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82.19% Reign of the Seven Spellblades / Chapter 60: CHAPTER 3 : The Grand Finale

Chương 60: CHAPTER 3 : The Grand Finale

Theodore finished his exposition and exited the stage. The waiting time that followed proved far longer than the numbers alone implied. Some audience members sat with hands folded, others engaged in furious arguments about what lay ahead. But in time, all lent their ears to the commentator's cry.

"It's that time again, people! That intervention may have been frustrating, but choke back those tears. One unforgettable battle after another, and they have all led to this moment. Enter the junior league finalists!"

At this, teams appeared on either side of the arena. The crowd went wild. As their faces came into view, Glenda kicked the hype up another notch.

"From the east! Team Horn! Their captain, the top-class all-rounder, Oliver Horn! The Azian sword fighter Nanao Hibiya! Enigmatic wild child Yuri Leik! Together, they're the eye of this league storm! In the main round's free-for-all, all three rival teams were breathing down their necks from the get-go, and yet, they bucked the odds to emerge victorious! And their first finals match put them up against a terrifying pure Koutz practitioner, Ursule Valois! Her team gave them a hell of a fight, but they emerged with all combatants standing! Strong! Tenacious! Never a missed beat! The best of the best, a triple-ace embarrassment of riches!"

She was running down a brief summary of each team's accomplishments, totally unscripted, her passion unbounded by the constraints of prepared remarks. Commentators live in the moment. And that fuel drove her on to the other team.

"From the west! Team Andrews! Led by the master of wind control, Richard Andrews! Backed by Joseph Albright with a Gnostic Hunter's ultra-practical fighting style and Tullio Rossi's out-of-control, risky-as-hell chariot of craziness! In the main round, they got caught in Team Aalto's environmental trap and were forced to defend themselves against ferocious attacks from two teams at once—but they swiftly turned the tables! The second match of the finals may have ended abruptly, but when Team Cornwallis came at them with a brutal werewolf assault, they delivered a fearsome counter! Brutal, clever, and devoid of mercy! A powerhouse team in the archetypal Kimberly style!"

Having put every impression she'd gleaned into the strongest phrases she could muster, Glenda turned her gaze to the instructors beside her. Like the previous matches, both Garland and Demitrio were here, but they'd been joined by a pair of upperclassmen. Tim "Toxic Gasser" Linton, in a girl's uniform heavily customized with an excess of frills, and Gino "Barman" Beltrami, his tall frame in a slim-cut uniform as orthodox as they came. They were core members of opposing factions, and Glenda gleefully roped them in.

"We all know the grand finale's gonna be as grandiose as they get. To that end, we've asked a pair of upperclassmen to join myself and Master Garland. Mr. Linton, Mr. Beltrami, each of you is a veteran fighter in your own right. Can we get your predictions?"

The two exchanged glances. Tim folded his arms behind his head, saying nothing; Gino raised a brow at that but took the lead. A pleasant speaking voice, always even-keeled.

"…I'd say the first thing to consider is the similarities between the two team's compositions. A thoughtful leader, a powerful frontliner, and a disruptive trickster. Both sides' strategic approach gives their members enough slack to think for themselves, and they're capable of grasping the opponent's approach and adapting to handle it. This matchup could easily turn into a very long fight."

With that, he broke off, waiting for his rival to speak. Tim didn't argue, simply taking the baton and running with it.

"Yeah, pretty safe assumption. If they hadn't fought before, you might see some upsets early on, but they've all been going at it since their first years. You know one another that well, it's hard to pull off any jaw-droppers. But there's one fighter here who that disclaimer doesn't apply to."

His gaze turned to the side of the stage, where the teams were lining up. Yuri Leik's eyes gleamed, clearly not the least bit stressed about this—the singular presence Tim spoke of.

"Even this far into the league, there's a ton we don't know about Leik. I can't even be sure Horn and Hibiya know everything he's capable of. If anything cuts this match short, it'll be his doing. But no telling which side that'll benefit."

"Interesting!" Glenda said. "With everyone else a known factor, he could make or break the match. You think Team Andrews will take steps in light of that?"

"They'll definitely be on guard. The primary concern is that even though he's a disruptive trickster, his defensive game is rock-solid, too. He's only taken one real hit in the matches so far, during his duel with Ms. Ames. And that wasn't shown on-screen. The first thing Team Andrews needs to plan for is how to deal with him," the Barman replied. "How would you handle it, Tim?"

Gino once more threw things to the seat next to him, and the Toxic Gasser took it in stride.

"I'd leave him for last. If you've got three foes with one you don't know, taking on the others first is a much safer bet. No matter how rock-solid his defenses are, he ain't gonna hold up once he's fighting two or three at once. Brushing him off until you're sure you can take him is a wise choice. Still gotta have a man on him, though."

"…Agreed. Mr. Rossi seems the natural choice for that. The other two have bigger fish to fry. Since Mr. Leik's one blunder came during a sword arts fight, they'll likely try to handle him in that domain. Mr. Rossi's tricksy stylings have enough bite to reproduce that."

"Aha. To sum up, you think Mr. Rossi will be mostly keeping Mr. Leik at bay but will try to take him out if he spies an opening…right?" Glenda asked.

"More or less, yes. But the opposite might be true. If Mr. Leik manages to turn that plan against Mr. Rossi, it'll tip the balance. Either way, that pairing is likely to be decided well before the other two," Gino explained. "That said, it isn't the grist of the battle. If neither finds a quick opening, then this is gonna be a long and grueling fight. In that case, which of these six will tap out first?"

Curious about Tim's uncharacteristically calm demeanor, Gino threw him another question. Annoyed, Tim pursed his lips—but the conclusion was all too obvious.

"A long match means it'll come down to stamina. Simple math says whoever's got the smallest mana pool will wear themselves out first. And with these six, that's inarguably gonna be Horn."

No mincing words here. When both teams were high-level, mana capacity often played a pivotal role. Dismissing that factor was simply not a realistic proposition for any Kimberly upperclassman. No matter who you wanted to back emotionally.

"Broadly speaking, time's gonna be on Team Andrews's side. That's about all we can really say at this point. I ain't no augur, so I'll leave it at that."

Tim fell silent. He wasn't playing politics here in the least, instead fully focused on the match at hand. Gino got the strangest feeling his old rival had actually changed. That made him even more curious about the match to come, forcing him to split his attention between the two.

"…Then Oliver's side is at a big disadvantage?" Guy said, frowning and folding his arms.

Beside him, Chela quietly shook her head, Katie's arms tight around her. The break had been just long enough for her to move again, and she'd made it to the stands in time for the finale.

"That is simply not worth worrying about. It's little more than a reasonable prediction based on the data at hand. Oliver's mana capacity has always been a disadvantage, and he has always overcome that. I have faith he will again this time."

"…But this is also gonna be the hardest fight yet. Right?" Katie said, shifting her gaze toward Team Andrews.

She'd turned her wand on them personally and found it hard to be optimistic here. They'd had the terrain on their side, the assistance of a second-year team, and still been defeated by Team Andrews's sheer skill. And Oliver's side would be facing these powerful foes in an open ring. Nowhere to run.

"..."

As the start approached, the tension grew thick. Pete had said not a word, but now he rose to his feet. Unsure why, his friends blinked at him.

"? What's up, Pete?"

"Gotta pee?"

He ignored their questions, his eyes only on the side of the arena. He forced all air out of his chest, then took a long, deep breath to the maximum capacity of lungs trained through chanting spells before unleashing the loudest yell he'd ever produced.

"Win this thing, Oliver!"

His voice pierced the hubbub of the crowds, reaching his friend's ears.

"…Pete."

"A rallying cry for the ages."

An unexpected boon from their quietest friend. Oliver glanced up at the stands, taken aback, but Nanao merely grinned. Oliver thought her words entirely apt. You could search the world over and find no finer cheer.

"Yeah, I'm fired up. More than ever before."

He'd been in prime condition, and now there were flames on his heels. Every part of Oliver ached for battle. And as if he'd spotted that, Garland's voice pushed him onward.

