head slightly. “Outside.”

Ackerman was stunned.

He actually agreed?

He had only wanted to use this duel to sever the demons in his heart and draw a final line beneath the past. Yet Nolan had accepted without hesitation.

Without wasting another moment, Ackerman tightened his grip on the sword and immediately followed him outside.

Everyone gathered in the open space before the warehouse. The Black Armored Legion soldiers spread out with practiced efficiency, forming a ring around the clearing.

Nolan stood calmly at the center, feet planted loosely apart, his left elbow resting casually atop the hilt at his waist.

Under the watchful eyes of everyone present, Ackerman walked to a position ten steps away from him and raised his sword in a formal knight’s salute. “Thank you.”

“Draw your blade.”

Nolan said nothing. Nor did he unsheathe the obviously extraordinary longsword at his side. Instead, he merely extended his right hand and curled two fingers toward himself in a simple gesture.

Come.

Ackerman’s expression darkened instantly. No matter how strong Nolan was, Ackerman was still a peak Silver-tier knight—hardly harmless.

But Nolan would not even draw his sword? That was arrogance bordering on insult.

“RAAAH!”

His fury erupted into strength. Gripping the sword with both hands, Ackerman unleashed the full force of his Silver-tier power and charged forward with a roar.

From the very first strike, he attacked with everything he had.

Yet Nolan remained standing there leisurely, not even changing his posture, as though the man rushing toward him was not a fully committed Silver-tier knight at all.

He looked less like a duelist and more like a noble calmly watching from the sidelines.

Ackerman showed no mercy. During the battle, he had studied Nolan’s fighting style and knew he was right-handed. His sword slashed precisely toward the junction between Nolan’s neck and right shoulder—the blind spot most difficult for a right-handed swordsman to defend or evade.

Just as he believed he was about to force Nolan back—

Nolan’s left hand moved like lightning and instantly grasped the hilt.

Clang!

A deafening crash rang out.

Ackerman felt an overwhelming force travel through his blade as the direction of his strike was forcibly redirected. Then Nolan shifted sideways with elegant precision and casually pushed with the “sword” in his hand.

Ackerman immediately lost his balance from his own forward momentum, stumbling several steps before crashing face-first onto the ground.

Silence engulfed the field.

Lying there, Ackerman finally saw clearly. Nolan had never drawn his sword. He had blocked with the sheath, redirected force with the sheath, and knocked him down with the sheath. If the blade had actually been unsheathed, Ackerman would not have merely fallen—he would have been run straight through.

Even more terrifying was the fact that throughout the exchange, Nolan had not moved his feet a single inch.

The truth was painfully obvious: in a real battle, Ackerman would have died before even surviving one move.

A wave of humiliation surged through him.

But Ackerman was stubborn to the core. Refusing to accept defeat, he sprang back up with a furious roar and attacked once more. This time he lowered his stance and slashed directly toward Nolan’s lower right back. Experienced in combat, he knew the common weak points of swordsmen, and his strike came fast and clean.

Unfortunately for him, the opponent before him was a true master of the blade. Nolan switched the sheathed sword from his left hand to his right without even looking and casually raised it behind him.

Clang!

The sheath precisely intercepted the slash. At the same moment, a hidden upward force traveled along the sword.

Ackerman’s wrist went numb instantly, nearly losing his grip as his guard opened wide.

Nolan spun smoothly in place, lifting the sheathed Mountain’s Resonance high as if preparing a downward strike.

Alarmed, Ackerman instinctively raised his sword to block along the momentum of the force.

But the descending sheath was only a feint.

The real attack was Nolan’s leg.

Bam!

A heavy kick slammed directly into Ackerman’s abdomen. He was sent flying backward several meters before crashing to the ground once again in miserable fashion.

Pascal’s personal guards stared in complete shock.

Captain Ackerman was the strongest and most skilled among them. In terms of raw endurance and youthful vitality, if he dragged a duel into a prolonged battle, he might even surpass Sir Pascal slightly. Yet against Nolan, he looked like a child swinging a stick while being toyed with by a battle-hardened adult.

The Black Armored Legion soldiers remained silent, but they were all experienced warriors and swordsmen. They understood exactly what they were witnessing.

From beginning to end, Nolan had never moved his feet or relied on overwhelming brute force. Purely through swordsmanship, technique, and flawless adaptability, he had utterly dominated an opponent of Ackerman’s caliber.

What terrifying mastery.

As they looked at Nolan’s back, admiration surged uncontrollably within them.

This was their invincible lord.

Clutching his stomach, Ackerman struggled to his feet. That kick had nearly made him vomit. Dust covered his body and nausea churned in his gut, yet he still held tightly onto his sword. He knew the difference in strength between them was overwhelming. He was being completely toyed with.

But when he looked up, Nolan’s face held neither contempt nor mockery. Those deep green eyes merely watched him quietly, waiting for his next move. 

It was respect—for the duel itself, and for the last shred of dignity remaining in a warrior.

This will be the final strike. Let this be my answer.

Ackerman tightened both hands around the sword and raised it high above his head, pouring every ounce of strength into the blade.

“RAAAAAAH—!”

His roar shook the air.

“Whitebird Assault!”

It was his family’s inherited sword technique—the trump card he had always kept hidden!

He lunged forward violently. Driven by overwhelming speed and power, the blade transformed into a dazzling streak of white light, like an arrow released from a bow or a swift bird piercing through the sky, carrying enough force to tear through anything in its path as it thrust straight toward Nolan.

Even the members of the Black Armored Legion tensed instinctively before the sheer momentum of the attack.

Even Hank, who had been standing off to the side with folded arms, frowned.

“This strike…” he muttered. “He’s gone too far.”