Wolfe merely blinked.
He hated it when people called him Pendragon. Perhaps Lancelot knew it. He wouldn’t be surprised.
The moniker stuck because of Wolfe’s fighting prowess. He was known in certain circles as a monster and dragon hunter.
But Lancelot likely said it sarcastically, derisively, for the king’s name was Arthur Pendragon. It was both a smear to Arthur that Lancelot called a bastard brute by his name, and a taunt to Wolfe because he would never have a second name given his birth and background.
In response, Wolfe unsheathed his sword with a metallic scrape and threw the scabbard to the side.
Let’s get on with itwas broadcasted loud and clear between them.
Lancelot’s smile faded, and his eyes blanked.
In that moment, Wolfe saw why seasoned warriors feared this man. There was a vast difference between “warrior” and “killer,” and Lancelot was entirely the latter.
He came at Wolfe without the slightest warning, swinging his gleaming long sword in a swift, sudden attack.
It was all Wolfe could do to block the relentless assault as Lancelot pushed him back with almost blinding blows. Both because he moved so fast he could barely be tracked, and because the hits were dealt with amazing strength for one so lean.
Every time Lancelot rained the sword upon him, steel meeting steel, the gleam of the blade in the afternoon sun made Wolfe’s eyes burn. While the impact of the hits made his teeth rattle and his very bones shake from the force of them.
Barely a minute into the match, sweat was trickling from his temples and down the groove of his back.
He’d never met a swordsman like this before. Lancelot’s technique was flawless. His speed and strength almost inhuman. It was by dint of experience and, aye, luck, that Wolfe wasn’t already dismembered or split in half.
He concentrated on merely surviving this match versus winning it. If he won all of his other matches, he would still advance to the next round on the morrow.
At this rate, he could not see how he would defeat Lancelot. Which niggled the back of his mind about potentially meeting the man in the final competition.
But he’d worry about that when the time came.
Lancelot suddenly spun around and jabbed backwards with his sword in a move that Wolfe didn’t anticipate.
Just barely, he avoided getting skewered, though he hadn’t leapt back fast or far enough to avoid the swipe of the blade. It left a three-inch gash in his middle as Lancelot finished his swing and rounded on him.
Wolfe lost his footing from the impact alone, oblivious to the pain, almost falling to his ass. He only recovered on one knee at the last moment to receive Lancelot’s next blow.
The shock was tremendous, a direct hit from above.
Though Wolfe blocked it, the force of the strike numbed his shoulders and sword arm, making him drop his weapon. He recovered immediately by wielding his long dagger in his other hand, but they both knew that he was no match in this state against Lancelot’s skill and the superior reach of his sword.
For a suspended beat of his heart, Wolfe wondered whether this was the end. The other man could easily kill him if he wanted to.
Instead, Lancelot stepped back, planting his sword nonchalantly into the ground beside him.
“I win,” the angel announced softly, for Wolfe’s ears alone, ignoring the cheering crowds and the eyes of the royal observers.
Wolfe rose to his feet warily, his dagger at the ready, his body braced.
Why would Lancelot spare him? He didn’t trust it.
He nodded once to acknowledge his defeat.
The man smirked again.
“See you in the final round,” he said with utter confidence.
And walked away.
Leaving Wolfe soaked in cold sweat, suffocated with dread.
But he wasn’t thinking about the possibility of losing the prize to Lancelot. All he thought of was Rui.
Lancelot was nigh undefeatable. He had a clear shot at the final match. Along the way, Rui could not avoid fighting him. What if Lancelot didn’t spare her as he did Wolfe?
How could he possibly protect her from getting hurt?