Chapter 249: Failed Counterattack
The fresh wound left by the mysterious knight's ambush still throbbed with pain, but Zofia no longer had the luxury to care.
There was no respite.
The knight before her—The Brassrust Knight—clearly had no intention of letting up.
Gripping his battle axe tightly, he launched into another brutal downward swing, aimed directly at her face.
It was not an attack meant to score points or win some tournament. It was an attempt to kill her—plain and simple.
Zofia managed to intercept the blow with her whip-blade, though the effort made her arms tremble. But just as she steadied herself, she noticed something chilling: none of the eight certified referees, supposedly sanctioned by the Knights' Association, reacted at all. They didn't even glance in her direction, as if her near-death moment hadn't even happened.
Worse still, the combat drones that streamed the match to the public had also begun deliberately avoiding her skirmish. The broadcasts were all focused on other ongoing fights—anywhere but here.
Her current situation… was less than ideal.
"Why are you just running and dodging like some pathetic little rat?" the Brassrust Knight snarled, his voice dripping with scorn. "Weren't you the one who shouted about reviving the true spirit of knighthood? Then stand and fight me head-on, like a proper knight!"
Zofia barely avoided another savage swing, rolling aside to escape the axe's deadly arc. His mocking words hit harder than his attacks—because she knew he was trying to humiliate her, not just beat her.
He remembered, just as well as she did, how she'd once declared proudly her mission to restore honor to knighthood. But now… all she could do was evade and endure.
"This is a battle tactic," she retorted between labored breaths. "And do you really think this is what a knight's duel is supposed to be?"
Truth be told, Zofia didn't actually fear a one-on-one fight with the Brassrust Knight. If that were all she had to worry about, she'd already be pressing the advantage.
But she wasn't just fighting him.
Lurking nearby were several other knights—none of whom had any interest in engaging each other.
From the very start of the match, they'd clustered together, like a pack of venomous snakes watching their prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike from the shadows.
With that many eyes on her, ready to pounce the second she let her guard down, how could she possibly afford a straight-up duel?
"Heh. Survival of the fittest," the Brassrust Knight growled, driving his axe down again with brutal force. "Why do you think this isn't the way it's meant to be?"
He didn't want a debate. He wanted her crushed.
Swing after swing, he pushed Zofia back, steadily shrinking her space to maneuver. Each attack came faster, heavier, and more ruthless than the last, like a predator tightening the noose.
Then, right on cue, the drones cut back to their fight.
The broadcast screens around the arena lit up with a new scene: Zofia, cornered and barely holding on, while the Brassrust Knight closed in for the kill.
"Ladies and gentlemen, would you look at this!" the announcer's voice boomed across the coliseum. "The fan-favorite Whislash Knight is on the ropes, dominated by the equally popular brute, the Brassrust Knight! Is this the end for her? Or will she pull off a miraculous comeback? Either way, this might be another brutal finish for the infamous flower-crusher!"
Zofia gritted her teeth, the commentary only deepening her frustration.
But the truth was clear: this couldn't go on.
She had to end this—and soon.
Taking hits wouldn't solve anything. If she wanted a shot at survival, the Brassrust Knight had to fall first. Once he was out of the picture, the others would be far easier to deal with.
Resolved, she raised her whip-blade and blocked the next incoming strike—but this time, the sheer weight behind his axe was too much.
Her stance broke.
Zofia fell backward, body reeling from the force.
Olmer wasn't about to let such a perfect opening slip by. Seizing the moment with ruthless precision, he charged forward, raising his axe in a wide horizontal arc that sliced straight toward Zofia's falling path.
In her unbalanced state, there was no way she could evade the blow—not without a foothold to push off from.
But that was exactly what Zofia had intended.
Just as the axe came down, her whip-blade—which had hung limply in her grip—suddenly stiffened like a drawn sword.
She drove it into the ground, vaulting herself upward and narrowly avoiding the deadly swing.
In that same motion, she launched herself into the air, twisting through the Brassrust Knight's guard and positioning herself directly above him.
Zofia's eyes locked onto a critical weakness—the joint between his helmet and chestplate, the vulnerable point where his armor was thinnest.
If she was going to escape this mess, she had to take this monster out first.
This strike wouldn't kill him, but it would be enough to knock him out, maybe even get him disqualified. Either way, it would buy her the breathing room she desperately needed.
The blade-like whip in her hands softened once more, morphing back into a flexible lash mid-air as she snapped it down at the Brassrust Knight's exposed neck.
The cameras caught everything. The drones, which had previously turned away as if trying to hide her plight, were now broadcasting this turning point in full. The moment that could change everything.
Or so it seemed.
Just as her strike was about to land, the feed cut—abruptly and without explanation. The live footage switched again to other knights fighting elsewhere on the battlefield.
Zofia's instincts screamed.
A chill shot up her spine. Every hair on her body stood on end.
Danger. Immediate. Lethal.
Without even understanding why, her body froze. Her hand stopped mid-swing, suspended in the air. Her eyes flicked toward the source of the danger—a young man in the stands.
