Crafting Class: Rune Lord

Chapter 5: The Trap That Shouldn't Work

"If you keep struggling, it'll drain more. And more. And eventually... you won't be able to lift a sword."

Michael's tone didn't change, but the final words were sharp.

"What will it be then? Fight until your body gives out—or yield?"

A long pause.

Then finally, the soldier let out a heavy breath.

"...I surrender."

Shock and Denial

A wave of murmurs swept the stands.

Some applauded, others shouted. A mix of admiration, disbelief, and irritation. No one had expected this from the fifth child of Duke Altherion.

Michael stepped forward and lightly scratched one of the glowing rune lines with his foot.

The formation vanished.

The soldier fell to his knees—exhausted, but free.

Lady Renira Strikes

Lady Renira stood.

Her voice sliced through the noise.

"This is not a true victory!"

Gasps.

"This was deception!" she continued. "A trick! You were asked to display swordsmanship, not perform some parlor stunt! What soldier in battle would be trapped by such a thing?!"

Her cheeks were red with fury. Her eyes locked on the Duke.

"My Lord, this farce should not stand."

Michael stayed silent.

He expected this.

No matter the outcome, they would always find fault.

"Let him try again," Lady Renira said. "A proper duel. No formations. No gimmicks. Sword versus sword."

The Duke Responds

The courtyard stilled.

All eyes turned to the Duke.

He had not spoken once throughout the entire battle.

Now he raised a single hand.

"Michael won."

Lady Renira froze.

"He won with observation. With intellect. With tactics. Not all battles are fought head-to-head."

He rose to leave.

But Michael stepped forward.

"Father."

The Duke paused.

Michael's voice grew louder.

"I accept the rematch. I won—but I will fight again. No formations. No tricks. Only swords."

The crowd whispered.

Was he serious?

"But if I win again..." Michael looked up. "You'll listen to my request."

The Duke turned slowly.

"That depends on your performance," he said. "Very well. Have your rematch."

The Rematch Begins

Another soldier stepped into the ring.

Older than the last. A veteran by the look of his scars. His tabard bore Lady Renira's sigil.

He gave Michael a short, respectful nod—but his stance was sharp.

The Duke raised his hand again.

"Begin."

The soldier charged.

One Move

Michael didn't move.

His wooden sword was still sheathed.

The blade came down—strong, clean, precise.

But Michael had already moved.

One step. A twist. A pivot.

The soldier's blade struck the stone with a heavy clang.

In the same breath, Michael unsheathed his wooden sword and brought it gently to the man's exposed neck.

Silence.

A long pause.

Then the soldier raised his hands.

"...I concede."

A Moment of Respect

The audience was speechless.

Then came the applause.

Even the estate's old guards were nodding. The murmurs had changed.

"Fast draw..."
"Perfect angle."
"That wasn't luck. That was practice."

The Duke smiled.

A quiet, almost reluctant curve of the lips.

"You did well."

Michael bowed his head.

Breathing steady. Wounds aching.

"We'll speak of your request tonight," the Duke said. "At the family dinner."

He turned to the gathered nobles.

"Everyone will attend. I have an announcement to make."

And with that, the Duke left.

His cloak trailing behind him.

Michael stood in the courtyard, bruised and breathless.

Not once.

But twice.

He had won.

And from this moment, the next battle would begin.