"It's time. Teams, put your first fighter forward!"

With that, Oliver stepped up toward the ring, his heart singing. At the top of the stairs, he saw the very rival he'd hoped to see. Each moved with measured stride to their starting locations, eyes only on each other, ready for the clash they'd been waiting for.

"At last we face each other, Mr. Andrews."

"Yeah…the delay was all on me."

Andrews was here to make amends. Naturally, he spoke not of the delay between league matches. Their history began shortly after they entered Kimberly, on the day of their first sword arts class.

Andrews had picked a fight with Nanao, assuming she would be an easy conquest; it was now a painful memory. He'd arranged a battle in the labyrinth on terms designed to ensure his win and had succeeded only in disappointing her. Nanao and Oliver had gone up against the garuda and won; the sight of that had changed Andrews. Yet, that, too, made him reluctant to rush into a rematch. An attempt with body and mind not yet fully prepared would expose his failings and relinquish his chance to try again—doubling down on his shame. He'd rather gouge out both his eyes.

He sought a greater outcome, one that would erase all the bad blood between them. A victory that would prove how much he'd grown. And until he had the confidence to pull that off, he had no right to face Oliver Horn or Nanao Hibiya. To that end, Andrews had spent his time refining his skills.

His words had been an acknowledgment of the two-plus years that had taken.

"Draw!"

At that cry, the two boys raised their athames. The moment they'd been waiting for. All his anticipation turned to unadulterated focus, Andrews spoke from unwavering confidence.

"I'm in peak condition and will not disappoint."

Oliver nodded wordlessly. Any reason to doubt his opponent was long since in the past.

"Begin!"

Both sprang into action. As if they'd agreed to terms beforehand, as if they'd promised each other they would. Neither holding back, their athames waving in unison.

"Impetus!"

"Prohibere!"

The spells clashed between them, canceling each other out. Andrews's spell had greater force, but Oliver made up the difference by using the oppositional to split the winds in each direction. A first strike that was almost a rite of passage, the natural outcome of each boy's gifts.

For his next move, Andrews had innumerable options. Oliver had every bit as many ways to respond. Yet, each cast practicality aside, surging forward. Blade clashed against blade, the metallic clang ringing out joy on behalf of their wielders.

"Shahhh…!"

"Ahhhhh!"

The howl of a stab. The clang of a parry. Fireworks burst in the air between them. Two seconds, thirty exchanges cast and gone. A riposte refrain that would have gone on forever had their breath not given out, but the limits of their flesh brought things to an end. Their timing in sync, each backed away, glaring at one-step, one-spell range, catching their breaths.

"Whew…!"

"Hahhh…!"

Moments could exist possessed of this unbridled density. Blood flowing like rapids, their every body part in sharp relief. Unwilling to waste even a second hanging back, both plunged once more into that fray.

No sooner had the match began than it hit high tide. As the crowd roared, Glenda was beside herself with joy. Before a fight like this, she could hardly stop to coddle her cords.

"A-as their opening spells clashed, both fighters lunged right at each other! We expected them to hang back and trade spells a bit, but they did the opposite! Both going all out from the get-go!"

"Not a practical choice," Gino grumbled. "If they burn themselves out here, the team strategy will crumble. Preparing for a long match means they should be conserving mana here."

"Don't be stupid!" Tim scoffed. "No one's pulling that shit here."

When Gino merely raised a brow, Tim sighed. He'd have to spell it out.

"The looks on their faces oughtta clue you in. Ain't no time to be all clever and holding back. You oughtta know better. Right here and now—they're finally connecting."

Switching from a sword arts fight to a spell duel also meant they had the latitude for thought once more. When they no longer had the concentration to pull off the furious speed of an exchange at blade range, Oliver and Andrews reached the same decision. Both backed off, revealing a new aspect to their fight.

"Clypeus!"

Oliver constructed a pillar in the center of the ring. A standard opening move, intended to block direct shots from a foe with superior output. Andrews's wind control allowed him to send spells around such obstructions, but he chose not to, instead spending precious seconds eliminating the pillar.

"Fragor!"

"Impetus!"

He intended his burst spell to shatter the wall and push back Oliver's follow-up. Yet, as Andrews eyed the spraying of rubble, he spotted an unnatural conformity. Thin, cylindrical chunks mixed with shattered fragments—had Oliver's wind blasted them his way, those chunks would have pelted him. An extension of the surprise wall piercer he'd once deployed against Miligan—maintaining a degree of structural integrity to catch his foe off guard. Team Liebert's similar wall-piercing shot had given him the idea.

"Impetus!"

Having blocked this move before it began, Andrews pressed the advantage. His superior output allowed him to broaden the gale's coverage. Oliver backed off, blocking with the oppositional, but unable to block the full expanse, he was pinned in on his flanks. Repeating this could easily force him to the edge of the ring. He would have to act to prevent that, except—

"Impetus!"

Andrews was already casting again, but the wind pressure struck Oliver as odd. If he really meant to force him out, he would be pushing a lot harder. That meant the power held in reserve was going elsewhere. But to what end? His opponent had almost exclusively cast wind spells, so what trap could he be prepping here?

And the fact that wind was inherently invisible prevented him from spotting the truth. Thus, Oliver stopped watching with his eyes, diverting his mind to his sensory zone. That limited things to his immediate vicinity but allowed him to accurately perceive the flow of the air. And there were things his eyes had not caught. A portion of the wind was wheeling around behind him. Exactly where he would go if he continued retreating from the spells.

"...!"

"Flamma! Tonitrus! Tenebris! …Impetus!"

Andrews was trying to prevent him from thinking. Three spells of varying elements scattering his focus, then a final blast that meant business. A gale that acted like a frontal assault but wheeled around him overhead and on both sides, applying pressure to the winds circling behind Oliver from above and below. The air flow intended to force out a flurry of blades aimed at his back, yet—

"Whew!"

Oliver waved his left arm through the central space of this conflagration. The passage of that swing disrupting the pressure, turning Andrews's finishing move into a mere patch of turbulence. Employing his off hand meant his athame not only stayed trained on its target, it allowed Oliver to blast a spell through the winds, aware ahead of time they would part. Andrews avoided this via a sideways hop.

"…Well done," he mustered with unvarnished admiration.

Forcing him to move had freed Oliver from his predicament, allowing him to take the fight back. Once more, they were busily trying to outguess each other.

"…That was not easy," Godfrey said amid the roaring audience.

Half of what they'd done was invisible to the naked eye, but from their visible actions, he'd surmised the whole.

"Mr. Andrews's wind control is legitimately impressive, but handling that on sight is a testament to Mr. Horn's observation skills. He must've guessed his opponent's intent from the flow of air alone, just in time to act, and stuck his hand into the wind-blade generator to disrupt it—a bold choice but the right one."

"Guessing alone won't get you there," Lesedi said. "From how I've seen him fight, Horn's got spatial perception way beyond what someone his age should. That'll keep most surprise attacks at bay."

She'd been directly in charge of him during the Rivermoore fight and was well versed in his strengths.

"…How does one train that?" Godfrey said, folding his arms. "Like the Gnostic Hunters aces, assume you're fighting the unknown and make it a part of your daily reps? But what drove him to adopt that practice?"

"Frigus!"

"Flamma!"

As the first two entrants set up moves that would pay off several steps further in, two spells burst in from opposing directions, clashing in the air. Nanao and Albright had taken to the ring, firing from the northeast and southwest respectively, between their predecessors. Less an attack on each other than a signal to Oliver and Andrews that they had joined the fray.

"Three already? Pleasure passes faster than the speed of light," Andrews said, regrouping and mopping his brow.

"Don't worry," Albright growled. "There's more to come."

Team Oliver's duo had struck their classic stances, and the starting signal signaled the commencement of the two-on-two.

"Frigus!"

"Impetus!"

Convergence magic, blending the ice and the wind. A gale filled with razor-sharp ice, but Nanao plunged straight on in. Oliver was on her heels, chanting.

"Clypeus!"

