Author's Note:Bonus chapter for 16K views! Thank you for the constant support — and enjoy the reading!
The sunlight bathed the ruins of the city, reflecting on the steel and on the shadows of the fighters.
Between the Count and the Marquis of Tiresias, the struggle was frantic, each strike loaded with force and precision made the air tremble as if it wanted to break apart.
Karna observed everything carefully beyond human reach, his gaze running over the field as if he could anticipate every gesture, every attack.
Turning to Marcus, facing the young archer seriously, he spoke in a firm tone:
"Marcus, listen carefully. The wounded have already retreated. Now, all of you will retreat. But I need you to do something: as soon as you cross the silver wall, go toward the castle and find Kaelir. Tell him I sent you. He will know what to do."
While Marcus nodded, archers and the few remaining warriors began to retreat, following the orders with precision, while Karna picked up a fallen sword and advanced among the enemies, opening the way for the withdrawal.
Each gesture of his was calculated, each step an invisible defense, ensuring that no one was left behind.
While Karna covered the retreat, Haron remained focused on the Count, each attack from the opponent demanding all his strength and skill. Even steady, the Marquis began to give in subtly, each strike shifting his position and testing his endurance.
The Count stepped back slightly, almost imperceptibly, analyzing each of Haron's movements.
For an instant, time seemed to slow down; each breath, each step, each attack were measured with precision. Then, he advanced again with predatory speed.
Haron took a direct blow to the shoulder, the force of the impact making him stagger. The smell of dust and burnt iron invaded his nostrils, and he felt the vibration of the ground beneath his feet, remembering that each second could be the last.
A soldier, panting and leaning against a nearby rock, murmured to the Count, trying to keep calm:
"Sir… the young marquis and the woman in black armor have disappeared. Some knights who accompanied them also scattered…"
The Count did not take his eyes off Haron, but a slight gesture of approval appeared in his expression, almost as if he had expected that information.
"Understood," he said calmly, his voice loaded with control and contained threat. "Let us continue, then. What needs to be done will be done."
With that, he struck another blow, this time hitting Haron in the chest and throwing him violently against the cracked ground.
The impact reverberated through the place, raising a cloud of dust and shards of stone, and made the nearest soldiers instinctively step back.
Haron tried to regain balance, feeling every muscle scream from the effort. He knew that despite the Count's strength, he had not yet lost — but each second made the battle more cruel.
Haron rolled to the side, rising with effort on the cracked ground, his chest burning, his shoulders throbbing.
The dust clung to his skin and hair, and blood ran from fresh cuts, mixing with the dirt of battle. Even so, the Marquis's eyes remained fixed on the Count, defiant, each breath measured, each muscle tense, ready to react.
The Count advanced sideways, moving like a predator, punching with brutal force. The first blow struck Haron's side with enough power to make him stagger, the skin torn and a line of blood running down his arm.
Without hesitation, Haron responded with a punch to the Count's abdomen, feeling the impact reverberate through his own arm and drawing a restrained grunt from the enemy.
A quick hook hit Haron's left shoulder, producing a metallic crack from the armor's protection and leaving bruises forming beneath the skin.
Blood began to run down his chest, but the Marquis dodged another blow, turning his body and hitting the Count's chin with a dry cross.
A moment of advantage, but soon the Count regained composure, his fists spinning with predatory precision.
The fight swept across the place like a whirlwind of fists. Each blow from the Count seemed to carry supernatural strength — punches, elbows, and knees that sparked stone and metal from Haron's armor, spreading blood and leaving deep marks.
But Haron resisted, dodging and landing counterattacks: a hook to the stomach, an elbow to the shoulder, each impact minimal but enough to test the Count's patience.
A straight hit struck Haron's chest, throwing him a few inches back, crashing against the broken stone.
Pain burned in every muscle, but he rose quickly, supporting himself on the cracked ground, feeling the vibration of the blow's strength.
A superficial cut was forming along the side of his jaw, blood dripping down his chin, but his eyes remained fixed on the enemy, firm and determined.
Even wounded, Haron managed to counterattack, landing a sequence of punches and elbows that scraped the Count's torso and shoulder, making him step back slightly.
