Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke

Every attack was reckless, lethal, and unrelenting.

This wasn't some wooden sword sparring match—this was a fight with real steel, a duel where a single mistake could mean a fatal wound.

Is he out of his damn mind?! What, does he actually intend to kill me here!?

Teeth gritted, Joshua forced himself to focus.

Slowly, through the chaos, his eyes began to track William's movements.

With recognition came anger.

"You think this is enough to—!"

Clang!

Joshua roared, parrying the next strike with all his strength.

William staggered slightly from the force of the deflection.

Seizing the moment, Joshua aimed for his leg—he didn't intend to kill, but he would slam the flat of his blade into his opponent's thigh, hard enough to leave a lasting bruise.

But before his sword could connect, William's foot shot out.

Thud.

"Urk—?!"

Joshua's breath caught in his throat.

Aizen let out a quiet exclamation of surprise.

William had stopped the incoming sword—not with his own blade, but by stepping on it.

"What the—?!"

Joshua's mind struggled to process the counter.

He had expected William to evade or counter with another strike.

He had not expected him to use his foot to pin the blade mid-air.

For the first time since the fight began, true shock flickered in Joshua's eyes.

And for the first time since the fight began, William's lips curled into a faint smirk.

Joshua could hardly believe his eyes.

Blocking a sword—not by parrying, but by stepping on it?

This wasn't swordplay. This was a brawl straight out of a tavern.

But as Joshua reeled in disbelief, Aizen, watching from the side, found himself quietly impressed.

Remarkable. That's the kind of ingenuity you only see in hardened veterans who have survived countless battles.

Aizen understood the brutal reality of combat.

One could not always rely on perfect conditions to execute their sword techniques flawlessly.

Weapons could be lost. Severe injuries could restrict movement. Unstable terrain could make footwork impossible.

And sometimes, the gap in skill was simply too vast, rendering formal techniques useless.

In those moments, adaptability—finding ways to disrupt the enemy's rhythm—became the difference between life and death.

Many promising knights had met their end precisely because they failed to improvise in unpredictable situations.

William, however, seemed to possess an instinct for battle that went beyond training.

His movements carried the raw intuition of a beast that had fought for its survival before.

"Dammit!"

Joshua cursed, struggling to free his sword from beneath William's boot.

Seeing his efforts, William calmly lifted his foot.

"Urk!?"

Without the pressure pinning it down, the sudden shift threw Joshua off balance.

The weight of his own sword, previously trapped, now pulled him back.

By the time he regained his footing, William's blade was already slicing toward his throat.

"W-wait—!"

Sching!

"Aaaargh!"

"My Lord!"

A horrified servant rushed forward as Joshua let out a strangled cry.

William had actually done it.

Without a hint of hesitation, he had slashed straight across Joshua's neck.

Joshua clutched at his throat, gasping.

Am I dying? Just like this? So easily?

Terror flooded his mind, his entire life flashing before his eyes.

He had struggled, schemed, and clawed his way forward, refusing to be cast aside.

Had it all been for nothing?

Had he fought so hard only to die at the hands of a madman in some meaningless duel?

Tears of frustration threatened to spill from his eyes.

Meanwhile, the servant frantically pulled a cloth from his robe, pressing it against Joshua's neck.

"My Lord! Stay still! I'll stop the bleeding!"

"…It's no use. A wound like this…" Joshua rasped.

Then he frowned.

Wait.

Why was he speaking so clearly?

Shouldn't his throat have been torn open?

A flicker of confusion passed through him. Slowly, he lifted his trembling hands from his neck.

"Uh… My lord, there's no blood."

"…What?"

Joshua's breath hitched.

He touched his neck, his fingers fumbling along the skin.

No blood.

Not even the slightest scratch.

His throat, which he had assumed had been cut open, was perfectly smooth.

William tilted his head, watching the bewildered expressions before him.

"What are you two doing? Why are you collapsing in the middle of a duel?"

Joshua stammered, "B-but just now… my neck… the sword—"

"Oh, that? I only pressed the flat of the blade against your throat."

"…!"

Joshua's mind reeled.

He never actually cut me?

The thin, cold edge grazing his skin had convinced him he had been sliced.

But in reality, William had angled the sword so that only the blunt side had made contact—creating the perfect illusion of a fatal strike.

Then all this time… I was clutching my throat like an idiot?

Shame and fury roared through him in equal measure.

That bastard toyed with me!

He shot up, his muscles tensing. Duel or not, he was going to kill this arrogant fool—

"Stand down."

A firm hand pressed down on his shoulder.

Aizen had appeared beside him without a sound, his grip as unyielding as stone.

The sheer pressure in his palm made Joshua's rage flicker and cool, just slightly.

But it did nothing to soothe his wounded pride.

He had been humiliated—publicly, no less.

He couldn't just let this go.

"Sir Aizen, forgive me, but the duel is not over—"

"It is over," Aizen cut him off. His voice was calm, but there was no room for argument. "You were told from the start—one round."

"That's—!"

"Do not go back on your word, Fourth Young Master." Aizen's gaze bore into him. "If you are to carry the name of Hern, your words must carry weight."

"…."

Joshua clenched his fists.

As much as he wanted to protest, the presence of the Swordmaster crushed any resistance before it could form.

Even more than that—he could feel it.

The irritation rolling off Aizen.

Joshua had forced this duel into existence, pushing beyond the boundaries of propriety.

He had already tested the man's patience.

If he continued to act out, Aizen would not hesitate to put him in his place—directly.

Grinding his teeth, Joshua forced himself to release his sword and step back.

It was the only option left.