Chapter 775

Chapter 775
A heavy, awkward quiet filled the air.
Grondal, whose face was reddening as he prepared to bellow, managed to restrain himself. Based on what he had witnessed, this young man possessed a temperament and a level of prowess that were far from ordinary.
Instead, Grondal forced a polite smile, even though a muscle in his cheek gave a slight, involuntary twitch.
He adopted a placating tone, as if trying to calm a restless animal.
“I wasn’t suggesting you surrender it this instant. Simply bring it out for a moment. I want us to discuss the specifics of how you came to possess it. Furthermore, I need to verify if that blade is truly Gramdir.”
Items stored within a subspace cannot be seized by force. To take such a prize, one would have to overwhelm the owner and then employ mages to unravel their mind. Dealing with a warrior of this caliber made such a feat practically impossible. You would have to keep him imprisoned for months, and the situation would inevitably spiral toward a lethal end.
Hearing Grondal’s request, Ghislain turned his head slightly and let out a sharp, mocking sound.
“Hmph.”
It was painfully obvious that the Dwarf was trying to lure him into revealing Gramdir. The second the blade appeared, the steel would start flying. If nothing else, this Dwarf King was clearly the type to let his blood boil over.
However, Grondal was even more impulsive than Ghislain had originally calculated.
Seeing that Ghislain had no intention of complying, the King decided a display of power was necessary.
Boom!
Grondal hoisted his massive halberd, his voice dropping into a low growl.
“If you refuse to show me Gramdir this second, then I shall let my weapon do the talking.”
Gratitude for his help was a separate matter entirely. Grondal intended to secure Gramdir first; they could exchange pleasantries afterward.
“Pardon?”
Ghislain looked genuinely stunned by the sudden surge of hostile energy coming from Grondal. Yet, even in his confusion, he reached out and casually gripped his staff.
“Oh, is that how it’s going to be?”
Grondal let out a short, incredulous laugh and dropped into a combat stance. Ghislain followed suit, naturally shifting his weight for battle.
Just as the two were on the verge of clashing, Lionel darted between them.
As the only member of the group with a firm grasp of social decorum, Lionel had fallen into the role of the perpetual mediator whenever things turned sour.
“Wait, I believe there is a massive misunderstanding here. That weapon was obtained through entirely legitimate means.”
“Legitimate? How do you legitimately acquire the property of another? I certainly didn’t hand it over!”
“Well, when our travels took us to the trade city…”
Lionel began a series of animated gestures, recounting the tale of exactly how Ghislain had come to own Gramdir.
By the end of the explanation, Grondal looked utterly flabbergasted.
“You actually expect me to buy that?”
“…”
“You’re claiming you won a legendary treasure—one locked away in the deepest part of the royal treasury—on a ridiculous wager? That is preposterous!”
A fiery personality usually came paired with a short fuse. People with such temperaments rarely bothered with logic or calm reflection.
His mind was now consumed by a single objective: reclaiming Gramdir by any means necessary.
“Listen! Stop feeding me lies—if you want it, come and take it! If you win, it’s yours. Isn’t that the simplest solution?”
Ghislain rubbed his cheek. While that was indeed the most straightforward and preferable method for him, he felt a twinge of guilt about brawling with an elder who had just fought alongside him.
However, his hesitation only served to further provoke Grondal.
“What? Why that look? Are you actually pitying me right now?”
“Well… not exactly.”
“Cut the nonsense! I saw you on the battlefield! You aren’t the type of warrior to pull your punches, are you?”
“It just feels a bit inappropriate to start a fight while I’m here as a guest…”
He didn’t voice the thought, *How can I just beat up a king?* Ghislain possessed at least that much social awareness.
His comrades were visibly shocked by this rare display of patience. Usually, he was the first to charge in, yet here he was, exercising restraint.
Still, his demeanor remained calm—almost dismissive.
The hot-headed Grondal cocked his head, staring intensely at Ghislain’s face.
“You really think you’re doing me a favor by holding back, don’t you?”
“…”
“Then let’s stop talking and start swinging. I’ve been itching to see what you’re truly capable of.”
“Fine… if that’s what you really want… honestly, I was trying to be a gentleman for once.”
Ghislain smirked and raised his staff.
