Robert returned laden with spoils. His household guards who had assisted him remained behind amid the ruins to keep watch and manage the aftermath, while only seven or eight trusted retainers drove the carriage that bore Robert and Sena back home.
Inside, Sena released his concealment and drew from his bosom seven or eight curious trinkets, spreading them out before Robert with a grin. The two crystalline gems Robert had long coveted were absent—their origins too perilous, their size too great for Sena's limited gift of invisibility to conceal. Yet the pieces he had chosen were no trifles: each pulsed with formidable divine power.
Robert clapped a heavy hand upon Sena's plump shoulder. Between them, no cloying words of gratitude were needed; a glance, a gesture, sufficed to speak their bond.
Sena chuckled coarsely. "Spare me the thanks, brother—we've trafficked in such business more than once. But… hah, prepare me a few fine casks of wine later. I must tell you of Yalan's beauty! Tsk tsk, since glimpsing her a fortnight ago, I've eaten without savor, slept without rest. Robert, I believe I have fallen for the goddess herself!"
Robert curled his lip, ready to quip, Love at first sight is the folly of children; we, my brother, are veterans of the heart's battlefield. Yet at the brink of speech, the image of Ya'er rose unbidden, and the jest died upon his tongue.
Almost unconsciously, he brushed the divine relics at hand. Hope welled within him. My Ya'er, though these treasures may not restore you forever, they may grant me one more chance to see your face again…
Lost in reverie, he scarcely heard Sena boasting on. "That Yalan's visage—most striking is her hair, a cascade of silver—"
Abruptly Sena stiffened, fell silent, and tilted his head, brow furrowed as he strained to listen.
Robert blinked. "What is it, you oaf? What do you sense?"
The carriage had entered a deserted lane, where silence reigned save for the creak of wheels and the driver's occasional shout. On either side loomed derelict workshops, abandoned and dark. Only a few stray dogs prowling for scraps stirred the night air.
Sena muttered urgently, "We are shadowed. Whoever follows is stronger than I—his presence I can only faintly perceive, his true path wholly hidden!"
Robert's mind raced. He knew the theory well enough: Sena was a ninth-rank Acolyte of Concealment, frail in combat yet blessed with uncanny senses. For even him to fail to locate their stalker meant the foe was no mere novice but a warrior of the Third Rank—a Guardian.
In that instant, Robert seized Sena's shoulder, yanking him backward as he hurled them both out of the carriage canopy.
No sooner had they moved than a fireball shrieked low across the ground, shattering the carriage in a roar of flame. A mocking laugh followed:
"Robert! I—Eddie Haus, Flame Guardian of the Second Rank—hereby invoke the sacred right of challenge between the chosen of the gods! Do you dare accept?"
Haus barred the path, hands clasped behind him, gaze haughty as he surveyed Robert. A man must guard his honor, as a tree its bark. I will not foolishly slay a noble heir, but in formal duel I shall crush him, proving with iron fact that I, not he, deserve the captaincy. Even should he cling shamelessly to the post, the whispers of others will brand him a defeated wretch, stripped of all dignity. If he has any pride, he will yield of his own accord. Either way—I triumph.
Thus he had chosen this lonely alley, beyond the notice of tutors, to claim his victory in secret.
Robert, unaware of the tournament's affairs—Donald had told him nothing—assumed Haus was once more scheming against him as in old days. Fury blazed. "Haus! You dare stalk the acting lord? Do you court death?"
Haus sneered. "Lord Robert, once you were but a wastrel, and to trouble you was a crime. But now you are a god's chosen, and I may challenge you by divine law. It is my sacred right!"
His eyes flicked aside, catching sight of Sena and, scattered upon the ground, several relics cast loose from the shattered carriage. Recognition struck.
"You—Robert! You have stolen the very materials meant to restore the goddess's statue?"
Ecstasy lit his face. "You have committed blasphemy most vile! The proof lies before me. Now, should I slay you, it is righteous justice!" His expression chilled as he raised both hands before his breast.
Damn it! Robert cursed inwardly, glaring at the relics. He shoved the pale, stricken Sena. "Move, you fool! Strike!"
Jolted, Sena whipped a dagger from his boot and melted into the night's shadows. Meanwhile, Robert's retainers charged forward with drawn steel. Robert fixed Haus with his gaze, then released a low, resonant chant. From his lips surged waves of sound, condensed into a keen, translucent blade that howled like a dragon as it cleaved the air toward Haus.
For the first time in true battle, Robert had unleashed the opening form of the Dragon's Roar Art—Azure Dragon's Cry.
Surrounded, Haus faced peril on all sides: Sena's unseen ambush, the retainers' rush, and Robert's sonic strike. Yet he only smirked, arms lifted slightly. "Do you think such feeble force can pierce my divine field?"
As a Guardian of the Second Rank, he bore the sacred mark of his station: the divine force-field. At his trembling hands, flames burst from within, coiling about him in a blazing vortex. In a breath, a fiery cage ten paces wide flared into being.
Within, the air seethed. Haus turned sharply, eyes narrowing at the fiery outline of a corpulent figure—Sena's form betrayed by the flames. "If you had reached the rank of Hidden Guardian, perhaps you might strike me unawares. But alas—you remain but an Acolyte."
With a swift lunge, he appeared before the wavering outline, his palm slamming against Sena's face.
Robert saw his companion crumple without a cry. Panic lanced his chest. With a roar he hurled himself into the firelit field, his sonic blades lashing in concert.
The household guards reached Haus—only to be flung skyward as the fiery barrier quivered, its force repelling them like leaves in a gale.
Confident in his shield, Haus sought to dispatch foes one by one. But he had not foreseen Robert's art: the sonic blades did not clash headlong. Instead, like serpents they slithered into every fissure of the flame, slipping past the barrier's seams to strike from within.
Caught unprepared, Haus staggered as dozens of spectral blades pierced him at once, pain lancing like daggers through his flesh. Terror seized him. What sorcery is this? Could it be that the famed Bloodfire Blade of Robert's line yet hides such a dread technique?