Harem Master: Seduction System - Chapter 66

Chapter 66: Duel Against Eskil, The Prodigious Martial Talent
 

The grand gates of House Galanis swung open with a groaning creak, revealing a courtyard shrouded in a heavy, unnatural silence. The usual bustle of servants, guards, and daily activity was absent, replaced by an eerie emptiness that set Alaric’s instincts on edge. Beside him, Lyra’s sharp eyes scanned the deserted space, her expression tightening with unease as their carriages rolled into the courtyard.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Alaric murmured, his hand brushing the hilt of his blade.

Lyra nodded, her gaze fixed on the imposing mansion ahead. “Stay sharp. Something’s wrong.”

Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of the mansion burst open, and a group of teenagers, all around Alaric’s age, emerged. They held captive the members of House Galanis—guards, soldiers, servants, and maids—all bound and gagged, their eyes wide with fear. At the forefront of the group stood Eskil, his stance confident and his eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and malice. Beside him was Yvonne, her expression a blend of satisfaction and jealousy.

Behind them, held tightly in ropes, were Cassandra and Fiora. Alaric’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of his aunt and cousin. Cassandra, with her platinum blonde hair cascading down her shoulders and her striking blue eyes, was a vision of mature beauty. Her body was a symphony of curves, her large breasts and curvaceous hips accentuated by the ropes that bound her. Despite her captivity, she exuded an aura of elegance and charm that was impossible to ignore.

Fiora, standing beside her mother, was a younger mirror image of Cassandra. Her long blonde hair and ocean blue eyes were strikingly similar to her mother’s, but her face still held a touch of youthful innocence. Her body, though not as developed as Cassandra’s, was already showing signs of the curvaceous figure she would one day possess. The ropes that bound her only served to highlight her burgeoning beauty, making her appear both vulnerable and alluring.

Eskil and the other martialists from the Lionheart Martial Institute were visibly charmed by the two captives. Their eyes lingered on Cassandra and Fiora, their expressions a mix of admiration and desire. Yvonne, on the other hand, wore a scowl, her jealousy evident in the way she glared at the mother and daughter.

Eskil stepped forward, his grin widening as he gestured toward the captives. “Welcome, Alaric Steele,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “I thought you might not show. I’d hate to think the great heir to the Steele family lacked courage.”

Alaric’s gaze burned into Eskil, his jaw tightening as he resisted the urge to strike the smug expression off the boy’s face. “Let them go, Eskil. Now.”

Eskil’s laugh was low and grating. “You’re in no position to make demands, Alaric. These two”—he nodded toward Cassandra and Fiora—”are my leverage. You play by my rules, or they suffer.”

Fiora’s voice broke through the tense silence, trembling but clear. “Alaric! Aunt Lyra! You came!” Her eyes filled with relief as she took in their presence.

Cassandra’s gaze shifted to Lyra, her tone calm despite the danger. “You shouldn’t have come, Lyra. It’s too dangerous. This isn’t a fight you can win.”

Lyra stepped forward, her expression a mask of cold determination. “Cassandra, you know better than to doubt me. We’ll get you out of this.”

Cassandra shook her head, her eyes darting toward Eskil and Yvonne. “It’s not them you need to worry about. There’s a teacher with them. Asmund. He’s the real threat.”

At that moment, a sharp whistle pierced the air. Alaric barely registered the sound before Lyra moved, faster than anyone could react. She threw herself in front of her son as an arrow shot through the courtyard, its trajectory aimed directly at him. The projectile pierced Lyra’s waist, the force of the impact staggering her as she bit back a cry of pain.

“Mother!” Alaric caught her as she stumbled, lowering her gently to the ground. His hands trembled as he examined the wound, his face a mixture of fear and anger.

Lyra gritted her teeth, her face pale but resolute. “It’s poisoned,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Don’t worry about me. Focus.”