Without another word, the two moved. Their weapons met with a deafening crack.
Boom!
The massive halberd and the heavy staff collided repeatedly, the force of their impacts vibrating through the stone floor of the subterranean hall.
Ghislain’s movements were like flowing water, while Grondal’s strikes carried the crushing weight of a falling mountain.
Bang! Boom! Baaang!
Their initial exchanges were testing strikes, but it wasn’t long before a lethal intensity filled their eyes.
As the duel progressed, the sheer thrill of facing a worthy opponent took hold of them both.
The only problem was that both warriors were already pushed to their limits.
Boom!
They slammed together once more and recoiled, both stumbling back.
Their lungs burned and their breathing was heavy, yet neither allowed their gaze to drift from the other.
Grondal took a sharp breath and began to taunt his opponent.
“You were moving well enough earlier, but has your endurance already failed you? A young man like you shouldn’t be wheezing so soon. Perhaps you’re just a lightweight after all?”
“That oversized axe of yours must be a burden for a man of your years. It looks far too heavy; be careful you don’t drop it and break a toe.”
“Ha! Listen to this brat. His body is failing, but his tongue is still sharp as ever!”
Boom!
Grondal’s halberd came crashing down toward the stones.
Ghislain pivoted away and whipped his staff around.
Fwoosh!
The end of the staff whistled through the air, aimed directly at Grondal’s ribs.
Boom!
Grondal shifted the handle of his weapon, catching the blow in a perfect parry.
The shockwave sent both men back a full pace.
“Hah, not bad. If I were at my peak, I’d have cleaved you in two with a single motion.”
“If I were actually at my best, you wouldn’t even have the breath left to boast. It’s actually feeling a bit unfair from my perspective.”
“Ha! You arrogant little… I have to admit, I admire your grit.”
The banter was light, but the strikes were anything but.
Boom! Boom! Baaang!
The staff and halberd rang out several more times, each hit producing a sound like a small explosion.
Their internal reserves were nearly dry, yet they were elite warriors capable of dominating through sheer technique and instinct.
Those watching from the sidelines could only stare in silence, mesmerized by the high-level display.
Boom!
As their steel and wood met again, the violent recoil sent them both staggering back several yards.
In the ensuing silence, they both struggled to find their breath.
Grondal let out a low growl.
“Why not just give up? Your hands are trembling. Can’t you feel that you’re about to hit your limit?”
*Damm, my joints are screaming. This kid is relentless.*
“I’m young and have plenty of fight left. Your Majesty, perhaps you should worry about yourself. Your legs look like they’re about to buckle.”
*What is he made of? How is he still standing after everything?*
Before Ghislain had even entered the fray, Grondal had already faced off against two prophets.
He had sustained more injuries and spent far more energy, yet he was still holding Ghislain to a stalemate—he was a true beast of a man.
However, neither possessed the humility to yield. Even as their muscles spasmed and their grip on their weapons faltered, they refused to budge.
Grondal gave his beard a tug and spoke.
“You’ve proven you’re strong enough to wield a treasure… but I still won’t let you keep it. It belongs to my people.”
“Let’s reach a middle ground then. Let’s just say I’ve ‘borrowed’ it for the time being.”
“If it’s a loan, then pay it back!”
Grondal roared and lunged forward again. His pride wouldn’t allow him to accept a draw against a young upstart.
Boom!
Staff and halberd rang out in a flurry of blows.
Neither of them often found an opponent of this caliber, making this grueling exchange a rare, albeit painful, opportunity.
Bang! Bang! Boom!
As the intensity peaked, the spectators retreated further to avoid the chaotic discharge of force. A stray blow at this level could easily prove fatal.
Moreover, it was becoming a bit embarrassing to watch two such prominent figures scrap like this.
The six dwarf captains looked on with sheepish expressions.
“Well… our King has a bit of a temper… once he burns through this energy, he’ll regain his composure.”
Representing the Julien Mercenary Corps, Lionel offered a slight, apologetic bow.
“Our leader is a bit of a lunatic himself… hopefully, he’ll settle down shortly.”
The two groups exchanged looks of awkward, mutual understanding.
Despite the absurdity, no one dared to intervene. Witnessing a duel of this magnitude was a rare privilege.