Curving the spell around her at the floor ahead, she saw the walls spring up in front of her. Normally a lengthy process, but by softening the floor earlier in the battle, he'd hastened the wall's completion. The spell normally had to soften the floor, then harden it again; with this trick, he'd cut that time in half.

"Gladio!"

They weathered the frigid wind behind it, and when that passed, Nanao's spell swiftly severed the wall, slashing at the foes beyond. Albright and Andrews each cast to counter that, the latter backing off to play support while Albright surged forward to engage Nanao.

"Hoooooh!"

"Haaaaaaaah!"

Two tremendous swings clashed dead ahead. Sparks like the smithy of the titans of yore cleared, and their blades locked at the hilts before their very eyes. Andrews moved around, searching for an angle, yet Oliver remained planted firmly at Nanao's rear—and cast a spell directly at his partner's back.

"Extruditor!"

"?!"

The push spell caught Nanao, amplifying the power behind her blade. It proved too much for Albright, and he was forced backward. The floor peeling layers from the soles of his shoes—but his foe's added strength came at the cost of complexity, and he knew how to use that.

"Rahhh!"

For a moment, it appeared he'd been pushed off-balance, forced to the ground—but he dove, pulling Nanao into a throw. She flipped in midair, landing on her feet right in front of Andrews.

"Impetus!"

"Prohibere!"

A blast of wind timed to her landing, but Oliver stepped in to cancel it. Yet, there was no time for relief here; Albright vaulted up from his back, the minimal movement to put him on Nanao's heels.

"Frigus!"

"Huff!"

Nanao spun around, using a two-handed Flow Cut to deflect the freezing spell. Oliver returned a lightning bolt, but Albright leaped out of the path, using the recoil on a wind spell to open the distance. That left all four fighters out of immediate harm's way, and they each took a second to catch their breaths.

"…You'd push your own teammate? I'll admit—that got me."

"But you still had the wherewithal to convert it to a throw," Oliver replied. "Not concerned I'd hit you while you were down?"

"Never even occurred to me. We'd both end up down a man. And I can't picture you ever sacrificing a friend—!"

Albright lunged forward mid-sentence, and they were back in the thick of things. As their front liners exchanged furious blows, Oliver and Andrews circled around them, jostling for position to back their plays. But if either diverted too much attention to that, a spell would come flying their way.

"Impetus!"

"Prohibere!"

Oliver used an oppositional to deflect a gale aimed at Nanao's flank, but he could not afford to remain purely on the defensive. Andrews had been regularly laying Air Pockets about the floor, and Oliver was making a mental map of these. He fired a curved spell in Andrews's direction—

"Tonitrus! …?!"

As he did, his foot sank into the floor—and he found himself unable to breathe. He wasn't immediately clear on what was happening. His body itself was still going through the motions—his surroundings simply did not allow that action to complete. The air itself was heavy and thick, like honey. It stuck in his throat, refusing to move to his lungs.

Crap, Oliver thought, working out the nature of the predicament. His feet were caught in a patch of Grave Soil, the color alone adjusted to match the surrounding floor—and above that rested a pool of Strangle Air, a high-level trap move. Andrews had moved past this exact spot several times, using his spatial magic to fundamentally alter the nature of the air itself. Wind's default state was one of Flux, but he had applied the opposite aspect, Stasis, creating a patch of dead air.

The atmosphere should be always on the move. But powerful magical intervention backed by a very precise visualization could temporarily apply the opposite qualities to it. Like turning water to ice, this made the air itself heavy and solid. This was the feat Andrews had accomplished. Oliver was standing in a patch of air that no longer functioned as such. And the core construction of human lungs didn't allow them to breathe anything that did not flow.

Had Oliver been devoting his mind to spatial senses, he could have spotted it coming. But the addition of the second fighters had changed the flow of the battle, and he'd been forced to divert that corner of his mind to the locations of the Air Pockets scattered about the floor. And spotting them created the illusion he was abreast of his foe's traps. Stepping into it right after casting a spell was half bad luck and half the result of Andrews's skillful manipulation.

"Prohibere!"

If Andrews used any big spells, their passage would make the stalled air begin to move again. This was true of fire, cold, lightning, even darkness. For that reason, as he rounded Albright toward Oliver, he cast a hardening spell, matching the element of the trap itself. This was standard procedure with Strangle Air in his family; the longer your foe was unable to breathe, the better. Even if his foe freed their feet from the sludge and dodged this volley, escaping the dead air, he need only aim the next spell at the moment of their inhalation. You could not chant without air in your lungs—that was a mage's most basic weakness.

"Cly…peus!"

Those caught in this trap were inevitably forced to handle the matter with the paltry reserve of living air left within them. Backed into a corner, Oliver's flash decision led him to do just that. He elected not to yank his feet free but crouch down, casting a blockade spell he knew would be far from complete. A low wall, little more than a heap of dirt—but what might appear utterly meaningless was, moments later, hardened by his opponent's spell. A call made under great duress—yet Andrews's eyes widened at its brilliance. Hardening spells wouldn't pass through objects, and at times, that could be used to defend against them.

"Impetus!"

Andrews moved around the wall he'd been forced to harden and this time unleashed his winds at full strength. Oliver had already reworked the air within his zone and was breathing again but too late to dodge this follow-up. The output discrepancy meant he could not fully cancel it with the oppositional. Once more, a spur-of-the-moment choice of spells.

"…Clypeus!"

Still crouching, he threw up another wall. Connected to the first, the joint formed a jagged point—and when the gale struck it, it shattered nothing, instead splitting itself and flowing to either side. Hard to believe that was even possible, and it rattled Andrews, yet his athame never wavered. He kept circling, past this second wall as Oliver freed his trapped limb.

"Tonitrus!"

"Tenebris!"

Andrews fired a bolt, trying to land a hit as Oliver leaped out, but Oliver had predicted this. He had his own wand aimed that way, deflecting the trajectory with the oppositional. His chance to finish things blown, Andrews had to retreat, once more facing down Oliver on opposite sides of the two sword fighters.

"A-another narrow escape! Tenacity all around!" Glenda cried.

"Forming a sharp angle with a pair of walls so the wind split around him," Garland explained. "Made from the same mana, even walls like those can stand up to a far more powerful gale. The method's so good I wanna put it in the textbook."

"A burst spell would have taken the wall down," Gino suggested but soon corrected himself. "No, the loss of projectile speed would have given him time to handle it some other way. Hard to blame Mr. Andrews for going with his strongest element there. I have my qualms, but chalk this up to Mr. Horn's decisiveness."

The battle raging for them was every bit as dense as they'd hoped for. With Oliver and Andrews back to spell range, the commentators refocused on the ring as a whole.

"It's really a sight to behold," the sword arts master said. "No one's holding back, everyone's going all out, yet the match remains in perfect balance. You rarely see a match this good even in the upper forms. I hope our students pore over the recordings of it later on."

"The seal of approval from the master himself! These two teams have proven they belong here! Their exchanges have been skating on thin ice so far—and the six-minute mark is almost at hand!"

"Siiigh…"

As the battle had just reached a stalemate, the third fighters' entrance proved a quiet one. Tullio Rossi stepped into the ring with a sigh, his narrow eyes sweeping the faces assembled.

"It is 'ardly fair 'aving to wait six minutes with these sights before me? That is not just painful—it is outright torture. My mouth was flapping like a fish on land, going, Let me in, let me in!"

That vicious smile proved he meant every word. The boy ascending the stairs opposite beamed back at him. The last member of Team Horn—Yuri Leik.

"I felt the same, Rossi! I had no idea six minutes could last so long. But I bet the rest of this is over in the blink of an eye."

He sounded like he was already regretting it. But when Rossi turned to Yuri, the Ytallian was actively scowling. His shoulders hunched in discontent, his gaze radiating hostility.

"'ow dare you agree with me? I am prone to leaving my favorite dish till last, but this time I think I 'ad best take it first. You, I 'ave never liked."

"Oh yeah? I've been dying to talk to you! I mean, you love Oliver and Nanao, right? So do I! That means we'll probably be great friends!"

Yuri returned only hospitality. Rossi had half expected his spite would get him nowhere and swore quietly when it did.

