Garen's gauntlet tightened around the hilt of Judgment. The sword's gilded edge caught the faint torchlight that flickered across the courtyard, illuminating the frost-slick stone between him and his opponent. Every soldier who stood in the ring of steel could feel the pressure building in the air, the kind that precedes a storm.
Asta's grin widened. He adjusted his stance, lowering his center of gravity, the massive black blade resting across his shoulders as if it weighed nothing. "Alright then," he said, voice bright and utterly without fear. "Let's make this quick."
The moment stretched, silent, taut. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then, Asta moved.
It wasn't magic, at least not in the way any Demacian would recognize. One instant he was standing still, the next the cobblestones cracked beneath his boots as he blurred forward.
Garen reacted instantly, years of training snapping into instinct. He pivoted, greatsword rising to meet the charge. The impact was thunderous. Asta's blade came down like a meteor, shattering the flagstones where Garen had stood only a heartbeat before.
Sparks burst, steel screamed.
Garen's boots slid back across the stone as he caught the blow on the flat of Judgment. The weight behind the strike was monstrous, like clashing against a siege ram. He gritted his teeth, holding his ground through sheer will.
Asta blinked, surprised that Garen hadn't budged an inch more. "You're tough!" he said, genuine admiration in his voice.
"Demacia," Garen said between clenched teeth, shoving forward and breaking the lock, "does not yield so easily!"
He twisted his blade, bringing it around in a heavy, disciplined sweep aimed at Asta's side. The mage-turned-swordsman leapt back, the greatsword whipping around with deceptive agility. The wind from his counterstrike hissed through Garen's cloak as it passed, close enough to shear a few threads loose.
Cithria felt her pulse hammering as she watched.
The two met again at the center of the courtyard.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Each impact rang like a cannon blast. The shockwaves cracked the stones beneath their feet, fragments of frost and debris scattering with every exchange. Garen ducked under one sweeping strike, driving a boot into Asta's knee to stagger him back before launching into a powerful upward cleave.
Asta raised the Demon Slayer as his knee refused to budge, the blade taking the hit and shrugging off the force completely. The recoil didn't even make him flinch. He swung in retaliation, the black sword humming with a deep vibration that made the air itself tremble.
Garen stepped into the blow instead of away from it. The tactic caught Asta off guard. Garen twisted, redirecting the swing with the flat of his sword before driving his shoulder into Asta's chest. The mage grunted, boots skidding several feet as the commander pushed him back with sheer physical might.
"That's awesome." Asta shouted, laughing as he steadied himself.
Garen didn't respond. He planted Judgment in both hands, breathing evenly through his nose. "If this is your strength without magic," he said, voice like iron, "then you're a dangerous man indeed."
"And you," Asta replied, planting his own sword upright before resting a hand atop the hilt, "You are so strong even without magic. I can't believe that someone else exists. It makes me so happy to know that there I'm not the only one without magic. But at the same time, it's so sad, that like me, you'll never know the joys of magic."
Cithria looked like someone had punched her for no reason as she watched the mage start crying... For some reason.
Then they charged again.
This time, Asta took the offensive first, swinging low and fast. Garen parried, the black steel glancing off his blade with a burst of sparks. He countered with a sweeping strike of his own, but Asta ducked beneath it, using the momentum to pivot and kick off the ground, flipping over Garen's head.
Cithria's breath hitched. "He's flying!"
Not quite, but close. Asta landed behind Garen, twisting his grip on the greatsword and striking in one fluid motion. The black blade came down like a guillotine. Garen turned just in time, catching the edge on his pauldron. The impact dented the steel and sent him staggering back a step, but his counterattack came immediately after, an upward slash that forced Asta to retreat again.
The soldiers watching were silent. None dared move, barely dared breathe.
Asta exhaled slowly, his grin fading into a look of focused determination. "You're strong," he admitted, his voice steady. "But is that the best you can do? If you don't have magic, how do you protect your kingdom?"
The question, simple as it was, struck a nerve.
Garen chuckled, though there was an edge to it. Around him, the Demacian soldiers bristled at what they heard as an insult, an affront to everything they stood for.
Cithria felt a heat rise within her chest, an unfamiliar anger welling up at the mage's words. She didn't understand why they got to her so deeply, but the idea that some outsider would question their strength, their Demacia, was intolerable.
'Who does he think he is?' she thought, forcing her expression to remain calm even as her grip tightened on her sword hilt.
Garen lifted his blade skyward, voice booming like thunder across the courtyard. "Strength through discipline!"
The ground itself trembled as every Demacian soldier answered in unison, their voices echoing with conviction. "HONOUR THROUGH DILIGENCE!"
Asta blinked in surprise, the sheer force of their unity washing over him like a wave.
Then, Garen moved.
He exploded forward with a burst of speed that made the air crack, crossing ten feet in the blink of an eye. "For Demacia!" he roared.
Clang!
The collision was deafening. A gale of wind burst outward as the gleaming silver edge of Judgement met the jagged, blackened blade of the Demon Slayer.
