CHAPTER 69: CHAPTER 68 - A ROCK’S RECKONING

Riven studied the man carefully.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, likely in his early thirties, with a rough face and the posture of someone used to carrying weapons or wearing armor. His stance radiated confidence—or rather, arrogance. The armor he wore bore numerous scratches and dents, as if he wore them with pride, the marks of training duels or skirmishes he wanted the world to see.

Riven came to one more conclusion—the man clearly didn’t know who he was. Few knew of Ashtoria’s presence in this residence, and even fewer knew the identities of Riven and Mira.

To this man, Riven probably looked like a new gardener... or a stablehand toying with a sword in the courtyard.

So with a cold tone and flat gaze, Riven asked,

"What do you mean?"

The man responded immediately, his voice rising a few octaves from poorly contained anger.

"My name is Rocky Stone! Sure, my family is small and we have no land of our own, but we’re still noble blood! And you, every day I hear you insulting my name! Cursing that rock, calling it ’stupid rock,’ ’damned rock,’ ’useless rock’! You think I wouldn’t notice?!"

He jabbed a finger toward the massive stone Riven had been training on since morning.

"You think you’re clever? Think you can mock my family name in front of everyone?!"

Riven paused for a moment.

Then, with an awkward smile, he said quietly,

"Sorry if that upset you... but you do realize I was talking to that rock over there."

He pointed calmly at the large stone, still standing solid despite the dozens of strikes it had suffered.

Rocky’s face flushed crimson.

His mouth opened, then closed again.

For a moment, the burly man stood frozen, caught between confusion and fury. The tension in his jaw was visible. It was clear he wanted to lash out—but Riven’s honest, straightforward apology had thrown him off.

Still, Rocky wasn’t the type to back down so easily.

"...Doesn’t matter!" he barked. "You should’ve chosen your words more carefully! Because of you, people are laughing behind my back!"

Riven tilted his head slightly, now genuinely curious.

"Because of me? Or because your name is Rocky Stone and you lose your temper every time someone insults a rock?"

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

When he realized it, Riven blinked—regretting how his mouth moved faster than his thoughts.

Rocky’s face now turned a deeper shade of red. His eyes bulged with fury.

"You—!"

But before he could finish the curse, Riven looked at him.

Calm. But different than before, there was a firmness in his gaze. Not a threat... but a warning.

He let out a quiet breath.

"I truly didn’t mean to insult anyone. But if that really offended you, I do sincerely apologize..."

As expected, Rocky wasn’t satisfied.

His eyes flicked toward Crystalis—the silver sword gleaming faintly in Riven’s hand. A slow grin spread across his face, not of amusement, but of calculated intent.

"If you’re carrying a sword," Rocky said, voice heavy with challenge, "then settle this the way swordsmen do."

Riven turned slowly, meeting Rocky’s eyes with a cold stare. He could’ve refused. He could’ve walked away. But something in the way the man looked at him stirred something in his chest—not rage, but... challenge.

He had never truly dueled another knight. The intruder from Arkham? That man was already dying—he’d won through luck alone. Ashtoria? That wasn’t a duel—it was a brutal lesson.

But now...

He nodded.

"Alright."

Rocky grinned in satisfaction and stepped back, drawing his blade with a loud metallic rasp that broke the midday stillness. He took his stance—legs wide, sword raised before him.

But before they began, Rocky squinted and added with a glint in his eye:

"Let’s make this more interesting."

He glanced at Crystalis again, this time with naked greed.

"If I win... that sword of yours becomes mine."

Riven raised an eyebrow, saying nothing at first. He looked down at Crystalis—the blade that had been with him ever since he got involved with Ashtoria. It felt just right in his grip. Balanced to near-perfection. He had trained with it every day, until the blade felt familiar... like a part of himself.

But...

With a flat voice, Riven asked:

"And if I win?"

Rocky scoffed. "You can ask anything of me. Doesn’t matter... because you won’t win."

