"However... if the prince himself is personally asking, there's nothing I can do."
As the sole Duke, Prominent Leg was the most formidable noble and the strongest Drifter in all of Verulania. If anyone could save the kingdom, it was him.
Everything had unraveled so quickly. Some unknown terrorist faction had struck the airport, and now the entire city was buckling under the weight of a merciless siege. And as if fate hadn't already turned cruel, they couldn't call on the academy for aid—not when it had barely withstood an avalanche of monsters.
There was no question anymore—whoever had planned this destruction had done so with brutal precision. But why? Why Verulania?
Prominent Leg already had his suspicions about Dante's strange movements. That young military leader should never have had the authority to pull off a decision of this magnitude. Which only proved one thing—not just Verulania, but every nation had grievously underestimated him.
Either way, Dante would live to regret the day he chose to assault Verulania.
Was it still possible to turn the tide of a battle already doomed to be lost?
That—was exactly why they called him Prominent Leg. Because when his legs stepped onto a battlefield, the fight never lasted long.
Duke Handseil scanned the chaos below. His eyes narrowed. A beat passed. Then a thin, sharp grin carved across his face.
"Found him."
He vanished.
A streak of gold tore across the air, his cloak streaming behind him. Then, like a golden tempest erupting from the sky, he crashed down into the advancing enemy ranks with thunderous force.
Government soldiers flew back like splintered debris, skidding and tumbling across the blood-soaked ground. Prominent Leg surged forward—his body the embodiment of force, cutting through them like a battering storm.
He seized one soldier by the head, lifting him effortlessly.
With a sharp pivot, he slammed the man into the next soldier behind him. Then, with a brutal turn, he hurled both of them into a third—bulldozing through their formation like a living cataclysm.
He turned sharply, scattering them all like leaves in a gale, hurling bodies aside and clearing the ground in one brutal sweep.
The soldiers groaned and writhed where they fell, sprawled across the bloodied earth. And at the center of it all stood Prominent Leg, alone—his golden cloak fluttering softly in the wind.
He folded his arms and grinned, gaze fixed straight ahead.
His grey eyes gleamed—calm, yet laced with a cold, senile wickedness.
His voice cut through the silence.
"What are you waiting for…? I've cleared the ground for you."
The man standing across from him didn't move right away. The one with white hair and eyes like dark pits.
Slowly, he tilted his neck to the right. Bones cracked. Then to the left—another grim pop echoed.
Then he began to walk forward.
His face was sharp, angular—carved like a blade. He stood like a titan, fierce and utterly detached from the world around him. With a single tug, he tore his clothes from his body, revealing a massive, sculpted frame. A sprawling tattoo curled across his torso—lines and symbols like an ancient curse etched into muscle and bone.
As he shifted his stance, his bones groaned with every motion, cracking with sickening rhythm as though his body was adjusting for violence.
He came to a halt before the Duke, staring down with icy indifference.
He muttered, voice low and rumbling:
"Finally, someone worth fighting."
A blast of wind howled suddenly between them, surging through the empty battlefield. It parted the space like a curtain being drawn back—for the clash that now had no choice but to begin.
In the next breath, they moved.
First a blur… Then a collision.
It was like two iron fortresses smashing into each other. The impact unleashed a shockwave that roared through the air, rippling out in all directions. The very ground beneath them trembled as the wave slammed outward, shaking the battlefield to its core.
Prominent Leg struck first—a blur of gold and muscle.
His fist swung like a battering ram, aimed straight for the man's jaw. But the white-haired warrior leaned just enough to the side, letting the blow skim past his cheek. The wind from it still split the air with a deafening crack.
In that fraction of a second, he countered.
A knee shot upward—straight into Prominent Leg's ribs. The Duke grunted, breath hissing through clenched teeth, but his stance didn't falter. He twisted his torso mid-air and brought down his elbow like a hammer.
It landed on the man's shoulder.
Crack. Bone? Maybe. It didn't matter.
The man stepped into the blow, refusing to yield. His fist drove forward—a straight jab that caught Prominent Leg square in the chest, launching him backward several meters.
But he didn't fall.
He skidded. Boots carving trenches in the ground, cloak snapping violently in the wind. He dug his heels in—and stopped.
His arms uncoiled with barely a breath between beats. He vanished again.
Another impact.
The air exploded between them as Prominent Leg's fist collided with the man's forearm, both of them locked in a clash of raw strength. For a moment, they stood locked together, muscles coiled and straining—like two titans trying to crush the world between them.
And then—they moved.
Fists flew. Not wild, not desperate—precise, vicious, unforgiving.
Prominent Leg ducked under a hook, spun low, and drove a punch into the man's thigh. The flesh rippled unnaturally, but the man responded with a brutal downward strike—his elbow slamming onto the Duke's spine.
Prominent Leg staggered, dropped to a knee—but retaliated immediately, launching himself forward with both fists, battering the man's stomach like war drums.
The white-haired warrior didn't block. He absorbed it.
Then returned the favor.
A savage headbutt split the space. The crack echoed like a bell tolling in a dead city. Prominent Leg reeled—but laughed, blood trailing down his brow.
"You fight like a storm trapped in a man."
He was answered by silence. And then—a straight punch that nearly shattered his jaw.
Prominent Leg flew.
This time, he did crash into the ground. Dust and blood kicked up in his wake, carving a bloody trail through the field. But before it could settle—he rose again.
No words. Just breath. Shallow. Rhythmic. Controlled.
His muscles pulsed. His veins bulged.
And then he launched himself forward again.
They met once more in the center. A relentless exchange of strikes and blocks—dodges measured in millimeters, counters born of instinct. The sound of fists meeting flesh, bone striking bone, filled the air like the beat of a war march.
Neither yielded.
They fought not like men—but like ancient weapons brought to life.
Each punch was a declaration. Each kick a story of violence.
They slammed into each other again, and again, and again.
Until blood misted the air.
Until the ground began to split beneath their feet.
Until the air itself howled with the force of their fury.
And still—they fought.