Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee

Freya’s rapier is too light in my hand.

Not weak. Light. There’s a difference.

Eventide carries weight even when the blade isn’t active, as if the hilt held a bad promise inside it. The rapier doesn’t. The grip is narrow, the balance pulled toward the point, and the thin blade seems made to find openings rather than force a path. It’s a weapon of patience, arrogance, and a steady wrist.

I look at Kellan Rook across the arena.

He’s still smiling.

That’s what irritates me. Not the insult itself. I’ve heard worse things in worse alleys, said by people who died without learning to pronounce my name. The problem is the distance between his mouth and reality. Rhayne just took an arrow to the lung, nearly swallowed the whole plaza with Void Monarch, and woke up in my lap apologizing for something she didn’t even remember. Kellan looked at that and decided to call it theater.

I could pretend it didn’t land in me, but I’d be lying to myself.

Kellan points at the rapier with his chin. "You’re fighting with that?"

"Freya started against Veric with a rapier too," I say, testing the blade’s flex with a short flick of the wrist. "She only switched when he proved himself worthy."

His smile loses some of its symmetry. "You saying I’m not?"

"I’m saying you haven’t proven anything yet but the existence of your mouth."

Veric lets out a low sound that could have been a cough, a laugh, or pain. Oliver doesn’t bother hiding his and gives a hearty bark of laughter.

Kellan steps into the circle. "Then stop talking and write the contract."

"Sure."

I pull another piece of leather from my inventory, kneel near the fountain with the rapier resting on my shoulder, and start writing.

Dryden Sands.

I stop and look at him. "Surname?"

His jaw works once. "Rook."

Kellan Rook. I already knew his surname. I only pretended I didn’t.

I write slowly, just unhurried enough to irritate him more. Then I raise the leather. "How about one percent?"

The reaction comes out better than I expected. Kellan stays frozen for a second, as if the sentence took a while to process. Then his face darkens. His shoulders rise. He’s visibly offended. He didn’t hear caution in my offer. He heard a verdict.

"One?"

"It’s training."

"Veric bet two. Rhayne bet four."

"Veric fought Freya. Rhayne nearly killed Mira after taking an arrow to the lung." I drop my eyes to the leather again. "You called that theater."

The air goes drier around him.

I look at the others. "You’re all witnesses. I was trying to be fair."

That irritates Kellan more than if I’d spat on him. He advances half a step, stopping before the real edge of the circle. "Four."

I tilt my head. "Are you sure?"

"Four percent."

"Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

"Write it."

So I do.

[Experience wagered: 4%.]

The Nomine Gladiatus rune closes around the names, and the leather seems to breathe once before darkening at the edges.

"Judge," I say, looking at Freya. "Do you accept?"

Freya doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze passes over Kellan first. No affection in it. No protection. Only a cold question he’s probably too proud to understand. Then she looks at me and gives a short nod.

No objection. No support. It’s the most she can give without spitting on her own side.

Kellan sets his Diver Mark. I set mine.

[Nomine Gladiatus started.]

[Wager: 4% experience.]

The circle accepts.

Kellan smiles again when the gauntlets appear. They don’t arrive finished. They assemble. First the fittings come at the forearms, black pieces and dark rust closing over the skin with metallic clicks. Then larger plates slide from his inventory like parts called by a magnet, covering the backs of the hands, the knuckles, the wrists. Each piece locks into the last, expanding the silhouette of his arms until his hands look too big for his body. There are small openings near the elbows and behind the wrists, narrow metal mouths where OXI starts to burn in bluish light.

It isn’t armor. It’s an engine.

Kellan knocks one fist against the other. The impact makes the air shake. "Last chance to draw your real sword."

I adjust the rapier, testing the edge against my finger and drawing a single bead of blood. "Oops. This one’s real too."

Freya raises her hand. "Begin."

Kellan comes like a door torn off its wall.

The jets in the gauntlets spit OXI behind his elbows and drive the first advance. It isn’t only leg strength. His torso is pushed along with it, shoulders forward, right fist loaded near the rib, ready to fire at the end of the entry. If I retreat in a straight line, the second jet catches me. If I block, the rapier becomes broken decoration.

So I do neither.

I take a short step left, not long enough to look like flight, just enough to take my sternum out of the fist’s path. The gauntlet passes where my chest was, and the wind of the blow pulls at my armor. Before his arm finishes extending, I touch the rapier’s point to the inside of his elbow, right in the gap between two plates.

It doesn’t go deep. It doesn’t need to.

Kellan blows past me, brakes with his feet tearing dirt, and spins his body back with anger on his face. A red dot appears on his elbow.

"Was that—?"

"A reminder."

He comes again, lower this time, using the left fist as a ram against my ribs. The forearm jet lights late, mid-motion, raising the speed past the point where any normal fighter would have timed the punch. Good trick. It would have broken my ribs if I’d trusted the opening rhythm.

But the OXI burn makes noise. A short whistle, half a second before the acceleration. The same whistle from Oliver’s hammer that I’ve seen so many times.

I turn the rapier’s grip and tap the blade flat against the gauntlet, not to deflect the whole blow but to tilt his fist a few centimeters. At the same time, I retreat on my right foot and let the punch pass shaving the front of my body. The gauntlet hits air with enough force to show me how stupid it would be to try to win this on pride.

When his arm runs out, I enter. The rapier’s point touches his cheek. A thin line opens below his eye.

Kellan stops. Blood runs to his jaw. "You’re playing with me."

"Not at all." I lower the blade. "I’m teaching. This training is for learning, isn’t it?"

His face changes. Not to fear. To something more useful. Humiliation starting to rot into focus.

He doesn’t shout this time. The gauntlets open small latches near the wrists. The blue glow grows, and the air behind his arms begins to distort with the heat of burned OXI. Kellan lowers his stance, spreads his feet, and lets his fists loosen. Less bull. More fighter.

Freya notices too. Her gaze turns a little less irritated.

Kellan breathes deep.

This time, when he advances, the first step is a feint. He fakes coming from the right, lights the left arm’s jet, and turns his shoulder into the entry. The fist I expected to swing wide, like a cross, comes inside instead, short, fast, and ugly, like a jab aimed at my chest.

Too late to clear it clean. I pull the rapier to the center, trying to deflect, but the edge of the gauntlet catches my forearm. Not a full hit. Even so, the pain climbs to my shoulder, and my fingers nearly open.

Kellan sees it. His smile returns, smaller and better. "Now you teach up close."

He slams both gauntlets into the ground. The jets light at the same time. The dirt between us explodes backward as he charges again.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!