From the shadows of the mansion, a tall figure emerged, his steps slow and deliberate. Asmund, the teacher from the Lionheart Martial Institute, was an imposing sight. His great mace rested casually on his shoulder, the weapon’s spiked head glinting menacingly in the fading light. His cold, calculating eyes swept over the scene, lingering briefly on Lyra before settling on Alaric.

“Asmund, I presume,” Lyra said, her voice tight with pain but her eyes burning with determination. “You fight dirty, I see.”

Asmund smirked, his grip on his mace tightening. “This is war, Lady Steele. And in war, tactics win battles.”

Alaric gently eased his mother into a sitting position, his expression hardening as he rose to face Asmund. “You call this war? Using poison and hostages? That’s not strategy. That’s desperation.”

Asmund chuckled, his voice low and mocking. “Call it what you want, boy. I call it effective.”

Eskil stepped forward, emboldened by his teacher’s presence. “Enough talk. Alaric, you’re here because you owe a debt. The Farrow Family deserves justice, and I’m here to make sure they get it.”

Alaric’s gaze turned icy as he met Eskil’s smug stare. “Justice? Is that what you call this? You’re nothing but a puppet, Eskil. Yvonne’s puppet.”

Yvonne bristled, stepping forward with a sneer. “You don’t know anything, Alaric. You destroyed my family. You think you can get away with that?”

Alaric’s voice dropped to a dangerous low. “Your family destroyed themselves, Yvonne. I simply gave them the push they deserved.”

Eskil stepped forward, his lean frame exuding confidence as his piercing blue eyes locked onto Alaric. The air between them crackled with tension, the weight of unspoken challenges settling over the courtyard. “Enough talk,” Eskil said, his voice loud and clear, cutting through the strained silence. “Alaric Steele, the kingdom’s so-called most prodigious magical talent. I’ve heard tales about you—how you’ve crushed rivals, bent fortune to your will, and claimed glory for your family. But I’ve always wondered: who’s truly superior? The kingdom’s greatest magical talent or its greatest martial talent?”

Alaric’s jaw tightened as he stepped forward, his figure a study in controlled fury. “You’ll regret this, Eskil,” he said, his voice low and cold. “Attacking my family? Threatening innocent lives? You’ve overstepped, and I’ll make sure you pay for it.”

Before Eskil could respond, Lyra, despite the poison coursing through her veins, surged forward. Her sword gleamed in the dimming sunlight, a flash of deadly intent as she lunged directly at Eskil. Her movements, while hindered by the venom, were swift and precise.

The air seemed to tremble as steel met steel—not Eskil’s, but Asmund’s. The older man intercepted Lyra’s strike effortlessly, his great mace meeting her blade with a deafening clash that echoed across the courtyard. Sparks flew as their weapons collided, and Asmund’s smirk widened. “Not so fast, Lady Steele,” he said, his voice calm but laden with menace. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Lyra’s eyes burned with determination as she held her ground, her grip steady despite the strain. “You think you can stop me?” she snapped, her voice steady despite her labored breathing. She pressed forward, her blade flashing in a series of intricate strikes, but Asmund was relentless. He countered each blow with calculated precision, his mace a blur of deadly power.

Asmund sneered as he forced Lyra back, his strikes gaining in intensity. “You’ve still got fire, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice a low growl. “But even fire dies eventually.”

“Not before it burns you,” Lyra shot back, parrying a devastating overhead strike with a grunt of effort.

“Thunderclap Strike!” Asmund roared suddenly, his mace descending with the force of a falling star. Lyra barely deflected the blow, her arms trembling under the sheer power of the impact. She staggered but quickly recovered, her blade moving in a sweeping arc.

“Crescent Moon Slash!” she countered, her sword slicing through the air in a brilliant silver arc aimed at Asmund’s chest. He sidestepped with practiced ease, his mace swinging upward in a calculated strike that forced her to retreat.

