As Alaric stepped onto the battleground, he wondered to himself, Who's my opponent today? What kind of skills will he show me?
The arena was already packed. Most of the individual events had finished, so students from other classes had gathered to watch. The noise rolled like waves.
Not a trace of nervousness crossed Alaric's face. He scanned the crowd.
"Ah. Found them."
He waved at Elara, Caelin, and Lalanat.
Whispers spread instantly.
"He's way too relaxed."
"Is he actually strong?"
"Or did he just show up because no one else could fight?"
Praise mixed with jealousy.
A knight stepped forward. "Step up," he ordered. "The rules are simple. The first to drop their sword or fall loses."
He handed them wooden swords.
"Are you ready?"
Both nodded.
"Begin."
The crowd roared even before the first strike.
Lalanat clenched her hands, half-worried.
Caelin's eyes stayed locked on the fighters.
Elara, still catching her breath after dancing, leaned forward.
"Alaric, son of Kalvein," the opponent announced. "I am Victor. A noble of Valerith. I'll take you down, you mannerless noble who only knows how to swing a sword."
Alaric raised his weapon, resting it near his face. "Talk less. Fight more, Mister First Rank."
"So then," Victor said, stepping in, "show me what you've got."
Victor charged.
Instead of swinging, he thrust straight toward Alaric.
Alaric dodged instead of blocking.
Fast, he thought. More like a samurai than a brute warrior.
Victor attacked again with the same piercing motion.
Alaric waited.
Caelin smirked.
Lalanat glanced at him. "Does something matter?"
Caelin didn't look away. "You can already tell. He's won."
Before she could respond, the crowd exploded.
Victor was on the ground.
Alaric stood above him, waving casually toward the seats.
Lalanat froze, then slowly waved back, completely stunned.
Caelin finally spoke.
"When Victor thrust the first time, Alaric dodged and confirmed the opening behind him," he explained. "When Victor repeated the same move, Alaric slipped past again and struck before Victor could turn."
He exhaled softly. "Wooden sword. No restraint. Speed and strength at once."
"…Luck?" Lalanat asked.
Caelin smiled. "A little. Victor used the same move twice. If he hadn't, this wouldn't have ended so fast."
Then, almost proudly, "Alaric reads the battlefield quickly."
Elara crossed her arms. "It's good he won, but this doesn't end here. Sword fighting needs a champion. He still has more opponents."
Her eyes followed Alaric, who waved brightly at the crowd.
Victor slammed his fist into the ground. "Impossible… I'm fast. That's my strength. So how—"
Alaric offered him a hand.
Victor brushed it away. "Don't push your luck."
He turned and left.
Alaric scratched the back of his head. "Yeah… I get that feeling."
Then, smiling again, "Anyway, let's go check Elara's results."
He waved once more at the crowd as he walked out.
Alaric walked toward the information board.
From a distance, he spotted them.
Elara stood still, holding the edge of her skirt, her head lowered as if she might cry at any moment.
Lalanat faced her, hands on her shoulders, worry written all over her face.
Beside them, Caelin stood with his arms folded, his expression serious.
Alaric frowned.
Did she not even make third?
Why does she look like that?
As he reached them, he slowed.
"Is everything okay…?" he asked, then paused. "Ah… I guess not."
Lalanat stepped closer and whispered,
"She got second."
He blinked, a little relieved.
"Then that's good, isn't it?" he said, trying to lighten the mood. "We still got points. Why the long face?"
Lalanat sighed.
"Our class quiz participation came third. We only have four points so far."
"Oh… that sounds bad," he muttered.
Elara heard him. She quickly wiped her eyes, still avoiding their gaze.
Alaric stepped closer.
"Are you crying, princess?" he said lightly. "That's unusual for you."
Lalanat immediately smacked his shoulder.
"Ouch—okay," he winced. Then, softer this time,
"I mean… it's a class competition. You did your part. The result isn't something you can control."
Caelin finally spoke.
"He's right," he said calmly. "It's only the first day. Even if the chances are low, they're not zero. We just need to win what's ahead."
Lalanat turned back to Elara and gently pulled her into a hug.
"They're right," she said. "You're doing well. And Alaric will win his sword duel too, so keep your head up."
Elara nodded against her shoulder, wiping the rest of her tears.
Around them, their classmates began to gather.
Some congratulated Alaric for his win.
Others apologized for the quiz results.
A few girls approached Elara.
"You did great," one of them said. "Don't mind the results. You're still the best."
Elara hesitated, then gave a small smile.
"Ah… yeah. I guess."
The noise around the board grew louder and louder until their teacher stepped in, scolding them for the commotion and dismissing them for the day.
After dinner, the house settles into a quiet rhythm.
Upstairs, Caelin and Lalanat go over their drama script, their voices faint through the ceiling.
Downstairs, Elara and Alaric stand side by side at the sink, hands moving through soap and water.
"I hope those two are doing well," Alaric says.
"Yeah."
Elara doesn't look at him. She keeps washing.
A pause.
"You're still mad?"
He leans closer, lightly poking her cheek—
Glance.
"I don't think we're close enough for you to touch me like that."
Her voice sharpens. The air tightens.
Alaric freezes. "Ah—sorry." He stutters, forcing a small smile. "I was just trying to cheer you up."
