Ata shot Dean a sidelong glance, a disdainful smirk curling at the corner of her lips. She shook her head and turned to Bak. "Seems this matter is beyond me. By the way—did you hear any noise just now?"

Bak gave Dean an apologetic smile before replying to Ata, "No, my lady."

"Then let’s go. I’d still like to see more of this city’s sights." Ata strode toward the marketplace without sparing Dean another look, Bak falling into step behind her with practiced ease.

"Your Highness, don’t let pride cloud your judgment," Dean called after them, his voice low and tight with disapproval.

Ata halted as soldiers swiftly encircled them. Her delicate brows arched. "Dean, are you planning to abduct a common girl in broad daylight?"

"You are no common girl, Your Highness." Dean stepped squarely before them, arm outstretched. "Please come with me."

"Bak," Dean began, only to be cut off as Bak’s sword slid smoothly from its sheath. The knight twirled the blade, its edge glinting. "Shall we test our steel?"

Dean stared, stunned. "Bak, what are you—"

"We haven’t crossed blades since the Windwild Campaign," Bak murmured, tracing a finger along the sword’s edge while locking eyes with Dean. "Years have passed. We’ve both earned the title of Royal Court Knight, shed our old skins... but do you still remember the vows we swore back then?"

Dean’s expression hardened into calm resolve. A matching smile touched his lips as he drew his own sword, gripping it firmly before him. "Years, indeed. I’ve heard tales of your deeds. Often thought of sharing a drink, but feared silence between old friends. Duty kept us apart. A pity."

"Recall our drinking rule?" Bak asked.

"Of course," Dean lifted his chin. "The loser pays. If you win this duel, I’ll never question the princess’s whereabouts again. If I win—you help me escort her back."

Bak nodded. "Then begin. My lady, step back. For your safety."

Ata gave a small, approving nod—no displeasure at Bak’s unsanctioned challenge. "I have a bottle of hundred-year-old Yulong Saliva wine," she added softly. "Yours, if victory is yours." At Bak’s confident glance, a faint smile played on her lips as she glided gracefully to the edge of the crowd.

The onlookers buzzed with renewed excitement. They’d missed the tense exchange, but another chance to witness knights clash was thrilling enough.

"Huh? That Bak guy challenged him first?" Mushiyu’s eyes widened. "Doesn’t he know his opponent’s a Royal Court Knight?"

Grace’s gaze lingered on Ata standing calmly at the sidelines. "That girl... her status isn’t ordinary," she murmured.

"Ata?" Mushiyu followed her gaze—and locked eyes with Ata across the square. Both froze for a split second in mutual surprise before Ata offered a gentle smile. Mushiyu managed a stiff, awkward grin in return.

*Clang!*

The sharp ring of steel on steel snapped Mushiyu’s attention back. Dean and Bak were already locked in combat.

One glance told her everything: relentless pace, lethal precision. Compared to this, the minotaur fight had been a leisurely stroll. Bak’s strength was undeniable.

Dean lunged with a downward slash; Bak deflected it with a twist of his wrist and countered with a horizontal sweep. Dean blocked instantly—but at the clash of blades, he twisted his stance, turning defense into offense mid-motion.

Attack and defense blurred into seamless rhythm. No clear advantage held for more than a breath. To them, there was only offense.

Dodge. Parry. Retreat.

Advance. Slash. Press.

Six exchanges flickered in a single heartbeat.

To Mushiyu, their movements left afterimages. The clatter of steel blurred into a continuous roar. Dust swirled around them, lifting stray hairs at their temples.

Breath caught in throats. The crowd leaned forward, eyes unblinking—afraid to miss a single heartbeat of the duel. (Though for Mushiyu and the onlookers, blinking or not made little difference; the duelists were simply too fast.)

"Grace—who’s winning?" Mushiyu whispered urgently.

"Evenly matched," Grace replied.

From her vantage point, their forms mirrored each other perfectly. Every block, dodge, and counterstrike flowed like a rehearsed dance—precision honed by years of shared battles. Only twins sharing a soul, or warriors tempered together, could move with such instinctive synchrony.

But this couldn’t last forever.

Abruptly, the rhythm shattered. Grace watched, intrigued, as Dean’s movements faltered—as if his connection to Bak had snapped. Bak pressed his advantage, a flurry of strikes driving Dean back. The stalemate broke with a discordant *crack*. One sword spun through the air, embedding itself in the city wall with a *thud*. It trembled there, humming like the final note of a symphony.

Silence swallowed the square.

Bak sheathed his sword, retrieved Dean’s blade from the wall, and offered it hilt-first. "It seems I win this round."

Dean took the sword, his face unreadable. "You’ve chosen a different path."

"I follow my heart. Now—honor our agreement."

Dean turned his back. "Go. I won’t interfere further."

"My thanks. Next time we meet, I’ll treat you to the finest tavern in Zangwill."

A faint smile touched Dean’s lips. "I’ll be waiting."