Riven didn’t respond right away. He simply stared, his expression unreadable, then let his gaze drift back to Crystalis.

He’d already guessed this man’s motive. It wasn’t about honor. It wasn’t about a family name. Perhaps Rocky had been eyeing the sword from the very beginning—its glow, its make, or the faint aura it carried.

And now he wanted to take it?

Absolutely not.

"I won’t stake it," Riven said at last, calm and firm.

Rocky narrowed his eyes. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I refuse," Riven repeated. "You want a duel? Fine. But no wagers."

For a moment, Rocky looked like a man publicly humiliated before his own soldiers.

"Coward," he muttered through gritted teeth. "So you really are just some dumb servant with a fancy sword. Don’t have the guts to risk anything, huh? Then why train? Just so you can run?"

Still, Riven didn’t flinch.

Unbothered. Unshaken.

Rocky clenched his fists, his chest rising and falling with rage.

"Then forget the wager!" he finally roared, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "Now I just want to beat you to a pulp!"

Riven lifted his chin slightly. His lips curled into a faint smile—not smug, but just enough to provoke.

"You could’ve said that from the start," he whispered. "If that’s all you want... don’t bother hiding it."

He shifted his stance with ease. Crystalis lowered slightly to his right side, left hand slightly raised, body leaning forward in a poised stance.

Rocky growled and charged.

His steps were heavy, fast, brimming with force. There was no hesitation in the swing of his blade—he was aiming to end it with the first strike. His movement was that of a brawler used to overwhelming his enemies, not outmaneuvering them. The heavy sword slashed downward from the right, slicing through the air with a roar, aimed straight at Riven’s head.

But Riven didn’t move.

His eyes locked on Rocky’s, reading every motion, every muscle twitch.

And just as the blade was about to strike—

Crystalis moved—fast, precise, without wasted motion.

Riven sidestepped, letting the heavy sword cleave the air beside him and throw Rocky slightly off balance. But he didn’t counter—his instincts weren’t sharp enough yet. When he tried to strike back, his sword was parried with brute force, sending a jolt through his arm.

Rocky swung again, more erratic this time. He struck from all directions, relying on raw power and uncontrolled anger. His blade was a metal storm—not elegant, but dangerous enough to wound anyone careless.

Riven stepped back, parrying, dodging—pushed further and further with each swing.

His form was still rough. Even though he’d trained for days under Ashtoria’s eye, his body hadn’t yet adapted to this kind of battle rhythm. But each time Crystalis clashed with Rocky’s blade, each time his footwork shifted to evade, Riven felt something stir.

This feeling...

This tension...

He’d felt it before—in the dark woods, when his body was crushed under the weight of a bear’s claw. Back then, he fought to survive, because if he didn’t... he’d die.

But this time...

This time something was different.

He felt like he could win.

Riven drew a deep breath. The clang of metal echoed again as he blocked another strike, then stepped lightly aside. The footwork Ashtoria had taught him came back—keeping his center, reading pressure, matching his breath to his steps.

Simple. But effective.

His strikes began to align. He wasn’t attacking head-on anymore, but aiming quick, sharp touches—seeking a weak point. He didn’t try to break through Rocky’s guard—just... search for a crack.

Rocky, so used to brute force and domination, began to look irritated.

"All you can do is dodge?!" he barked, slashing again. "You dare call yourself a swordsman?!"

Riven gave no answer. He merely smiled faintly, shifting left, deflecting an upward swing, then twirling lightly behind. Crystalis moved in a rhythm not yet perfect... but gradually, it began to harmonize with his body.

And at that moment... something inside him changed.

Not fear. Not caution.

But exhilaration.

The pounding in his chest should have brought panic—but instead, it brought joy.

Strike after strike became rhythm. Pressure turned into challenge. He started to enjoy it—the movement, the breath, even the sweat running down his brow. Everything felt alive.

And he began to smile.