Chapter 417 - 283: Altan: Do I Deserve to Die?

If Charles won and Altan died, Alvin could send men to finish off Altan's remaining followers. He might even be able to score a fortune from Altan's old subordinates.

Although Altan had lost his fief, he still held some influence on the steppes. His old subordinates surely possessed considerable wealth.

If he could wipe them all out, that wealth would naturally become Alvin's.

If Altan won and Charles died, Alvin could do Henry a favor.

Henry definitely held a grudge against Altan. If Alvin could present Henry with Altan's head, he might be able to earn Henry's friendship and a reward in return.

Alvin could use the opportunity to show his goodwill to Henry, perhaps even proposing some favorable conditions for himself. He could put in a good word or offer assistance when Henry needed it.

As for the fact that Altan would die in either of his imagined scenarios, Count Alvin didn't care.

In his eyes, Altan was nothing more than an expendable wandering noble, a "Foreigner" to add a bit of spice to the gathering.

Whether Altan lived or died was unimportant to Alvin. What mattered was what Alvin could get out of this duel for himself.

A flicker of surprise crossed Charles's face. He hadn't expected Altan to be so quick, or his strength to be so great.

'This old bastard...'

But he quickly readjusted and swung his sword at Altan again. His Swordsmanship was exquisite, each strike carrying an immense presence, as if trying to overwhelm Altan.

He had his pride, too. Even if his primary weapon was political struggle, he had never neglected his Swordsmanship practice!

Altan, on the other hand, relied on his combat experience from the steppes, nimbly dodging Charles's attacks as his scimitar struck like a viper, constantly searching for an opening.

His movements weren't as ornate or grand as Charles's, but they were filled with wildness and power.

The two clashed fiercely in the center of the field, the sound of metal on metal ringing out continuously.

Charles's Swordsmanship was exquisite, but Altan's scimitar was more agile.

Every one of Altan's attacks seethed with killing intent, as if he wanted to tear Charles to pieces.

'Damn it, the more I look at this Charles guy, the more he reminds me of Henry!'

A trace of fatigue gradually appeared on Charles's face, and his breathing began to grow ragged.

And while Altan was also starting to pant, his scimitar continued to swing with formidable power.

Finally, during a furious exchange, Altan's scimitar knocked Charles's sword flying, and a deep gash was carved into his arm.

Blood flowed down his arm, staining his silver armor red.

The surrounding nobles let out a collective gasp. Someone shouted worriedly, "Charles is injured!"

But Altan hadn't fared much better. Charles's sword had opened a wound on his leg, and blood was staining his own armor.

He paid it no mind, however, and continued to swing his scimitar, pressing his attack on Charles.

Charles gritted his teeth, picked up his sword from the ground, and charged at Altan once more.

His eyes were filled with rage and indignation. He knew he could not lose here.

They clashed again. Charles's Swordsmanship grew even sharper, each strike carrying immense force.

Altan, meanwhile, relied on his own tenacity and courage to constantly fend off Charles's assault.

Their movements grew faster and faster, and the sound of colliding metal became more and more frequent.

The surrounding nobles watched, transfixed, their hearts in their throats, wondering who would ultimately win this duel.

In the end, Altan's scimitar sliced a deep wound across Charles's face, and blood streamed down his cheek.

In turn, Charles's sword had opened a cut on Altan's shoulder.

Both men stumbled back a few steps. They were spattered with blood, and their breathing grew ragged.

They stared at each other, their eyes full of killing intent.

The surrounding nobles gasped again. "They're injured!"

The injuries were a welcome sight. A death would have been even more entertaining, giving them a wonderful story to tell.

Alvin sighed and called out in a loud voice, "Gentlemen, has a winner been decided in this duel?"

Charles and Altan glanced at each other, expressions of unwillingness on both their faces.

Charles gritted his teeth and said, "Altan, you are strong, but this duel is not over!"

Altan gave a cold laugh. "Charles, you're strong too. But don't forget, I am a barbarian of the steppes. I won't give up so easily!"

The two locked eyes again, and the atmosphere instantly grew tense once more.

The surrounding nobles held their breath again. The duel wasn't over; they would get to watch more.

Seeing this, Alvin's brows knitted together tightly, a hint of anxiety and helplessness in his eyes.

He stood at the edge of the dueling ground, gazing at the two figures in the center—both covered in wounds, yet still locked in combat—and his heart filled with irritation.

He had originally thought the duel would be decided quickly. Either Charles would subdue Altan with his superb Swordsmanship and noble bearing...

...or Altan would rely on his savage nature and tenacity from the steppes to land a fatal blow on Charles.

However, events had unfolded completely contrary to his expectations. The two had fought to this point only to be wounded and bleeding, but neither was dead. This brought Alvin's plan to a standstill.