The Extra Who Stole the Hero's System
Chapter 63: Herald Vs. Mudrel

Chapter 63: Herald Vs. Mudrel

"Mudrel!" Herald called out, his voice echoing in the confined space. "A quick duel. Let Show him how it’s done."

Mudrel sat on a stool in the far corner, carefully running a cloth along the length of his broadsword. His face, marked with old scars and weathered by years of fighting, was calm and focused. When Herald stepped forward and spoke, Mudrel looked up. His gaze shifted briefly to me before returning to Herald, a knowing glint in his eyes.

He recognized what this was. Not a fight. A demonstration. A lesson.

"As you wish, Herald," Mudrel said, his voice low and gravelly. He folded the cloth neatly and set it aside before rising to his feet. For a man his size, his movements were surprisingly fluid. He was broad and thickly built, but he didn’t carry the stiffness that often came with old wounds. He moved like someone who had spent his life in armor, who had fought in mud, fire, and blood, and had come out alive every time.

Herald didn’t reach for the broadsword strapped to his back. Instead, with a flick of his fingers, a small dagger appeared in his hand.

Herald’s left eye stayed shut, the Mythic Dragon’s Eye dormant. He wasn’t using power today. He didn’t need to.

Mudrel let out a quiet laugh when he saw the dagger. He tapped the flat of his broadsword against his palm. "A dagger? That’s generous of you," he said. "Might stand a chance if you fought me blindfolded and without arms. Even then, you’d probably still win."

There was no bitterness in his voice, just a hint of humor—maybe even respect. He knew the gap between them wasn’t something he could close.

Herald didn’t respond. He simply rolled his shoulders and settled into a loose, almost lazy stance. The dagger hung loosely from his fingers like it was barely worth holding. Mudrel, on the other hand, shifted into a battle-ready posture. His broadsword was raised, feet set apart, his expression serious now.

Then it started.

Mudrel charged, broadsword sweeping in from the side in a wide arc aimed at Herald’s torso. It was a strong, committed strike, meant to force Herald into either blocking or dodging.

But Herald didn’t block, and he didn’t jump away. He moved. Just a step—just a shift of his weight—and the blade missed him entirely. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t flashy. He simply wasn’t there anymore.

Mudrel didn’t pause. He stepped forward again, following up with a high swing that turned into a downward slash. Herald turned his body sideways, letting the strike pass just inches in front of him. No panic. No strain. It was as if he were avoiding slow, clumsy punches from a drunk.

Then Herald flicked his wrist. His dagger came up, not to cut, but to nudge. He tapped the back of Mudrel’s elbow as it passed him. Not enough to hurt, just enough to show he could have done more.

Mudrel kept going, his broadsword now moving in tighter patterns. He threw feints, short jabs, quick reversals. For someone as big as he was, his attacks were fast and aggressive. I could see why he had survived so long. Each movement had weight behind it. If any of those swings landed, Herald would be cut clean in two.

But Herald never let him get close.

Every time Mudrel adjusted, Herald adjusted faster. He would lean slightly to one side, step out of range, or shift his wrist to redirect the blade. The dagger didn’t clash with the broadsword as often as I expected. Most of the time, it just brushed against it, deflecting the momentum enough to make the strike useless.

He struck Mudrel’s forearm lightly during a thrust. Then he tapped his thigh as he pivoted around a sweeping strike. Then the shoulder. Then the wrist. Each one of these hits wasn’t meant to injure but to point something out. A flaw. A blind spot. A lesson.

Mudrel grunted, sweat dripping from his chin. His breathing grew heavier. He changed tactics—tried to force Herald into a corner, tried to overwhelm him with strength—but Herald refused to be trapped. He didn’t run, didn’t retreat. He kept circling, moving in that same fluid, efficient rhythm.

Mudrel tried a low sweep, hoping to knock Herald off balance. Herald jumped—not high, not flashy, just enough to clear the blade—and landed with a quick step forward, pressing into Mudrel’s space. The dagger’s edge came up again, tapping Mudrel’s chest.

Mudrel backed away, clearly winded. He swung again, and again, but it was no use. Every strike met empty air or was turned aside with a small movement.

From the sidelines, I stood frozen, watching with wide eyes. It was different from any fight I’d ever seen. There were no wasted movements from Herald. He didn’t react—he anticipated. Mudrel would start a motion, and Herald would already be responding to the end of it.

The dagger flashed again. This time, Herald swept it low and struck the top of Mudrel’s boot. It was a minor touch, but it caused the big man to stumble slightly. Another reminder: you’re open here too.

Mudrel growled, annoyed now. He twisted his grip, shifted to a new stance, and rushed in with a diagonal cut aimed straight for Herald’s head.

But Herald just stopped.

He didn’t dodge this time. He didn’t raise his dagger.

Instead, he let the weapon vanish from his hand.

The dagger blinked out of existence with a faint sound, and Herald stood there, arms at his sides, completely unarmed.

Mudrel’s eyes widened. The sword was already in motion, too fast to pull back. It came down with real weight behind it, real danger.

And yet, Herald didn’t flinch.

He leaned slightly. That was all.

The blade passed so close it ruffled his hair, but it missed.

Then Herald moved.

His right hand came up and struck Mudrel’s wrist. Not hard, but fast. Then his left jabbed the elbow. Then both pressed lightly against Mudrel’s shoulder and neck.

Three moves in less than a second.

Mudrel’s grip loosened. His sword dropped to the floor with a loud clatter. His arm hung limp, useless.

He staggered back, gasping, and then crumpled to his knees before falling sideways. His eyes were closed before he hit the ground.

Unconscious.

Herald stood over him, calm as ever. He didn’t breathe heavily. His body was still loose, unstrained. Not a scratch on him. Not a hair out of place.

He hadn’t even tried.

He looked down at Mudrel for a moment, then turned and walked toward me.

That was it. The lesson was over.

My throat felt dry. My hands were clenched into fists without me realizing. I had just seen the kind of control I didn’t even think was possible. No brute strength, no mystical powers, just overwhelming mastery of movement, speed, and timing.