The tension breaks.
Elara exhales, her tone softening. "I'm fine… just a little dizzy."
She rinses the last plate, then adds quietly,
"Besides… you're still competing, right? You have to win for us. If not, I'll be mad."
Alaric lets out a short laugh. "Is that how you ask for a favor?"
Elara stops.
Her hands slow in the water. Her gaze drops.
"…please."
That single word lands heavier than everything before.
Alaric notices immediately. "Hey… you okay, princess?"
She wipes at her eyes quickly. "Yeah. I am."
A beat.
"I know it's selfish but… please help me. Help me by winning."
Her voice breaks. The tears come anyway.
Alaric's expression softens. "There's nothing wrong with asking your friend for a favor."
He steps closer, gentler now.
"In fact… you should. I would do the same."
She tries to stop crying, but it slips through.
"I'm sorry… I couldn't hold it back."
"It's okay," he says quietly. "If holding it in doesn't help… don't."
For a moment, he hesitates—
then pulls her into a careful hug.
She doesn't resist.
And for a while, they stay like that,
with nothing left to say.
I'll head out for a bit," he says. "Need to get a few swings in. Match tomorrow."
Elara nods. "Okay."
She pauses, then adds softly,
"I'll take a bath and sleep. Goodnight."
Alaric glances at her for a second. "Goodnight."
He steps out into the night.
She stays.
The house settles again, as if nothing ever happened.
And the night passes—
quiet,
but not as empty as before.
Time moved quickly.
Class Two kept trailing behind Class Seven, which led overall by three points. Behind them was Class One, five points behind Class Two.
Class Two secured first place in drama and second in archery, bringing their total to sixteen points so far.
Meanwhile—
Alaric maintained his winning streak in sword duels. He was now approaching the semifinals. If he won, he would have to fight two matches in a single day, one in the morning and another at noon.
That night, excitement and nervousness mixed in the air. Tomorrow's matches would decide everything.
Alaric spoke with his mouth full,
"So, Lala… your script did well, huh? That's why you won, right?"
He kept eating, barely pausing.
"I think you're not just writing, haha."
Lalanat shook her head.
"No… it's not just me. The people on stage did well too."
She looked down slightly.
"I'm just the process, not the result."
She suddenly noticed everyone staring at her.
"Ah—no, I don't want the spotlight—wait, how do I say this…"
She started fumbling, clearly flustered.
Caelin chuckled.
"But Lalanat, results exist because of the process."
He added gently,
"So don't downplay yourself. You're still the core."
Alaric suddenly forced his food down, like he had something important to say.
"Yeah, he's right. Besides, you wouldn't do well on stage anyway."
He paused, then added bluntly,
"I mean… you're kinda shy and nervous."
Elara immediately grabbed his cheek and pulled.
"Can you finish eating first before talking?"
She shot him a look.
"And learn how to say things properly, even if you mean well."
The dining room soon filled with noise, their voices overlapping into a lively chaos.
The crowd roared as seniors and teachers gathered around the arena to witness the final duel—one that would decide not only the champion, but the fate of the Chosen Class.
Alaric stepped onto the battlefield. Cheers erupted. He smiled and gave a small wave before his eyes landed on his opponent.
Two swords.
He tilted his head slightly, confused, then glanced at the referee.
"Is that allowed? And how do I know if I've won?"
The referee nodded.
"If one of his swords is dropped, or if he surrenders, you win."
He paused, then added,
"If either of you is badly injured, I have the authority to stop the match and declare a winner."
Alaric nodded.
"Got it."
He turned back to his opponent—a wealthy merchant's son from Draven Mark.
"Interesting," he muttered with a faint smile.
Up front, Elara sat with her arms folded, eyes locked on the field. Lalanat clasped her hands tightly, almost as if praying. Beside them, Caelin leaned forward, excitement written all over his
face.
"Ready?"
Both fighters nodded, gripping their swords.
"Begin."
The crowd fell silent.
Mark charged first.
Alaric moved to meet him, but quickly found himself pressured from both sides. Dual swords. Fast. Relentless.
He blocked, then slipped away to the side, creating distance.
"Damn… this drains too much stamina. I need to be careful," he thought, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Running away?" Mark smirked.
Caelin chuckled from the stands. "You thought."
In an instant, Alaric surged forward.
Mark barely had time to react as Alaric attacked from both angles, forcing him back. Wooden blades cracked against each other again and again, each strike echoing sharply through the arena.
Mark blocked, but his footing started to slip under the pressure.
Then—
A sharp kick to his stomach.
Mark staggered back, bending slightly. The crowd gasped.
"Damn it—"
He looked up.
Too late.
Alaric was already there.
A right swing—
Mark caught it.
His left blade locked Alaric's strike in place.
In that instant—
Alaric's left side opened.
Mark didn't hesitate.
With his second sword, he struck.
The wooden blade slammed into Alaric's side.
A dull, heavy impact.
Alaric's breath hitched as the force drove into his stomach. His body dropped slightly, one knee touching the ground as he struggled to steady himself.
Mark stepped back, breathing hard, a faint grin forming through his exhaustion.
Both fighters paused.
Wounded. Tired.
Still standing.
The arena erupted into cheers.
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