The other side might not even know Rexi carried an Authority Power, a blade sheathed under silk.

This time Rexi leapt out with a crisp “She’s mine,” like a bell through fog, and smashed their plan like a stone on a chessboard.

They’d clearly come for Lucimia at first, like hawks circling one prey. The Duel terms were set by Lucimia, yet they’d likely prepped a whole haggle, like hidden knots in a rope.

They’d poke at loopholes, then cry “fairness,” forbidding Authority Powers or something else, like nets thrown over a river.

So when Rexi stepped out, it didn’t hand Lucimia intel on the challenger’s loopholes. It handed her intel on the defender’s tricks instead, and swept aside a trap laid in the reeds.

Lucimia even had Rexi order a few more drinks, then slipped behind the bar like a cat in the dusk, and poured every cup into her Storage Ring.

Of course, she left gold coins, like pebbles on a path, to pay for the loss.

That let her confirm one thing: a Duel can be cheated, unless the rules nail every board into place.

Amusement flickered in Lucimia like lantern-light; she watched Ron to see which card he’d pull.

He was a local who knew the rule-gaps like alleys in his own town. He’d have a counterplan, and Lucimia wanted to watch and steal the craft like a magpie.

Ron lifted a cup, face tight as a drawn bow, and downed it.

“Six points,” he said.

At the same time, Lucimia felt a faint ripple of magic, like a fish under still water.

It came from Ron, so faint you’d miss it unless your control and senses were needles, not nets.

As expected, she thought, he’s cheating too, like a fox under snow.

She sensed Ron, while drinking, used magic to break down the alcohol, like fire eating frost. That would keep him sober till his mana ran dry.

No wonder he hadn’t banned magic in the Duel rules, a door left ajar in plain sight.

But there was a flaw. His magic only broke down alcohol. The liquid still filled the belly, like rain filling a gourd.

Sure, he could burn mana to speed digestion, like fanning coals, but that would spend mana faster.

And speed isn’t instant. There’s always a threshold, like a dam’s lip.

Rexi wasn’t bound by that. The Devouring on her swallowed the drink whole, like night swallowing dew. Rexi barely drank at all; she only tasted.

The Fuzzy Orb did the real drinking, like a bottomless well with a grin.

“Six points.” Rexi finished her second cup, voice light as breeze on bamboo.

“Nine points.” Ron finished his third, jaw set like stone.

They kept drinking without a pause, cups rising and falling like tides, and the crowd’s surprise swelled like thunder.

“Gods, these two can drink?”

“Now the guy’s met his match. He wanted home-field advantage, but hit an iron wall.”

“Brilliant.”

Patrons drank and tore meat, oil shining like dusk on the river, while watching the Duel.

“Twelve points.”

“Fifteen points.”

“Eighteen points.”

“Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“…”

They drank on, counting like drumbeats.

Ron felt no magic from Rexi, like a pond with no ripples. He thought his alcohol-break and digestion-speed would carry him, yet she looked untouched, not a thread of drunkenness.

She even smacked her lips, and muttered, “Pretty good,” “Good thing I’m not paying,” “Drink without worry,” like teasing rain on a tin roof.

It filled Ron with smoke and fire.

Worse, he noticed the girl had drunk this much and never showed a need for the restroom, calm as a pine in wind.

He, by contrast, hit his digestion threshold. He couldn’t spend more mana there. He had to save it for alcohol breakdown, and pressure built like a swollen stream.

Catching that, Ron realized Rexi was just like him—in her own way—cheating under the lantern’s shadow.

“All done. Your turn.” Rexi set her cup down and looked at him, eyes clear as winter water.

Ron’s face went dark, storm on the horizon. He didn’t drink at once. “Excuse me,” he said. “Restroom.”

He slid off the chair, took two steps, then turned back. “The rules didn’t say it’s not allowed.”

“Sure.” Rexi spread her hands, carefree as a gull.

—

Ron reached the restroom and splashed his face with tap water, cold knives waking his skin. His expression stayed heavy, like lead in a pouch.

Looks like Teacher was right, he thought, these two aren’t simple. Panic pricked, then steadied, like a hand on the helm. I need a way out. I can’t keep drinking like this. The barrel’s running low. My mana can carry me to the bottom, but I’ve got fewer cups than her.

What now…

He sank into thought, like a stone in a well.

After a long moment, he stepped out and returned to the bar, perching on the high stool like a perched hawk.

“I didn’t drink while you were gone,” Rexi said, palm open like a clear sky. “No rule broken.”

Ron ignored her and picked up the cup. He didn’t drink. He hesitated, a knife hovering over fruit.

“What’s wrong? Can’t drink? Just surrender,” Rexi said, words like a playful jab.

Ron glanced at Rexi, stayed silent, then turned to the crowd.

Patrons held cups and talked over plates of meat, steam rising like morning mist.

Ron narrowed his eyes, focusing on the cups in their hands, like a wolf eying lambs.

The tavern had no cups left. But the patrons still had cups, didn’t they?

A spark lit in him, quick as flint.

From a distance, Lucimia saw his gaze, followed it like an archer tracks wind, and guessed his next move.

“Everyone! Everyone! Hear me out!” Ron stood and shouted. The noisy hall fell quiet, like surf sucked back from shore.

“Fifty silver coins for your cup. Deal?”

“Uh…” People hesitated, like leaves in a crosswind. They knew what he was angling for.

“Fifty silvers, folks. How much drink does that buy you?”

“…I’ll trade.” A patron stood, handed over his cup, and held out a hand. “Money.”

Ron didn’t dither. He slapped fifty silvers into his palm, coins chiming like rain.

“Anyone else?” he called.

No one stood.

Ron’s earlier swagger had soured hearts, like wine turned vinegar. Deep down, people wanted Rexi to win. They knew handing over cups would tilt the scales to Ron.

Then a big man rumbled, “One gold coin, and I’ll trade.”

“One gold? Why don’t you rob me?” Ron’s face tightened. He had money, but not that much. A gold coin still bit deep, like winter.

“Then that’s that.” The big man shrugged and drank, calm as a boulder in a stream.

Ron fell silent, thoughts circling like crows.

A moment passed.

He exhaled. “Hoo.” Breath fogged like smoke.

Next heartbeat, he shouted at the crowd, voice like a blade striking iron. “Duel!”

The noise snapped to silence again, shock rolling over faces like a cold wave.

“What the hell are you doing?!” the big man barked, anger flaring like firewood catching.

“I’m Duelling you,” Ron said. As his words fell, a longsword sigil lit on the back of his hand, bright as frost.

Every patron holding a cup got dragged into the Duel, their hand-backs blooming with the same longsword light, a field of cold stars.