The ground trembled as Asmund slammed his mace into the earth. “Earthshatter!” he bellowed, the force of his attack sending a ripple of raw energy surging outward. Lyra leapt back, her body twisting in midair to avoid the shockwave. She landed gracefully but winced, the poison clearly taking its toll.

“You’re strong, Asmund,” Lyra admitted between ragged breaths, her sword steady despite her weakened state. “But strength alone won’t be enough.”

Asmund chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “Neither will defiance, Lady Steele. The poison in your veins will do my work for me. It’s only a matter of time.”

Meanwhile, Eskil, standing a few paces away, hadn’t taken his eyes off Alaric. The two faced each other like opposing storm clouds ready to collide, their auras clashing invisibly in the space between them. Eskil’s smirk widened as he finally broke the silence. “Your mother’s impressive,” he said, gesturing toward the ongoing battle. “But she’s fighting a losing battle. I wonder, Alaric, will you be any different?”

Alaric didn’t take the bait. His eyes remained fixed on Eskil, his posture relaxed yet poised, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. “You talk too much,” he said coolly. “If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, stop wasting my time.”

Eskil smirked, taking a slow step forward. “A duel. You and me, one-on-one. If you win, I’ll release everyone here—your aunt, your cousin, the servants, all of them. Unharmed.” His smile widened, his confidence palpable. “But if you lose, you’ll cede everything the Steele Family took from the Farrow Family, along with a little extra. A few territories, some assets, enough to make things interesting. And if you refuse…” He trailed off, gesturing casually toward the bound captives. “Well, I think you can guess what happens next.”

For a moment, silence reigned. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath as Alaric considered his options. His gaze flicked to Cassandra and Fiora, their expressions a mixture of hope and fear. He glanced at his mother, who fought valiantly against Asmund despite her injury. Then, he met Eskil’s eyes, his expression hardening into one of cold determination.

“You want a duel?” Alaric said, stepping forward. “Fine. But let me make one thing clear—you’ve already lost. It doesn’t matter if it’s a duel, a brawl, or an ambush with all your lackeys. I’ll show you the difference between us.”

Eskil’s smirk turned into a grin, his hands flexing as he prepared for battle. “Then let’s not waste any more time. Show me what you’ve got, Steele.”

A sudden surge of magical energy rippled around Alaric, a visible aura that made the air crackle with raw power. His body seemed to radiate a quiet menace, the intensity of his presence making the onlookers step back instinctively. Across from him, Eskil took a step forward, unfazed—or at least trying to appear that way. A faint, shimmering Battle Aura enveloped him, its golden glow signaling a significant mastery of martial energy. Alaric’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly. Battle Aura? That was a skill reserved for Master Martialists and above. Eskil wasn’t at that level—at least not yet—but the display hinted at some unusual martial physique.

Still, Alaric felt no intimidation. If anything, it made this battle more interesting.

Eskil smirked, clearly interpreting Alaric’s scrutiny as hesitation. “Surprised? Didn’t think you’d meet someone like me, did you? This is your last chance to surrender, Alaric. Otherwise, I’ll show everyone why martial strength trumps magic every time.”

Alaric’s response was a quiet murmur, the words slipping from his lips like a spell’s incantation. “Strength of the Ox,” he whispered, his body suddenly bulking with enhanced muscle. “Agility of the Lynx,” he added, his movements growing smoother, faster. “Endurance of the Bear.” His stance became unyielding, as if rooted to the ground.

Eskil’s smirk faltered. This wasn’t hesitation. It was preparation.

Alaric drew two wickedly sharp daggers from his belt, their steel catching the sunlight with a lethal gleam. He spun them once, testing their balance, before stepping forward. Eskil unsheathed his own blade, a longsword etched with faint runes, its edge polished to a mirror shine.

The two stood still for a moment, the air between them humming with tension.

Then Alaric moved.