"I really cannot stand the sight of you. Andrews, let's go."

"…Fine. Impetus!"

Rossi lurched forward, and Andrews hit his back with a gale. Negating the friction beneath his feet with spatial magic, Rossi's body caught the wind and slid across the ring. Team Valois had used Ice Walking, too, but unlike them, Rossi was not using the repulsive element to Float.

With one quick glance at his teammates, Yuri ran in to intercept.

"Okay, Rossi! What have you got to show me?"

He looked absolutely thrilled at the prospect. Like always, he was planning to observe until his opponent started attacking. But Rossi just slid up to him, hands dangling limply at either side. That baffled Yuri.

What's he doing? I don't get this stance. How's he gonna do anything from that? What part of him will set off the motion? When'll he step in; what'll he aim for?

Not one answer came back to him. And by the time he'd realized that, a heel was buried in his gut.

"…Kah—"

"I am gonna wipe that smirk off your ugly mug."

Rossi felt bones rattle and organs shake through the sole of his boot. He'd started with a backspin kick and was already moving to his next attack. That first blow a mere salutation, and his snarl made it clear he was far from done.

"A hit?! No one saw it coming, but Mr. Leik soaks the first blow! Is this the same boy who stood strong against pure Koutz? What's going on here?!"

"Hmm…? Hard to say, really. Mr. Rossi's movements are certainly unusually unorthodox, but to land a hit that clean?"

As the commentators looked baffled, Demitrio broke his silence.

"…He's not thinking."

Garland turned to look at him. "...? Instructor Aristides, come again?"

"He's not actually thinking. From the time he stepped in blade range to the time of his attack, not one actual thought crossed Mr. Rossi's mind. He is playing it entirely by ear. There is no information to glean."

That was hardly the most practical assertation, and Glenda seemed unsure how to respond. Tim, Gino, and even Garland seemed reluctantly to swallow this theory whole. Deciding he had been perhaps a bit too succinct, Demitrio expanded upon his point.

"However Mr. Leik's instincts function, they are a response to information provided. Predictions cannot be made without that."

"So Rossi is moving purely out of habit?" Glenda asked, speaking for the group. "But his moves are so complex…"

"Habit is not the word. Practiced movements are essentially the body itself thinking, and the information that provides is far less disguisable than the workings of the mind. Mr. Rossi is instead creating from the ground up. Each time he steps into range, a flash of inspiration generates a new improvisation. The principles his physique have honed are in that instant forgotten, as pure a source as can be achieved."

Demitrio's explanation was a doozy. Tim's and Gino's eyebrows shot way up, but Garland seemed to get it—his gaze turned back to Rossi, watching carefully.

"…He's gone Freed Mind? Mm, he's unrestrained enough."

"B-but wouldn't that just prove his undoing? The best inspiration in the world is just spur-of-the-moment stuff. The schools of sword arts have spent years rooting out inefficiencies, and he's gotta be nowhere near the truths they've found."

"That would be true if those truths could be reached instantly. But let's remember, to know what you should do, you have to start by observing your opponent. Fighters with distinctive styles often excel at that, which is why their gambits pay off. But in Mr. Rossi's case, there is no information until he's in blade range. This forces his opponent to answer his pop quiz on the fly."

This flipped the entire conceit. Rather than gain an advantage by out-reading your opponent, you deny your opponent the opportunity to read your attacks at all. The result might look like a sword fight, but the moment it began, he was playing an entirely different game. One's stockpile of technique instantly rendered moot, left only with one's ability to ad-lib from an absence of thought. Rossi had honed this skill far past the norm. But no mage honed this skill on purpose. For good reason—knowledge and principles were sorcery's wealth. From the moment you even considered casting them aside, your thoughts were no longer those of a mage at all.

"Omitting the time devoted to reading—a conceptual counter, if you will. And the perfect weapon against a foe reliant on those predictions. That's where Mr. Leik finds himself. His exceptional instincts mean he is sorely lacking in experience fighting foes he cannot read."

Demitrio made this sound personal—as it indeed was. A man of his intellect was well versed in the weaknesses of his own splinter, yet he had never dreamed a mere third-year could find a way to exploit that.

"Whoa! Whoaaa! Whoaaaaa!"

Unable to "hear" a thing, Yuri was pummeled by inexplicable blows. A deluge of the unknown the likes of which he hadn't experienced since his personality took form. He fought on reflex alone, but Rossi had ad hoc grandstanding honed to a league all his own. Shoulders, legs, cheeks, blows, and blades beyond blocking, the toll mounting. Unable to find any way to resist, it chipped away at Yuri's flesh.

"…Guh…!"

"I was saving this to go against Oliver, but it would be 'ell for me, too. Scary, yes? Attacks coming from nowhere?"

His voice as calm as his attacks ferocious. Where Yuri would normally answer with glee, today he was far past banter.

"Yuri! …Ugh!"

Oliver was to the north of the ring, seeing this one-sided beatdown out of the corner of his eye.

He was trying to find a moment to go to the boy's aid, but Andrews's relentless gales prevented it. They'd gained a clear advantage, disrupting the match's balance, and he was not about to let it go to waste. Albright and Nanao were dueling in the center of the ring and in much the same straits. Look away from your foe and be cut down. Neither was able to go to Yuri's aid.

"I will not guess 'ow your little quirk functions. But you essentially 'ave the cheat sheet laid out before you, no? Someone with the answers leaning over your shoulder, telling you, Do this, do that. And I will not stand for it!"

With that snarl, Rossi laid into him again. Blows edged and blunt, backed by pent-up frustrations. The moment he'd met Yuri, he'd known he didn't like him. The boy's good cheer came from ignorance, no better than the curiosity an infant shows an insect. Seeing him dish that out willy-nilly galled Rossi, and while that alone might be excusable, he could not bear seeing him gadflying around the object of his pursuit since year one.

Yuri Leik made friends like trapping insects, Rossi thought. Gathering the rare and the new and lining them up to peruse. Snatching them up and casting them aside with no thought for how much blood and sweat had gone into their formation. Without even the life experience to enable the capacity for such imaginings. One glance at that vapid smile proved he'd grown up with no struggles, no setbacks, no sorrows. He'd grasped nothing by his own hand, let nothing slip through the fingers of those hands, simply feasted upon what had been granted him unconditionally. To Rossi's mind, someone like that had no place at Kimberly. Least of all near Oliver Horn and Nanao Hibiya.

"If something truly matters, you find the answer your damn self! As I did! As Oliver and Nanao did! You skipped the steps we all take and 'ave the nerve to act like you are their friend!"

A burst of rage culminating in a heel to Yuri's solar plexus. A ripple through his diaphragm took his breath away and sent his body rag-dolling. Unable to catch himself, he landed hard on his back, sliding toward the edge of the ring face up. Rossi lowered his leg, snorting.

"A clean 'it, that one. Take a good nap. This beating is no fun for anyone. I refuse to admit you even have the right to be 'ere on this stage."

With that, he turned his back, not even deigning to finish off his opponent. Like he'd just been sweeping the dirt off before the opening act, the real battle reserved exclusively for the other two fighters. Rossi headed straight for them.

"…That makes sense!"

The tone was oddly earnest. Rossi paused. That was not the infantile cheer he so despised. It was the voice of someone legitimately gazing inward. A voice from the soul.

"I'm drawn to mysteries. Strange things, things I don't know, things that are hidden—I just can't help myself. Most of the time, I see a thing, I hear the answer right away. And the few exceptions get me so excited! I always wondered why."

Forcing his wobbling limbs into action, Yuri got to his feet, his breathing shallow, his body heavy. A novel experience—so this was what happened when you got hit in the chest. This was not something he'd heard. It was something his body had experienced for itself, and that fact proved an immense comfort. The answers that came when he asked had never given him such joy.

"But it's actually really simple. I go after mysteries because otherwise I hear the answers. I'm told before I can look myself, which means I never get to truly know. The answers I hear are merely gifts and not real knowledge. I'm not after the mysteries so much as the process that gets me there."

