Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL) Chapter 75 - 70: Beneath the Surface (4)

Astana rolled the sword in his grip, testing its balance before stepping into the sparring ring. Damian, ever the predator, watched him with that sa calculating intensity, asuring his movents before they had even begun. Astana wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could win, but victory wasn’t the point.

The surrounding training grounds had beco quieter. Soldiers and knights, so in the middle of drills, others resting after their own spars, turned their gaze to the ring. It was not just because the Emperor was fighting; Astana Blake’s approach drew their attention as well. The son of Paul Blake and brother of Gillian, Lothar, and Daniel, all of whom had earned their own legends on the battlefield. His na carried weight and expectations. So watched with open curiosity, while others examined him quietly to see if he lived up to his family’s reputation.

"Before we start, I want a rule," Astana said, keeping his tone light but firm.

Damian raised a brow, amusent flickering in his eyes. "A rule?"

"No magic." Astana tilted his head. "If I’m going to humiliate myself, at least let it be by skill alone."

A few onlookers chuckled, while others whispered among themselves. No magic ant this would be a fight of pure swordsmanship. Several knights exchanged glances. If he was anything like his brothers, Astana might actually stand a chance at lasting.

Damian chuckled, a low sound of genuine amusent. "Fair enough. No magic." He spun the practice sword in his hand once, effortlessly, before taking his stance. "Shall we?"

Astana exhaled and moved first, landing a quick, testing slash. Damian deflected it with ease, his blade barely moving from its position.

"Too slow," Damian remarked.

Astana didn’t respond, instead pressing forward with a feint followed by a sharp thrust. This ti, Damian had to parry properly, and a few knights murmured in approval. Encouraged, Astana didn’t let up. He shifted his footing and struck again, faster this ti, aiming for Damian’s open side.

A few younger squires leaned forward, paying close attention. "He’s faster than I expected," one muttered.

"He should be," an older knight replied. "Paul Blake’s son, isn’t he?"

Damian sidestepped, twisting just enough to evade before pivoting into a counterattack. Astana barely managed to parry, the impact rattling up his arm.

The watching knights exchanged glances. For the ti being, he was coping well. His style was distinct from Damian’s: elegant, fluid, and weaving through attacks rather than confronting them head on. Whereas Damian’s strikes were brutal and efficient, Astana’s were almost artistic, with each movent designed to flow into the next. It was swordplay fit for a duelist in a noble court, not a battlefield.

Damian, however, was not only strong but also relentless. He quickly adjusted to Astana’s rhythm, shifting his stance and applying more pressure. The next exchange was a blur of movent—Astana twisted away from a heavy downward strike, stepping in for a quick counter, only to be t with a brutal parry that knocked him back.

"He fights differently than his brothers," another knight noted.

"Lothar would’ve gone for brute force."

"Daniel would’ve been more precise, fewer wasted movents."

"Gillian would not have entered the ring at all unless he knew he could win."

He barely had ti to recover before Damian pounced on him again. The Emperor feinted high and slashed low, forcing Astana to retreat. Damian was closing in on Astana as soon as his feet touched the ground, his sword arcing toward his ribs.

Astana spun, redirecting the force of the blow rather than trying to stop it entirely. He managed to twist away, but Damian reacted quickly, slamming his shoulder into him. The impact sent Astana reeling.

A few guards winced, one muttering, "That’s gotta hurt."

But Astana wasn’t done. Gritting his teeth, he rolled with the montum, rising to one knee just in ti to raise his sword and deflect another crushing strike. The sheer force of it almost knocked him down, but he twisted and slipped away before Damian could fully pin him.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Damian’s face. "Not bad."

Astana smirked, panting. "You sound surprised."

"Just impressed you’re still upright."

They circled again, the tension thick between them. Astana adjusted his grip. His arms ached, and he knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer, but he wasn’t going to just let Damian end it.

This ti, he struck first—fast, precise, and with sharper movents. He struck low, then high, forcing Damian to block instead of counter. The strikes ca in quick succession, and Astana’s speed was the only thing keeping him in the fight.

A few of the knights murmured, so even nodding in approval.

But then Damian decided he’d had enough.

He caught Astana’s blade mid-strike, deflecting it with enough force to send him off balance. Damian twisted in the sa motion, knocking the sword away and slamming his foot into Astana’s chest.

Astana landed hard, gasping as the air left his lungs.

Silence fell over the training grounds.

Damian rested the tip of his sword against the dirt. "Still standing?"

Astana groaned, rolling onto one elbow before pushing himself up. "Barely," he confessed, shaking his sore arm. He took a breath, then suddenly smirked. "But I made you work for it."

One of the guards whistled lowly. "Gotta give him credit for that."

Another shook his head. "He’s no Lothar, but damn if he didn’t put up a fight."

Damian huffed a soft laugh, pushing his damp hair back. "I must admit, you lasted longer than I expected."

Astana sheathed his practice sword with a dramatic flourish. "And that’s all I wanted."

A few of the knights chuckled, but their eyes remained on Damian, waiting to see if this match had been more than just a test of skill.

Damian studied Astana for a mont, then let out a slow exhale. "You didn’t just co here to spar, did you?"

Astana shrugged, letting the silence stretch for a beat. "No," he admitted. "But I figured if I asked outright, you’d give the usual answer."

Damian smirked, wiping his brow. "You think a fight would make more honest?"