He was a blur, his daggers slicing through the air in precise arcs. Eskil barely managed to parry the first strike, their weapons clashing in a burst of sparks. Alaric pressed his advantage, his speed and agility forcing Eskil to retreat. The sound of clashing steel echoed through the courtyard, each blow a testament to their skill.

“You’re fast,” Eskil admitted, grunting as he blocked a particularly sharp strike. “Faster than I expected.”

“And you’re slow,” Alaric replied smoothly, his voice as cold as the edge of his blades.

Eskil’s jaw tightened. He swung his sword in a powerful arc, aiming to force Alaric back, but the mage twisted away with inhuman speed. Before Eskil could recover, Alaric struck again, his daggers aiming for gaps in Eskil’s armor. The martialist barely managed to deflect the blows, his expression growing more frustrated by the second.

“Flame Burst!” Alaric shouted, a ball of fire materializing in his hand. He hurled it with precision, the flames roaring as they streaked toward Eskil. The martialist slashed through the fireball with a single swing of his blade, the flames dissipating harmlessly.

Eskil smirked, confidence returning. “Is that all your magic can do? Parlor tricks?”

Alaric didn’t respond. Instead, he conjured a spear of ice, the tip glinting menacingly. “Ice Lance,” he intoned, launching the weapon with a flick of his wrist. It sped toward Eskil, its trajectory sharp and unerring. Eskil dodged, twisting his body with a dancer’s grace, but the lance’s razor-sharp tip nicked his shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.

Eskil hissed, his hand darting to the wound. “Lucky shot,” he muttered, though his expression betrayed a flicker of unease.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Alaric replied, his tone calm and measured. Without missing a beat, he raised his hand again. “Water Whip.” A tendril of water snaked out, coiling around Eskil’s sword arm with startling speed.

Eskil grunted, his movements hindered as he struggled against the whip’s grasp. With a roar, he swung his blade, shattering the water construct with brute force. “You think cheap tricks will stop me?” he snarled.

Alaric didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He was already moving again, his daggers flashing as he closed the distance. Eskil barely managed to block the flurry of strikes, his arms straining against the relentless assault. The martialist’s friends, watching from the sidelines, began to exchange uneasy glances.

“This isn’t how I thought it’d go,” one of them muttered.

Yvonne, her arms crossed tightly, watched in growing disbelief. She had always seen Eskil as invincible, a paragon of martial strength. But now, for the first time, cracks were showing in that image. “He’s just a mage,” she whispered, as if trying to convince herself. “How is he keeping up?”

Back on the battlefield, Eskil attempted to regain control. “Whirlwind Slash!” he bellowed, spinning his blade in a deadly arc. Alaric leapt back, his daggers clashing against the blade’s edge just long enough to redirect its path. Sparks flew as the weapons met, the force of the impact reverberating through the courtyard.

“You’re putting on a good show,” Alaric said, his voice almost conversational. “But it’s not enough.”

Eskil’s expression darkened. “Let’s see you handle this, then.” He surged forward, his sword a blur as he unleashed a flurry of rapid strikes. Alaric moved like liquid, dodging and parrying with a fluidity that left Eskil visibly frustrated.

Then, with a single word, Alaric changed the momentum of the fight. “Firestorm.”

Flames erupted from the ground, surrounding Eskil in a raging inferno. The martialist’s Battle Aura flared, protecting him from the worst of the heat, but even he couldn’t completely escape the flames’ wrath. He slashed wildly, carving a path through the fire, but when the blaze subsided, his armor was scorched, and his breathing had grown heavier.

“Getting tired?” Alaric asked, his tone laced with mockery.

Eskil didn’t reply. Instead, he charged, his sword raised for a powerful overhead strike. Alaric sidestepped effortlessly, his dagger flashing out to slice a shallow line across Eskil’s side. The martialist stumbled, clutching at the wound, his expression a mix of pain and disbelief.

“Blizzard,” Alaric intoned, his voice calm. A howling storm of ice and snow descended upon the battlefield, the cold biting into Eskil’s skin. The martialist fought through it, his sword cutting through the icy tendrils, but his movements were slowing.