Bang! Bang! Boom!
Truthfully, if both had been at their full strength, the entire fortress would have likely crumbled. Luckily, they were both utterly spent.
Even the meager strength they had recovered was being rapidly consumed by the duel.
Eventually, both Grondal and Ghislain let their weapons clatter to the floor, gasping for air.
“Ugh… my aching bones…”
“Haah… this is ridiculous.”
Both were doubled over, hands on their knees, sucking in air. They lacked the strength to even lift their arms.
But when it came to sheer stubbornness, they were perfectly matched. To be the first to call for a truce was the same as admitting defeat.
Before long, the two were on the floor, grappling and rolling around.
“These are fists of iron! Witness the spirit of the dwarves!”
“I started my training with martial arts! Hey! You said iron fists, why are you pinching me?!”
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
With their energy gone, the two masters of combat were now flailing at each other like common thugs. It was a pathetic sight.
The observers knew exactly what was happening.
*Their pride is staggering.*
*They’d rather drop dead than give an inch.*
*It’s a contest of ego between two geniuses.*
They were clearly the type who would only stop if they were physically dragged apart.
Meanwhile, as they watched the weakened Ghislain, Osvald and Lionel shared a fleeting, identical thought.
*Right now… I could actually take him.*
With Julien, Deneb, and Kyle absent, this was a rare window of opportunity.
However, they stayed their hands. Ereneth stood nearby, her eyes narrowed as she watched the scuffle.
As an expert in spirit energy, she was acutely sensitive to any shift in the atmosphere.
As the two continued their undignified wrestling match, the door slammed open and a voice rang out through the hall.
“Father! I’m the one who lost Gramdir!”
Torvalt, the man who had lost the sword to Ghislain in a bet, came rushing in.
He was, in fact, Grondal’s own son—the Prince of Vallscrum.
At the mention of “Father,” Ghislain’s companions stared at Torvalt in shock.
*Wait, that’s his son? How old is this guy?*
*He looks like a middle-aged man. There’s barely an age gap.*
*I suppose you truly cannot judge these people by their looks.*
They were finally beginning to appreciate the lesson taught by the Elf High Chief, Iralniel.
After losing the sword, Torvalt had been following the Julien Mercenary Corps for days.
When they had settled into their rooms, he had secretly searched their belongings.
— Why isn’t it here? Where did he put it?
He had even attempted to spy on Ghislain during his magical training. But no matter how hard he looked, the sword was nowhere to be found.
Since Gramdir was tucked away in a subspace, Torvalt’s search was doomed from the start.
He eventually realized the mercenaries were assisting the dwarves—it was impossible to miss with all the shouting.
Anxious, he had avoided the heat of battle and fled toward the fortress to find his father, Grondal.
And there, he had seen it.
He watched from afar as Ghislain wielded Gramdir in the desperate struggle against Rahmod.
— It’s… incredible!
He had wanted to move closer but stayed back, fearing he’d be killed in the crossfire.
By the time the dust settled, he had reached a conclusion.
— That man is the rightful wielder of Gramdir!
He wasn’t technically the owner of the sword, but he convinced himself that didn’t matter.
As the heir to Vallscrum, the sword would eventually be his anyway—so gifting it now was perfectly logical in his warped mind.
After the fight, he disguised himself and slipped into the fortress. His cover was blown immediately, but no one cared.
In part because of his royal status, but mostly because Torvalt was already viewed as a nuisance and a family embarrassment.
He had followed Ghislain’s group and finally stepped forward when he saw the brawl over the sword.
“Father! I gave him Gramdir! Please, stop this!”
“What did you say?”
Grondal wobbled to his feet. Ghislain remained on the floor, still trying to catch his breath.
It was a clear sign of who had the superior ‘stamina.’
Ghislain felt a bit cheated—it wasn’t even his original body, after all.
But Grondal was in no condition to celebrate his win. With a scowl, he lurched toward Torvalt, his gait as unsteady as a drunkard’s.
“So you’re telling me… the fool who gambled away Gramdir was you, Torvalt?”
“…Yes.”
“You absolute disgrace!”
Smack!
Grondal’s massive palm connected squarely with the top of Torvalt’s head.