He had confused the means and the end. All that racing about in pursuit of mystery, but all along he had sought not the answers but the thirst for them. To grasp them himself, not wait for them to come to him. What he gained that way was not cobbled together but an answer all his own.

"Rossi, you're absolutely right. I never knew the meaning of knowing! It can never be divorced from the search. If you wanna know something, you've gotta walk there on your own two feet, part that brush with your own hands, dig down into the dirt until you get there. And what I find that way is at last my own. Only then does the path I've tread become me."

He'd gotten to the crux of the theory and rose to his feet on wobbly knees. Rossi's eyes narrowed in a sidelong glare. Oliver saw a clear change—nay, a transformation—in his teammate and, trading spells with Andrews, whispered his name.

"…Yuri…"

Yuri Leik's head lolled back, his whole world turned upside down. That one voice seemed farther away. The answers it gave were indistinct, hard to make out. Yet, in return, he'd gained reality. The certainty that he was alive and standing right here. The conviction to walk this path on his own two feet and take pride in it.

"I get it now, Oliver!" he said. "I've always been looking for myself."

The light dawning on his purpose, Yuri drew his athame. The tip was pointed at Rossi, who slowly wheeled toward him.

"…Well, look at this. You can show us something, eh?"

Rossi's lip curled in amusement. This changed everything.

Suddenly, he found himself facing another human. One with his own goals and purpose, one aware of the turmoil that would bring, and one ready to pay the price to get there. Self-centered, shortsighted, and never satisfied—just like Rossi himself.

In which case, there was nothing to despise. Annoying, yes, but not despicable.

The new Yuri was worth fighting.

"All right, then. I shall let you 'ave another shot."

Switching tacks, Rossi fired a blockade spell toward the ground to the left of Yuri—at the southern edge of the ring. Then he lunged forward into a charge. The terrain alteration limited Yuri's options, and Rossi's improvised attacks kept him unpredictable. The advantage was all his. There was little Yuri could do.

But he'd steeled himself for that. Of the few options available—he chose the one least like himself. He inhaled to maximum lung capacity—and roared.

"VAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━?!"

The volume of it echoed in Rossi's entrails, and he froze up. An Old Rizett trick—the Dragon's Roar. By enhancing his lungs and vocal cords, his shout was far louder than anything humans could produce. One of the Rizett founder's favorite tricks, but in Yuri's case, he'd acquired it independently by imitating monsters in the labyrinth.

The move slammed his opponent's senses, making them instinctively stiffen up—but these days, it was considered useless. It simply didn't work against an experienced foe with the right knowledge and mindset—two things Rossi had discarded to achieve Freed Mind. Worse, he'd never once seen Yuri raise his voice at all. For him to bust that move out here was just shocking enough—a massive impression fluctuation—for it to momentarily overwhelm Rossi's capacity for ad-libbing.

"Ahhh!"

And while he stood rooted to the spot, Yuri came in swinging. A reckless charge with all the ferocity of a wounded animal, it forced Rossi to acknowledge he was facing an entirely different foe. Far beyond simply going on the offensive, he had fundamentally altered his very approach to combat. Yuri now had the bloody determination of a warrior hell-bent on winning at all costs.

"…Ha! Since when were you this fun, eh? This is the kind of fight I like!"

"I don't need to be told. I'll get to know you firsthand, Rossi!"

With that, Yuri stepped closer still, and Rossi's blade moved at full power. Their clash was now every bit as intense as the other pairings—their very souls in commune, a new act just begun.

"Leik's whole style shifted," Godfrey mused, arms folded. "A much more aggressive approach."

"Best way to counter a Freed Mind." Lesedi nodded. "If your foe doesn't play by the rules, it's always a solid approach to not give them the leeway to do anything. And then force them onto your own home turf. As long as Leik's going hard, he's the one setting the terms. The challenge he poses limits the viable options, diminishing his foe's capacity for creative combat."

"Right, his original reactive stance was the worst tactic. His preternatural prediction made that work against previous foes, but ordinarily, no one can withstand an unfettered assault without employing gambits to ensure a degree of control. Arguably, this has only now become a sword arts duel. Their real fight has just begun."

Godfrey broke off there, focusing on the fight itself. Watching the change in the student she'd helped coach, Lesedi smiled.

"Yeah, Leik's always been observing, not fighting. He enjoyed the process but was never invested in the outcome. But now—that's no longer true."

"Fwew!"

His feint intentionally mistimed, Rossi let the momentum of his swing turn his back to his foe, planting both hands on the ground behind him. From there, his feet went up, kicking backward at his opponent's head. Yuri bent his knees to duck below that and put one hand on the floor to return a sweeping kick of his own.

"I know that move! She taught it to me, too!"

A heel dug into Rossi's side, and he lost his balance, reeling back. Yuri righted himself and bounded into a flying roundhouse kick, pressing the advantage. In no position to defend against that, Rossi's only option was further retreat. They'd started with Yuri's back against the edge of the ring, but now he was so close to the center that he could feel the clash of Nanao's and Albright's blades buffeting his back.

"You 'ave the nerve to show real style! Why not start with this in the first place?"

"Sorry, I only just worked it out!" Yuri beamed. "I do have a few tricks I've made my own!"

Yuri and Rossi had both learned these extracontinental martial arts tricks from the same source: Lesedi Ingwe. For a while they traded kicks, but as they neared the center of the ring, Oliver and Andrews started blasting spells at their flanks. In response, both boys leaped in opposite directions, and spotting a shift in the match's flow, Nanao and Albright broke off their rain of blows and regrouped with their teams.

"You had me worried there," Oliver said, standing just behind his teammates. "Should we work together?"

"Can do! Bring it!"

"Then allow me to lead!"

Nanao was all too eager to be first in. Albright took a step back, and Team Andrews put Rossi up against her.

The Azian girl took a diagonal swing from on high. It fell like a thunderbolt, but Rossi was on his toe, the floor's friction eliminated—and the force sent him into a spin. He'd blocked with his gauntlet, not his blade, so this Tour sent him into a backhand blow. Fusing the polish of Koutz with the roughness of a street fight, a move he'd practiced in secret just for this fight.

"Foo!"

But Nanao saw it coming and bent slightly forward, ducking under it. Rossi was in no position to withstand her return slash, and he reeled back off-balance. His team fired a quick spell to ensure nothing came of it.

"What, your eyes can see Koutz now? Who do I 'ave to blame?"

"It was never your sole domain," Albright snapped. "Shut up and show them what that blasphemous blade of yours can do."

Rossi's blend of Koutz and his own style was pretty high-level stuff, but not much good against opponents who'd just staved off Team Valois's pure Koutz. A move designed for a surprise one-shot had turned into a damp squib.

"You may rest easy, big man. I always 'ave more where that came from!"

This outcome was frustrating—yet simultaneously exactly what he wanted. He'd been anticipating this fight for ages, and his foes exceeding his expectations was something to be thankful for. Letting that joy lend wind to his sails, his edge undiminished, they threw themselves back into the blender.

"…The match is balanced once more," Garland said. "This new side of Mr. Leik is unexpected. Mr. Linton, did you see that coming?"

While the movements on the field were certainly dynamic, the scales were yet again rock steady.

"I didn't see a damn thing comin'," Tim said with a shrug. "They're young. You get in a fight this intense, you're gonna push a button or two. Leik's switch was just a tad more dramatic than most."

This fact was plain as day to him, and the other booth guest was nodding, looking totally convinced. Gino had been evaluating the fighters like their skills were set in stone—at least partially because the two teams were impressively stable. But Tim was right: Experience changes us all. That fact should have been on everyone's mind.

"Growth in the heat of conflict. True, that was a factor I did not see, having spent no time with them. Tim, when did you turn into a perceptive mentor?"

"Shut it, swilltender. I've been the cute big bro figure the kids go crazy for from day one."

Tim stuck out his tongue and held up a middle finger. A bit late to act the Toxic Gasser, and Gino had to stifle a laugh. He knew letting it out would just make Tim retreat to his old habits. That would be a waste; this new side of Tim was far too entertaining.

"..."