“Enough!” Eskil roared, desperation creeping into his voice. He swung his blade in a wide arc, forcing Alaric to backpedal. “I’ll end this now!”

“You’ve already lost,” Alaric said simply. His hand rose, summoning a massive wave of water that loomed over Eskil like a tidal force of nature. “Tidal Wave.”

The wave crashed down, slamming into Eskil with bone-jarring force. He was sent sprawling, his sword slipping from his grasp as he landed hard on the stone courtyard. Gasping for breath, he struggled to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him.

From the sidelines, Eskil’s friends looked on in stunned silence. Even Yvonne seemed at a loss for words, her confidence in Eskil’s victory shattered.

“How is this possible?” one of them murmured.

“Because,” Yvonne said bitterly, her eyes fixed on Alaric, “he’s not just a mage. He’s a monster.”

Eskil staggered backward, his breathing ragged, his body battered from the relentless onslaught. Blood dripped from numerous cuts and scrapes, but as Alaric advanced, Eskil’s eyes sharpened with an unyielding fire. He planted his sword into the ground, gripping its hilt with trembling hands. For a fleeting moment, it seemed like he was about to falter. Then, as if some hidden reservoir of power had been unleashed, an intense battle aura erupted from him, crackling like lightning and pulsating with an unrelenting rhythm.

The air around Eskil shimmered, and his wounds began to close before Alaric’s very eyes. The deep gashes stitched themselves together as if time itself had bent to his will, leaving only faint scars behind. Eskil straightened, his once-weary frame now radiating strength and vitality. The fierce glow of his aura lit up the dimming courtyard like a second sun.

Alaric’s sharp gaze narrowed. He twirled the daggers in his hands, their edges gleaming ominously. “So, that’s your little trick,” he remarked, his tone calm but laced with intrigue. “I was wondering when you’d pull it out. Makes things interesting.”

Eskil’s lips curled into a smirk, his voice brimming with newfound confidence. “Interesting? You’ve yet to see what I’m truly capable of.”

Alaric crouched slightly, his daggers poised like the fangs of a viper ready to strike. “We’ll see who’s still standing by the end of this.” He darted forward, his movements sharp and precise, aiming for Eskil’s throat with a lightning-quick strike.

Eskil met him head-on, his sword flashing as it parried the attack. Sparks erupted from their clash, the sound of metal on metal reverberating through the courtyard. The duel intensified, their weapons a blur as they exchanged blows. Eskil’s recovered strength allowed him to match Alaric’s speed, his sword cutting through the air with deadly precision.

“You’ve improved,” Alaric admitted mid-combat, his voice slightly strained. He spun away from a vicious swing, countering with a rapid flurry of strikes aimed at Eskil’s midsection. “But don’t think for a second that it’s enough to beat me.”

Eskil sidestepped the assault, his movements fluid and calculated. “Improved?” he shot back, his tone teasing. “You’re flattering yourself if you think I needed to improve just to deal with you.”

Their battle was a storm of clashing steel and deadly footwork, each strike carrying the weight of their determination. Despite their skill and resilience, exhaustion began to creep in, their movements slowing as their breaths turned ragged. Yet neither showed any sign of backing down. Their eyes burned with the fire of unbroken wills.

Meanwhile, across the courtyard, Lyra’s clash with Asmund was no less intense. Her breathing was labored, and beads of sweat dripped from her brow, mingling with the blood on her face. The poison in her veins gnawed at her strength, but her grip on her sword remained firm. Her eyes, bright with defiance, locked onto Asmund’s massive form as he loomed before her, his mace resting lightly in his grasp.

“You’re slowing down,” Asmund taunted, his voice a low rumble. He hefted his mace, its head crackling with golden energy. “The poison’s doing its job. Why don’t you lay down your sword and save yourself the trouble?”