Both men stood their ground, locked in a clash of raw strength and conviction, steel grinding against steel, sparks lighting the space between them.
Then, to Cithria's utter bewilderment, the mage sighed.
"You guys are so cool," Asta said, almost sounding genuine. His tone wasn't mocking, instead it was admiring. "Strength Through Discipline. What an awesome motto." He smiled faintly, though there was something different in his eyes now. "But… it's not enough."
A chill crept down Cithria's spine. She wasn't sure why, but every instinct screamed that something unbelievable was about to happen.
Before anyone could react, Asta shifted his stance. He released his left hand from the hilt of his massive sword, holding the Demon Slayer one-handed as though it weighed nothing.
Cithria's eyes widened. 'That thing was as tall as he was, how could he...'
Steel groaned. Garen gritted his teeth, his muscles straining as he tried to hold the line. But to everyone's shock, the commander of the Dauntless Vanguard began to lose ground. Inch by inch, the mage pushed him back, the ground cracking beneath their feet.
"Not nearly enough," Asta muttered, before twisting his wrist and swinging the sword in a wide arc... effortlessly.
BOOM!
The impact sent a shockwave rippling across the courtyard. Garen was launched backward, crashing into the marble floor hard enough to crater it. Dust and stone exploded outward, and the roar of the soldiers died into stunned silence.
Asta stood there, arm still extended from the follow-through of his swing, the massive black blade humming with faint vibration. He blinked once, twice, then lowered the sword to his side. "Oh… uh, sorry about that," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Guess I put too much into that one."
Cithria stared at him, completely dumbfounded. The man had just sent the Pride of Demacia flying like a rag doll, and now he was apologizing? 'He did that earlier with Shyvanna as well.'
The haze began to clear, and through the settling dust, the shape of Garen rose. The marble beneath him had cracked and caved inward from the impact. Behind him, Judgement stabbed into the ground after it had flown from his hand.
Garen steadied himself, planting a hand on the ground before rising to his feet. He took a step back, gripping Judgment firmly once more as he stared across the courtyard at the black-haired mage.
Asta, calm and unreadable, rested the massive sword on his shoulder. "Even then," he said evenly, "I'm not wrong." His voice carried easily through the dust-filled air. "You're not strong enough to fight me. Not even close. I'm holding back, considerably, just to prove that I'm not the enemy here."
Cithria's hand tightened on her sword. Against her better judgment, she believed him. She didn't know why, but something deep inside whispered that the mage was telling the truth. Even after mocking their ideals and shattering their pride, his words carried no deceit.
He really was holding back.
After all, he hadn't cast a single spell, not one, and yet he'd matched the Sword-Captain blow for blow, then sent him flying with what looked like casual strength.
That realization left her cold. If this was him restraining himself… what would he be like at full power?
Her thoughts spiraled until a groggy voice broke the silence.
"Urgh… what happened?"
Every head turned toward Shyvana, who was surrounded by dragon guards as she slowly sat up, one clawed hand rubbing the side of her head.
'She was unconscious?' Cithria's mind reeled. 'From one hit? He only hit her once!'
No one had noticed, not during the chaos, not with all eyes fixed on the duel. The realization hit hard. That single blow from Asta, one he hadn't even seemed to put effort into, had taken out one of Demacia's strongest. A half-dragon.
Shyvana rose to her feet with a snarl, smoke curling from her lips as her eyes flashed molten red. "You're gonna pay for that," she growled, storming toward Asta.
"That is enough, Shyvana."
Garen's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
She froze mid-step, her head turning sharply toward him. "Sword-Captain?"
Garen shook his head, brushing dust from his armor as he turned to face Asta once more. The tension between them lingered, heavy and palpable.
"You are right," He said, his voice measured but firm. "You've given enough proof that you mean no immediate harm to Demacia." His gaze hardened, though not unkindly. "But remember this, I am more than what Demacia has to offer. So I'll ask that you never speak lightly of her name again."
Asta tilted his head slightly, as though considering the weight of Garen's words.
"I will need to report everything that's happened here," Garen continued, stepping forward with the authority of command. "Depending on what the High Council decides, we'll determine your standing, and your fate, within Demacia. Until then, I ask that you cooperate with us."
The courtyard was utterly silent. Dozens of soldiers, vanguards, and dragon guards watched as Garen extended a gauntleted hand.
Asta's expression softened. He hesitated for a heartbeat, as if measuring the intent behind the gesture. The young mage's eyes flicked down to the hand, then back up to meet Garen's gaze.
Finally, he smiled, a faint, honest smile that seemed out of place after such a fierce duel.
"I will," Asta said, stepping forward and grasping Garen's hand in a warrior's grip. The contact was solid, grounded, two men who, in another life, might've stood side by side on the same battlefield.
For a brief moment, the tension in the courtyard eased. The soldiers lowered their weapons. Cithria exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath. Even Shyvana, still simmering with restrained anger, watched in silence as the two released their grip.