But while the rest of the commentary booth was enthralled, Demitrio was watching the proceedings in a very different frame of mind. His eyes were now on one thing alone—the change sweeping over his own splinter.

"Seiiiiiiiiiiiii!"

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!"

"Impetus!"

"Prohibere!"

The stalemate lingered on. To the north of the ring, Nanao and Albright were giving each other no quarter. To the west, Oliver and Andrews were furiously outguessing each other, timing their support spells. To the east, Rossi eyed those battles even as he fended off Yuri's attacks.

"This match is too close," he muttered. "I knew I would 'ave to punch a 'ole in it."

A smirk crossed his lips. He and Yuri were both covered in wounds, and the long mutual pummeling had left them running out of stamina and focus. If they kept fighting like this, the outcome was anyone's guess; either one could prevail or fall, the results as unknowable as the weather.

And that was unacceptable. Rossi held fast to that point; if he threw the outcome to a roll of the dice, that was an admission he'd failed to play his part. This was a team battle, not a solo one; his role stemmed from what he could do and who he was. Stirring the pot of a stalemate was what Tullio Rossi did, and he had entered this league fully cognizant of that. Thus, he could not let things end with that purpose unfulfilled. Nothing as grand as duty or responsibility; this was simply a thing he had to do.

"…Huff!"

Mind made up, Rossi leaped back out of blade range. Yuri cast a spell right away, but then his eyes caught his foe's feet. Rubble on his toe, about to kick it his way—and while Yuri's mind was on that, Rossi slipped his gauntlet off behind his back and threw that, too.

"Fragor—augh!"

A double feint into an adamant projectile. It hit Yuri's eye, knocking him back—and his burst spell flew off harmlessly skyward. And while he was recovering, Rossi turned his attention over his shoulder. As their swords clashed, Albright had reached out his off hand, trying to grab Nanao.

"Tonitrus!"

Pretending Yuri was his target, Rossi actually snapped his athame around, firing at Nanao. The bolt sped through the air, and Albright saw it coming first.

"! Frigus!"

Seizing the chance, Albright cast, too. A freezing spell from the fore and Rossi's bolt from behind, Nanao trapped between them. Undaunted by this predicament, she was already moving to handle it.

"Hfff!"

A step in, catching the spell on her katana—and a turn. Using a two-handed Flow Cut to send the cold to her rear, the strength of it pushing Rossi's lightning back. Yet, this meant turning her eyes away from her actual foe, even if only for an instant. And Albright lunged into the gap.

"Gotcha, Hibiya!"

Certain he'd won, Albright went to a high stance. The spell deflected, Nanao snapped back his way, but even so, she couldn't block in time. Her blade went up but unsupported; it was pushed back, bearing down upon her own throat. The evidence of his eyes beyond denial, Albright knew how this ended—

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━?!"

But even as he grew convinced, something came tumbling before him. While their battle teetered on thin ice, it had traced a leisurely arc through the air above, slipping between them moments before the hit landed.

A burst spell. The one Yuri had sent flying yonder when the gauntlet struck him.

"Gah!"

Yanking the reins on his all-out lunge, Albright just barely avoided a direct hit. The spell burst before his very eyes, dyeing his vision red with flames. He'd dodged it. The right choice in the eyes of anyone present. Only a complete fool would dive into a burst spell of their own volition.

Which was why his own good sense proved his undoing.

"Seiiiiiii!"

Here came the fool. As he stepped back, Nanao plunged into the explosion. Every inch of her scorched, shards of shrapnel from the floor gouging her cheek, yet she paid that no heed, eyes only on the enemy at hand.

"Wha—?"

He could not have seen this coming. The fact that his blade was up at all was nothing short of miraculous. But that last resistance was cruelly forced aside, her swing slicing deep from his shoulder across his chest.

"You…stepped in? There…?"

"Retreat meant defeat. That was all I needed to know."

Nanao's answer came back like the ringing of a gong. The concept was almost stupidly simple—and Albright realized that this had decided their fates. The insistence upon survival carved into his very core as heir to a Gnostic Hunter dynasty.

Conceding his loss and the cause, Albright gave his weakening arm one last push. This left his body toppling over backward. Intending to lay him down softly, Nanao wrung out her remaining strength, propelling her wounded frame forward—

"Hng—"

—but the advancing foot sank to the ankle in the mire. She paused, and as Albright fell on his back, he aimed his athame with the minimum of effort—he, too, had a task to fulfill.

"…Frigus."

One last spell, squeezed out from severed lungs. No real force to it. But Nanao had no means left to handle it. No time to chant, dodge, or deflect, all she could do was fruitlessly shield herself with her arms, allowing the spell to half freeze her. When he was sure of that, Albright let himself go limp.

"Gnostic Hunters don't die in vain. The rest is yours, Andrews."

Holding steadfast to his core despite his loss, thus Joseph Albright was the first to exit the battle. Nanao watched him go with unvarnished admiration, then let out a long breath—and pulled her foot from the mire. Scarcely any feeling left in either arm, but she could manage one last swing of her katana.

With her battle done, Nanao wheeled around—in time to see the other fight end. Rossi and Yuri, nigh embracing, each stabbing the other.

"…You knew I would do that, eh? Aim for Nanao?" Rossi whispered, athame buried in his opponent's chest.

Yuri's whisper came back in his ear. "I had a hunch, yeah. I've learned a thing or two about you."

That was how he'd called it. Nanao and Albright's duel had been largely rooted to the spot. Team Horn had prearranged signals hidden in the enunciation of spell chants. Each of those things had helped make Yuri's surprise attack possible. But the single biggest factor was his own observation skills. How did Rossi think? What mattered most to him? How would he act as the battle wound down? His mind had been gnawing away at each of those questions, and when he really needed it—his mind went into overdrive. Not with the curiosity of a kid finding a new bug but with a deep interest and understanding of the man before him.

Yet, the resolution to his own fight lay elsewhere. Rossi's athame was embedded in Yuri's chest. That had unarguably settled things, yet Yuri's athame was deep in Rossi's left leg. He'd released it at the moment of the stab and wrapped his arms around his foe's waist. Using spatial magic to liquify the floor beneath them and leaving them both sunk knee-deep within.

"Knowing more…is really fun."

He chewed those words over…and then his mind cut out. His knees crumpled into the mire, but his hands clasped behind Rossi's back refused to let go. Before his consciousness faded, he'd fastened the skin of his hands together.

Stuck in the hold of a defeated foe, Rossi tried to pry himself free—and soon realized that was a futile effort.

"My leg—it will not move…"

The wounded limb was dead, inert. The remaining leg alone was not enough to escape this sludge, not with Yuri acting as a deadweight around him. A few feeble shakes hardly enough to dislodge the arms embracing him. They were his dedication—Yuri Leik's stubborn insistence on bringing victory to his side.

With time, there were plenty of options available. But time was what Rossi did not have. Nanao had sent a fire spell his way, bearing down on his back with no escape available.

"Argh… You really are an aggravation."

A grumble, delivered with a sigh. Effectively a compliment to his sleeping foe—and then Rossi's body was swallowed in the blistering heat.

With two fights finalized, Nanao dragged her heavy body toward the last. Oliver saw this and came to her, lining up beside her. The katana slipped from her hands.

"Oliver, I'm afraid…this is as much as I can muster."

Her gaze dropped, her tone tinged with regret. The spell that finished Rossi had been her last; with it, her ice-encrusted arms had ceased to function. She couldn't move anything from the elbows down, let alone grip a hilt. And the effects of the blast had her on the verge of collapse regardless.

Oliver had been acutely aware of her condition, so he merely nodded, eyes never leaving his foe.

"Well done. Leave the rest to me."

Not a waver in his voice. Nanao grinned and let her knees buckle. The audience was now hesitant to make a sound, watching with bated breath. Silence you could cut with a knife hung over the ring. Only two had the right to break it.

"This is it, Mr. Andrews. Let's settle things."

"Yeah."

Andrews nodded, and each adjusted their position. As if the clock had been turned back, it was just the two of them again—time to bring this match to a conclusion.