Lyra tightened her grip, her knuckles whitening. “You talk too much.” She lunged, her sword slicing through the air in a graceful arc.

Asmund swung his mace upward to block her attack. The force of the collision sent shockwaves rippling through the air, scattering dust and leaves across the courtyard. He grinned, his teeth glinting in the golden light of the setting sun. “Still got some fight in you, huh? Good. I’d hate for this to be over too quickly.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lyra snapped, her voice strained but unyielding. She twisted her blade, disengaging and darting backward to regain her footing. Her breaths came quick and shallow, but her stance was as steady as ever.

Asmund let out a booming laugh. “That’s the spirit! Let’s see how long you can keep it up.” He raised his mace high, the golden energy around it intensifying until it was almost blinding. “Heavenly Strike!” he bellowed, bringing the weapon down with devastating force.

Lyra’s eyes widened, but she didn’t flinch. With a shout, she raised her sword to meet the blow. The impact sent a shockwave through her arms, rattling her bones, but she held firm. Her feet dug into the ground, her body trembling with the effort.

“Not bad,” Asmund admitted, a flicker of respect in his eyes. “But can you keep this up?”

Lyra didn’t answer. Instead, she pushed off the ground, her sword flashing as she launched herself into a counterattack. “Eclipsing Moon Strike!” she cried, her blade arcing through the air like a crescent of silver light.

Asmund sidestepped the attack with surprising agility for a man of his size. He swung his mace in a wide arc, forcing Lyra to duck and roll away to avoid being crushed. She came up on one knee, panting heavily, her sword held defensively before her.

“You’re tough, I’ll give you that,” Asmund said, his voice almost admiring. “But tough only gets you so far. Sooner or later, you’re going to break.”

“Not before you do,” Lyra retorted, forcing herself to her feet. Her body screamed in protest, the poison sapping her strength, but she ignored the pain. She couldn’t afford to falter.

The two combatants clashed again, their weapons ringing out with every strike. Despite her waning strength, Lyra fought with the precision and determination of a seasoned warrior. Every movement was calculated, every strike a testament to her skill and resolve.

Back on the other side of the courtyard, Alaric and Eskil’s duel had reached a fever pitch. Their movements were slower now, their strikes less frequent but no less deadly. Alaric’s daggers flashed as he lunged at Eskil, aiming for a weak point in his defense.

Eskil twisted to the side, his sword deflecting the attack with a sharp clang. He countered with a powerful swing aimed at Alaric’s midsection, forcing the latter to leap back. They paused for a moment, both breathing heavily, their eyes locked in an unspoken challenge.

“You’re stubborn,” Alaric said, his voice tinged with frustration. “I’ll give you that.”

“Stubbornness has nothing to do with it,” Eskil replied, his tone firm. “I have something worth fighting for. I won’t lose…Definitely not to you.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. But he quickly shook it off, a sly grin spreading across his lips. “You talk too much.” He darted forward again, his daggers a blur as he resumed his assault.

The battles raged on, the courtyard of House Galanis alive with the sounds of clashing steel and the cries of the combatants. The air was thick with tension, every movement a dance of violence and skill. Despite the setting sun casting a golden glow over the scene, the atmosphere was anything but serene.

As the fights wore on, it became clear that both sides were evenly matched.

Eskil and Alaric, their bodies drenched in sweat and their movements growing sluggish, continued to clash with unrelenting ferocity.

Lyra and Asmund, their bodies trembling with the effort, fought on with the determination of warriors who refused to yield.

The outcome of the duels remained uncertain, the fate of House Galanis and the Steele Family hanging precariously in the balance. Yet even as exhaustion took its toll, the combatants showed no signs of giving up. Their determination burned brighter than ever, their wills unbroken as they fought for what they believed in.

The courtyard was alive with the sounds of their struggle, every clash of steel and every cry of defiance a testament to their unwavering resolve. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the battlefield in twilight, the warriors continued their dance of death, each determined to emerge victorious.