A handsome youth with fresh teal hair and a bright, innocent smile. He looked completely out of place among the roaring crowd. But it was him.
Just him.
He hadn't moved. Hadn't shouted. Hadn't drawn a weapon.
All he had done was raise his hand… and mimic pulling a trigger.
And that tiny gesture alone made Zofia feel like the Grim Reaper himself had set his sights on her.
Who was that man? Why was he watching her? And why did a simple gesture carry such weight—such terror—when he didn't even have a weapon?
She didn't have time to answer those questions.
Her hesitation lasted less than a second, but it was all the Brassrust Knight needed.
Spinning around with terrifying speed, he swung the back of his axe like a hammer and slammed it into her midsection, sending her flying like a bowling pin.
She had no chance to dodge.
Still in midair, all she could do was brace herself as the impact tore through her armor. Her beautifully crafted plating cracked instantly, and she was hurled across the field, crashing into the ground with a sickening thud.
Pain exploded through her body like fire. Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't move—could barely breathe. The whip-blade slipped from her hand and clattered to the ground beside her. But she no longer had the strength to pick it up.
The agony was unbearable, but what cut even deeper than the pain… was the sound.
A roar of gasps and cheers erupted across the arena.
The drones, of course, had returned just in time—to capture the moment of her defeat in perfect clarity. The crowd erupted in applause and horror, all eyes on the Brassrust Knight as he stood tall.
From their perspective, it was simple: Zofia had failed her counterattack and paid the price.
No one saw the hesitation. No one questioned why she had stopped mid-strike.
To the spectators, only one thing mattered: the victor standing tall, not the fallen challenger lying in the dirt.
"It seems the battle between the Whislash Knight and the Brassrust Knight has come to an end! What a fight—short but intense. Though promising, it looks like our newcomer still needs some polish!"
The announcer's voice echoed through the arena like a final verdict.
Zofia's weapon lay discarded on the ground, her hand limp and trembling beside it. It was obvious—she no longer had the strength to fight.
Olmer approached her slowly, basking in the thunderous applause like a triumphant gladiator. To the crowd, he was the undisputed champion.
Even through her visor, Zofia could see his twisted, cruel smile.
"What a shame, little mouse," he sneered, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "But luck's a part of strength too, you know? Only those standing get to talk about fairness. No matter how hard you fight, you can't win against the ones above. Especially not after getting involved with them."
As he spoke, he raised his axe again—not to finish the fight, but to maim her. Specifically, he aimed for her left hand—the one she always used to wield her whip-blade.
The match should've been over. She had lost.
And yet, it continued.
The drones that had once broadcast her every move now turned away again, deliberately avoiding the scene. The judges nearby did nothing—no whistles, no calls, no intervention. They simply stood there, watching silently, eyes cold.
It was absurd.
The rulebook had been clear: once a contestant is rendered unable to fight, further attacks are prohibited. The tournament prided itself on fairness, on justice.
But now? That noble ideal was a joke.
A farce.
Olmer's axe gleamed as it rose, then fell—straight for her arm.
"Blame yourself," he hissed, voice low, "for being dumb enough to join this tournament while being a distant relative of the Nearl family. I have no say in this."
Despite the excuse, his tone betrayed him.
He wasn't doing this out of obligation—he was enjoying it.
There was sadistic joy in his voice, in his eyes.
He wanted to see her beautiful face contorted in agony.
Wanted to hear her scream.
That was the real reason he was here—not for honor, not for victory, but to hurt people and be applauded for it.
The orders from his superiors had just given him an excuse. Even if they hadn't told him to target Zofia, he would've done it anyway.
And then—right as the axe was about to come down—everything stopped.
The entire arena went silent.
As if someone had pressed a cosmic pause button.
The crowd stopped cheering. The other knights stopped fighting.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
A strange pressure filled the air, a crushing sense of wrongness that swallowed the stadium like a void.
It was as if a hole had opened in the world itself—an abyss, bending space, devouring every sound, every heartbeat.
Then, from within that twisting darkness, a figure emerged.
Clad in armor of black, white, red, and gold—a bizarre fusion of colors and shapes that defied logic—stood a lone warrior. Their presence was overwhelming, an anomaly that didn't belong to this world.
"W-What… is that thing…?"
Olmer voice cracked as he instinctively stepped back.
His axe still hung mid-swing.
And Zofia—
Zofia was no longer beneath it.
Without him even noticing, the girl he was about to mutilate now rested safely within the arms of the newcomer.
<+>
If you want to see more chapter of this story and don't mind spending $5 monthly to see till the latest chapter, please go to my Patreon[1]
Latest Chapter in Patreon: Chapter 274: Let's Retire[2]
Link to the latest chapter: https://www.patreon.com/posts/130087803?collection=55713[3]
https://www.patreon.com/collection/55713?view=expanded[4]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/collection/55713?view=expanded
[2] https://www.patreon.com/posts/130087803?collection=55713
[3] https://www.patreon.com/posts/130087803?collection=55713
[4] https://www.patreon.com/collection/55713?view=expanded