"Ahhhhhhhhh…!" Glenda gasped, realizing she'd been holding her breath. "Wild gambit after wild gambit, and each side loses two fighters! I'm ashamed to admit I forgot to do my job! How splendid the sights these six shared with us!"

"Mr. Rossi's surprise attack tipped the scales, but Mr. Leik had already laid the groundwork. While dodging the rubble, he acted like his spell was knocked off target, while actually arcing it over right where he wanted it. Since Ms. Hibiya and Mr. Albright were largely trading blows in a single location, he could land it with pinpoint accuracy, certain where they'd be."

Garland sounded suitably impressed. The flow that had claimed four fighters had been riveting, and each part of it spoke to their individual stances and dedications.

"Ms. Hibiya's bold step through the explosion and Mr. Albright's final spell were both magnificent. Mr. Leik's choice to aim for Mr. Rossi's leg and lock him down was likely predicated on that outcome. One-legged in a mire, Mr. Rossi could not escape in time to avoid the final spell."

"I couldn't believe my eyes! Mr. Leik must have realized he was unlikely to survive and sought a way to avoid going down alone…right?"

"I'd say so." Garland nodded. "The thrown gauntlet claimed his eye. A sacrifice to disguise the arced spell, but it meant he was no longer in any position to trade blows with Mr. Rossi. Mutual elimination was likely his best option."

To the bitter end, both fighters had been focused on ensuring victory for their side. And the result of that conflict had been a double elimination. For all Rossi's harsh words during the fight, when things were said and done, Yuri's read on him had been entirely accurate. And the human factor was what really stood out to the instructor's eye.

"All those eliminated did their jobs and set the stage for their team leaders. It's the final one-on-one. Master Garland, does either have an advantage?"

"Both still have plenty of energy left, so it's hard to say. Rather than speculate idly, let's just watch and find out."

And with that, Garland fell silent. No matter what he said here, the outcome would soon come to light. And the evidence of their eyes would be worth a thousand words from him.

"…Hff…"

"…Hahhh…"

The two fighters had caught their breath. They needed no words to agree to this; both athames leaped to the fore.

"Impetus!"

"Prohibere!"

A dramatic departure from his previous visualizations, Andrews's spell was a point, not a plane. A spear of compressed wind hurled at Oliver, who spotted it and responded with a pinpoint spell of the oppositional, deflecting the spear so it passed by his flank. Yet, his opponent's intent was only ever to distract Oliver before their blades engaged. Andrews followed his spell in, and Oliver met his athame in his default mid-stance.

"Shiiii!"

As he entered one-step, one-spell range, Andrews thrusted. Oliver's blade clashed against it, but the length of the blade felt off—and he spied the trick at hand. Shrivel Shiv, where the winds shrouding your blade refracted the light, making the blade look shorter than it was.

"Hahhh!"

But that was merely a setup; on Andrews's next thrust, the athame's hilt slid forward across his palm. The Rizett school's Glib Foil—shifting your grip on the blade mid-attack, a discrepancy of several inches that could easily catch an opponent off guard. Combined with Shrivel Shiv, the effect was all the more bewildering.

"Hfff!"

But Oliver was well versed in both techniques and hardly foolish enough to judge a blade's length by sight alone. He watched not the tip but the hand holding the hilt, using his spatial senses to ascertain the length of the blade itself and deflect it. His rock-solid handling was all it took for Andrews to know he wasn't fooling anyone, and he abandoned the deceptive camouflage, instead using the wind to lengthen the blade's reach—Extend Edge.

"Ahhh!"

Yet, still, Andrews knew perfectly well his opponent would never let these little tricks get to him. Minimizing the risk to himself, laying down technical tricks until his opponent mishandled something—a shallow strategy like that would never lead to victory here.

From his heart, he admired his opponent's remarkable skill. Humans are naturally inclined to seek victory. Those with any measure of talent and the minimal fundamentals learn a few powerful attacks and quickly begin to defeat their peers. Winning three out of five is not too difficult. Eight out of ten is an extension of that and achievable enough. But a hundred victories in an equal number of matches—well, you aren't getting there sticking to a single approach. That realm is achievable only through far tougher, more thorough training and layer upon layer of ingenuity.

But that was the nature of Oliver Horn's sword. One designed not to merely score frequent victories but to consistently prevail in the long run. Any gaps in body, skill, or mind that could lead to defeat had been carefully patched up. A long and arduous journey compared to your more standard "allow a degree of risk and win as much as you can" approach. Andrews himself had the natural gifts and the privilege of good practice partners; when he'd first picked up the blade, he'd taken joy in his rapid improvement. But Oliver likely never had. Andrews didn't know how his opponent had honed himself, but at the very least, he was sure it took years of hard work and suffering before this boy had savored the fruits of triumph. Or—whatever had possessed him to endure that wall of time was likely beyond Andrews's wildest imaginings.

And yet—despite that history, Oliver wore a pleasant smile. He was earnest and kind. Not reproaching weakness, not harping on his peers' inadequacies. Just quietly meeting them at their level and encouraging them to grow. Which is why they did just that. Katie Aalto, Guy Greenwood, Pete Reston—all their talents had blossomed. Sprouts buffeted by the harsh winds of Kimberly, yet Oliver's warmth had been a trellis supporting their development.

It was all too much for Andrews. The very sight of Oliver made his heart ache. It made him yearn to know this boy better, to be involved. To sit with him and talk, learn what he felt and how he thought—what time could be better spent? That circle of friends calling themselves the Sword Roses—what joy it would be to join their company.

But he hadn't dared voice the smallest fragment of that desire. He'd already disgraced himself before them, and that past was not so easily overcome. He was here now to make amends. His sole purpose to earn the right to say that simplest of phrases.

Namely: Can we be friends?

"…Hfff!"

With that in mind, he went for it. A dozen furious strikes and he saw his moment, making a sweeping slice at his opponent's throat. Oliver had long since seen through his illusions. He leaned out of harm's way by the smallest of margins, intent on issuing a swift reprisal—

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━!"

—but before he recovered his posture, he drew to an abrupt halt.

His spatial senses were tingling. Andrews's swing had passed his neck, but a dagger of wind remained. A micro-tornado, spinning in place in the air. The Rizett school's Linger Blade. Andrews had always been a preeminent wind wrangler, although this technique was achievable only by wringing the utmost out of the visualization possible within your personal zone.

With a trap pointed at his throat, Oliver was left leaning awkwardly backward, unable to right himself. Not a stance he could attack or defend from—he was exposed to a degree Andrews could likely never hope to replicate, and he risked everything he had, going for a finish.

"Rahhhhhhh!"

The Rizett Hero's Charge. Leaning so far forward that he ducked right under the Linger Blade, attacking—and with Oliver off-balance, he could not put his back behind any defenses. Yet, the charge's momentum was too great to block with arms and blade alone. The first step would have to be backing a step away from the Linger Blade, but that was why Andrews had chosen a Hero's Charge. If Oliver did back off, he needed merely take an extra step…and sink his blade into his opponent's chest. This fact would not change even if Oliver straight up fell backward—Andrews need merely adjust the trajectory of his thrust to the position of his heart.

"Hah—!"

Andrews was certain he was one step away from victory—but Oliver did not back away.

Instead, he dropped his hips.

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━?!"

His blade fell, striking the incoming thrust from on high. It knocked Andrews's blade off course so hard, the tip sank into the floor below. Even as Andrews gaped at that—his instincts went off like he'd been struck by lightning. He knew what Oliver had done.

Off-balance, Oliver had been unable to properly block. A step back wouldn't leave him enough time to do so, either. Instead, he had dropped his hips, adding gravity's weight to his blade while using spatial magic to cancel the friction on his soles and speed up his sudden sit.

Lanoff had no such move. That school's entire repertoire relied on having both feet firmly planted on the ground. Oliver had simply abandoned those constraints on the spur of the moment. Certain that in this singular moment, this deviance was the only means of conquering his opponent's challenge.