Each hit, no matter how small, reinforced his conviction: he would not fall so easily.
The duel had turned into a brutal ballet of hand-to-hand combat, lethal and relentless.
Blood, bruises, and sweat mixed as both tested strength, endurance, and the will not to yield, aware that only one would walk away standing.
Each step, each dodge, and each blow were a deadly dance, marked by the impact of fists and the echo of battle around them.
Haron threw a straight punch, but the Count did not back down. With a calculated move, he twisted the Marquis's wrist and hurled him toward a nearby house.
The impact was immediate and brutal: the structure gave way, wood and stone flying, and Haron was left amid the destruction.
Even in the chaos, Haron managed to stand. Each brutal attack from the Count revealed his strength but also exposed the surprise and distaste of finding resistance there.
The Count walked toward him, the air around his hand beginning to unfold, creating an almost tangible pressure.
He stopped a few meters before Haron, who was still trying to recover, and spoke with threatening calm:
"Why don't you give up, Haron? I have already shown that I am superior."
Haron, breathing deeply, replied firmly, his voice loaded with memories and determination:
"Bharvan… during the war, you were someone important to me. My father sent me to raise your status... When I had already given up, after being abandoned by my family, I met you. After that, I never forgot your words…"
He took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the Count, and continued, with the conviction of one who had found strength in something greater than himself:
'No matter how heavy the world is, nor how lonely you feel now. The courage that brought you here has not been lost.
Even in moments of abandonment, there is someone who believes in you — and, more importantly, you can still believe in yourself. Each step you take now builds the legacy that no one will be able to erase.'
The Count watched, his expression impassive, but his gaze revealed a mix of surprise and contained respect.
For a moment, the physical battle and emotional tension merged — the confrontation was no longer just strength against strength, but determination against domination.
Count Bharvan raised an eyebrow, as if Haron's answer had unveiled a weakness.
Silence weighed between them. For a moment, it seemed that the Count spoke to himself.
"That is the reason for your weakness," he murmured, coldly. "Then you will die because of it."
Before he could strike the final blow, an arrow cut through the air like a deadly whistle, passing between the Count and Haron. The Count stepped back, surprised, and the pressure of that movement opened a gap in the offensive.
Karna was already in motion. At the sound of the arrow, he and two knights appeared like a human wall, surrounding Haron in an instant. Their presence was more than physical protection — it was determination translated into form.
Haron, blood still on his lips, looked at Karna with an expression between surprise and relief.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice heavy, loaded with pain and command.
Karna raised his shoulders, a short and serious smile at the corner of his lips, his gaze fixed on Bharvan.
"Even if you had the chance, you wouldn't kill him. But that doesn't mean he wouldn't kill you. That's why, fall back."
Haron tried to advance, the honor and instinct of a marquis pushing him forward. Karna held his arm firmly but without violence — a hand that said: wait.
"I promised Phoebe that her son would know his father," said Karna, his voice low, loaded with a promise that gave weight to his words. "Remember who awaits you when all this is over. Now go."
Karna took a step forward. Marks began to appear on his skin like ancient ink igniting: dark lines snaked along his forearms, rose to his neck, glowing with a tone that was neither light nor shadow — something between the living and the ancestral. The smile remained, but there was ferocity in it.
"When it comes to dealing with monsters," he said, pointing to the Count's single good eye, "I'm sure I can take at least one." He looked at Haron and continued: "It seems someone has already done half the work. I don't mind finishing it."
Count Bharvan watched the marks, his sharp eyes narrowing. A short and bitter laugh escaped him.
"Those marks…" he said, curious and suspicious at the same time. "I was wondering how someone could shoot such a destructive arrow without even looking. That explains everything."
For a moment, the entire field seemed to hold its breath: Karna, with the signs burning on his skin; Haron, rising against pain and order; Bharvan, assessing the new piece on that board.
The battle had changed tone — from brute strength to something more tactical, where promises, marks, and oaths weighed as much as fists and wounds.
Karna stood at the front, a firm hand on Haron's arm, slightly inclined to protect him, with the posture of one who is ready, if necessary, to bury himself beside him.
"Now," said Karna, low, with an almost smile, "these men wouldn't leave without you. Fall back. The rest… leave it to me."