With his blade downed, Andrews was forced to his knees. Oliver had landed first, their eyes on the same level—and for an instant, their gazes met. Andrews tried to pull back on his right, but a hand closed around his wrist, rendering him unable to move. Oliver's athame came right toward his heart.

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━!"

No move he made could evade that—so Andrews caught it with his left palm.

"Gahhhhhhh…!"

With the blade impaled there, he held it fast. The guard against his palm, he pushed it back with all his might, but this was his off hand and Oliver's dominant one. His posture left him with less leverage, and he was forced steadily back. There was no move that could twist this to his advantage. He knew that beyond all shadow of a doubt.

But it never occurred to him to give up. No matter how dire the odds, he could not abandon this hope. Desperation in his eyes, Andrews fueled his struggle against fate with all the desires and purpose he had within. Oliver was close enough to see all that firsthand.

"…I know. I get you, Andrews," he murmured.

His opponent's feelings resonated within him, painfully so. Not one drop of it went astray. And thus:

Enough. There's nothing more you need say.

To communicate that, Oliver spoke again. Voicing the feelings that had long been warming within him. The words he had long, long wished to speak.

"You've grown so strong."

When that gentle voice hit his ears, Andrews's hand went limp, accepting the outcome at last as Oliver's athame slid straight into him.

"Called! Match complete," Garland intoned, his voice echoing across the silent arena. "All members of Team Andrews eliminated. Team Horn has one survivor. Thus, the victory goes to Team Horn. And as of this moment, they are your new junior-league champions!"

He made this into a genuine pronouncement. And at last, the crowd exploded. A bucking wave of deafening noise billowing against every eardrum. Turning up the volume on her amplification spell to match it, Glenda wiped the tears from her eyes and went into her wrap-up spiel.

"It's aaaaaaall over! Give it up big time for these fighters! A breathtaking display to the bitter end! I couldn't be more proud that I got to announce this fight and get to be at Kimberly with mages like these! Congratulations, Team Horn! You're the best around!"

As the crowd roared, the outcome was finally sinking in with the winning team's friends.

"…Whoaaaa…!" Guy rose to his feet, arms shaking.

"They won! They really won!" Katie kept saying, her voice worn out from cheering.

"Yes…yes, they did…" Chela nodded, a veritable waterfall streaming from her eyes.

Pete, sitting next to them, suddenly clutched his throat with both hands.

"…Hahhh…hahhh…"

"Yo, you okay there, Pete? You're hyperventilating!"

Guy and Katie scrambled to pat his back. Chela—tears still falling—moved in front of him, cupping his cheeks.

"I can't blame you. It was the kind of match where you don't dare blink. Pete, you're okay now. Relax…"

"How are you even making that many tears?! You're gonna dry out!" Guy yelled.

"If I do, I have no regrets. It was just…that good a match. I shall never forget it. The sight of those six brave souls, fighting with all their might…!"

"They won!" Rita cried, far too wound up. "See, Teresa? See?"

"Of course they did. Stop shaking me."

"I dunno how you stay so chill, Teresa… My palms are all sweaty!" Peter said. His fists had been clenched the entire duration.

Beside him, Dean was still breathing heavily, just as worked up. Then it occurred to him to toss a question over Teresa's head to the girl at his side.

"Quite a fight, huh? I bet even you've got nothing to nitpick."

"…Hmph. Yes, it was certainly above average for the junior league."

Felicia had her legs folded gracefully, but despite her words, Dean could see the hairs on the nape of her neck standing on end.

"…You're so worked up, you've got goose bumps. You really should just admit it."

"No, it's quite cold in here. They did a poor job with temperature control. I shall have to file a complaint."

"…Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess."

Giving up the fight, Dean turned back to the ring. But he kept one eye on Felicia, who continued to vibrate in her seat.

He smirked. She's a lot easier to read than I thought. Quite an upgrade from his first impression.

Cheers for their tremendous battle raining down without end, Oliver stood in the ring, quietly staring at his feet. There lay his final opponent, exhausted and on his back.

"…If you'd stuck to spells, this might've ended differently. Did you not consider that?"

Andrews slowly turned his gaze toward Oliver. He had just been stabbed, and the wound ran deep. Coupled with the exhaustion of the fight, he could barely feel his limbs—but the dulling spell ensured the wound was not fatal. Ordinarily, one would send a burst of magic through one's athame to finish off an impaled foe, but Oliver chose not to, having deemed it unnecessary.

Thus, even now, Andrews had enough left in him to speak. It took him a moment, but he began to answer. "I showed no sword arts in earlier matches. I was saving them for you. I figured if I didn't show that hand here, it would all go to waste."

"…Ah," Oliver said, smiling. It made total sense.

Andrews gazed up at him for a moment, then asked a question of his own.

"That move against the Hero's Charge—was that drop a spur-of-the-moment thing?"

"Yeah, my body mostly moved on its own there. I couldn't do anything in an ordinary stance, so my approach was unorthodox. It was only timed to hit your blade because you came in at maximum speed. If you'd put a feint in there, I'd have been done for."

This explanation served only to impress Andrews all the more. Oliver had spent a long time polishing his skills as a Lanoff traditionalist but hadn't hesitated to discard that theory the moment the situation demanded it. Andrews briefly reflected on his choice not to feint but concluded it had been his only outcome. If that feint had given Oliver time to retreat, the moment would have been lost. Which meant his choice of finishers had sealed his loss.

"Come to think of it…Rossi did something similar against Team Cornwallis. Didn't think I'd see the likes from you."

"Did he? Maybe all that sparring we've done has rubbed off on me."

Nonplussed by that, Oliver scratched his cheek. They'd certainly spent enough time dueling to have influenced each other somehow. And he had to admit he did rather admire Rossi's free spirit. If their time together had clinched a major victory here, then he owed Rossi one. He could just picture the Ytallian's look of horror if he tried to thank him.

For a while, neither spoke again, just letting the silence sit. In that comfortable hush, Oliver's mind explored what he'd sensed from Andrews during the fight. It was all too easy to imagine the time he'd spent preparing himself for this match. And the pride he sought beyond it.

It was possible they'd never have a chance to speak this openly again. That thought made Oliver's lips move, almost of their own accord.

"So, uh…Mr. Andrews."

"?"

"That was a real good match. I'm not particularly prone to enjoy my fights, but…my time with you was genuinely fulfilling. It's almost a shame it had to end."

He was definitely feeling his way to something here. Couldn't let the nerves get in his way—he'd won, so it was his turn to reach out.

"Um…I guess what I'm trying to say is…"

The choice of words eluded him. He wasn't usually this inarticulate, but this time he simply couldn't find an apt turn of phrase. Increasingly unsure he could get his intent across at all, he persevered.

"I'd like it if we could spar more often, not just on these…special occasions. Work through whatever we messed up together, explore each other's strength and weaknesses from every angle… No, this is all wrong. I didn't mean to get so stiff."

The more logic he applied, the further he strayed from his goal. Realizing that, he threw caution to the wind and sat back down. Knees together, back upright, hands on his lap. A posture Nanao had taught him, from back home in Yamatsu—the seiza.

"I'd like to get to know you better. That's my real point here," Oliver said. "So…will you be my friend, Mr. Andrews?"

All clutter cast aside. And the words took Andrews's breath away. He felt a heat rising behind his nostrils and something welling up in his eyes. To avoid Oliver seeing that, he was forced to turn his head away.

"...Richard," Andrews said at length. He spoke quickly, to disguise the tremor in his voice. "That's what my closest friends call me. Chela went with Rick, but that's only ever been her. And it digs up childhood memories, so I'd rather she not."

Oliver nodded and gave his knees some mercy. He knew he'd gotten the message across. No more need for formality. He turned to sit alongside Andrews, looking up at the ceiling, legs outstretched.

"Got it, Richard. I sure am beat."

"Yeah, same. Can't lift a finger."

Each spoke from the heart. Andrews at last got his wits about him and turned back toward Oliver. His right arm alone still moved a little, so he made a fist and held it out.

"Next one's mine, Oliver."

The first time he'd ever addressed him like that, but it settled naturally onto his tongue. Oliver grinned and bumped his fist.


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