Blood spurted from Laurent's chest as it was slashed open.
But it wasn't just Laurent's problem.
Hasan, too, had retreated with blood flowing from his arm.
"As expected of Laurent."
Yuri gave a brief remark.
Laurent's swordsmanship was righteous.
Never rash, he performed what needed to be done wisely in every given situation.
This time was no different.
Realizing that he couldn't avoid Hasan's attack, Laurent didn't hesitate to abandon defense and swung his sword in return.
His target was Hasan's arm—within reach of his blade.
In a moment barely longer than a blink, he completed all judgment and moved his body.
"Is the wound okay?"
"It's not deep. Hasan's the real problem. He's going to have trouble wielding his sword."
Laurent and Hasan stood off, glaring at each other in a temporary standoff.
Laurent then stepped back and, as if his blood-soaked shirt was a nuisance, tore it off with his hands and flung it out of the stage.
This revealed his sculpted, trained upper body.
A gasp of admiration erupted from the audience. As Laurent was particularly popular among women, the reaction rippled through the entire arena.
Jared muttered.
"A kind face with muscles that say otherwise…"
He wasn't bulky, but every muscle was clearly defined and developed.
When Laurent raised his sword, the muscles in his back moved like waves.
Watching the scene, Yuri spoke.
"Hasan has lost."
"Huh?"
"Even if Laurent loses the match, it's still Hasan who's been defeated."
"…Yes."
Hasan, facing off against Laurent, glared while clutching the wound on his arm and remaining in a lowered stance. In contrast, Laurent had shed his shirt and stood tall and confident.
Somehow, he looked pitiful.
Then suddenly, Yuri started clapping. The unexpected act drew the attention of everyone nearby.
Yuri spoke.
"I support Laurent, but just for this moment, I want to give applause to Hasan."
"That's…"
Jared silently followed Yuri, and soon, applause spread from those around them to the entire audience.
Everyone, at least once in their life, must have found themselves in Hasan's shoes.
It was a kind of comradeship.
The battle resumed. With his sword arm injured, Hasan could no longer move properly and kept retreating.
Laurent continued to press him.
Gradually, more wounds appeared on Hasan's body.
Yuri asked Jose,
"That secret technique, does he still have it?"
"Yes."
Jose nodded.
"Hasan is waiting for the right moment. I think the match will be decided soon."
***
Hasan crouched down, minimizing his stamina usage.
His opponent looked big.
As the match went on, Laurent's figure appeared larger and larger in his eyes.
"…He's strong."
Hasan muttered.
Laurent wasn't particularly powerful, nor was he extraordinarily fast. He didn't manipulate mana in flashy ways.
He simply swung his sword steadily.
And yet, the more they exchanged blows, the more Hasan inevitably took damage.
Those tiny differences accumulated into a massive gap.
Hasan laughed inwardly.
Against an opponent like this, expecting a comeback was futile. He made no careless mistakes, took no unnecessary risks—like a snake slowly coiling around its prey, he led his opponent steadily toward defeat.
"Not the kind of guy you want to face."
Hasan raised his eyes.
Laurent was approaching with his sword pointed forward. That image felt like a death sentence.
Of course, Hasan still had one last card left unplayed.
But that fact brought little comfort. Facing Laurent's sword, he felt like a clumsy swordsman relying on cheap tricks to make up for lacking skill.
"Damn it."
Everyone from that damned country called Briol was the same.
He glanced sideways at the audience.
He thought it was just the 3rd Prince who didn't even enter the tournament, but Laurent here was just as annoying, albeit a different type.
Then suddenly, Laurent opened his mouth.
"You said something before the match started."
"What?"
"That you could beat the 3rd Prince."
On stage, Hasan had tried to provoke Laurent. Most of it was about Laurent himself, and he had only mentioned the 3rd Prince in passing.
Yet it seemed what Laurent remembered most was that single comment about the 3rd Prince.
"So, how about now? Can you still say that?"
Laurent gave a faint chuckle.
His eyes were full of confidence in his victory.
Even without asking, Hasan knew what it meant. If you can't even beat me, what right do you have to talk about the 3rd Prince?
"…Shit."
So damn annoying.
Hasan stepped forward and swung his sword. His injured arm made his movements awkward, but he could still manage to exchange blows.
At this rate, he would lose.
He had just one chance left.
To seize that chance, he began laying the groundwork again with careful planning.
As if refusing to admit defeat, he exaggerated his movements, swung wildly, and wasted energy.
"Hey, do you really think you've already won?"
Hasan gritted his teeth and slashed Laurent's thigh. It only left a shallow cut.
"Your master's just a coward who didn't enter the tournament 'cause he was scared his skills would be exposed."
He aimed to provoke Laurent again, thinking he seemed more sensitive to comments about the 3rd Prince.
"That story about the 3rd Prince being active in the Allied Army… that was all you, wasn't it? No way a punk like him could've done that."
Laurent's eyes turned cold.
There are those who don't fall for provocation—instead, they grow colder and crush their opponent without mercy.
Laurent appeared to be one of them.
Hasan gave a bitter grin and spat out the blood in his mouth.
"Laurent. You brat. Come at me."
He curled his finger. Laurent approached. Not because of the taunt—he had already been slowly moving closer from the start.
Hasan activated his mana method.
A bluish aura gathered along his blade.
The moment Laurent crossed the imaginary line in Hasan's mind, he slashed like a bolt of lightning. A blade of sword aura burst from his sword and struck Laurent.
Laurent raised his sword and blocked it.
Hasan charged in immediately.
Mana pulsed through his body, flowing into his right shoulder.
His arm grew hot.
"Phew…"
Hidden beneath his clothes, from shoulder to wrist, was a long tattoo. A magic-imbued tattoo.
There were no rules banning magic in the tournament. And since it was magic etched into his own body, it counted as part of his ability.
"Die!"
Hasan shouted exaggeratedly as he swung his sword. His blade clashed with Laurent's. Sparks flew.
He didn't close his eyes, pressing forward against Laurent and twisting his sword. As he did, Hasan's sword slid down along the blade of Laurent's.
Laurent, without hesitation, disengaged and dodged to the side. Hasan pursued him, swinging his sword.
Laurent, off balance, tried to raise his sword to block.
Their blades were just about to meet.
Now.
Hasan used magic. His shoulder flared with burning heat. In an instant, his sword faded, becoming semi-transparent.
His sword passed through Laurent's.
For a moment—barely more than a breath—his blade could pass through solid matter.
Now, there was nothing stopping his sword.
He hadn't held back his strength, so if it continued like this, Laurent might die from the strike.
But it didn't matter.
In tournaments, accidental deaths were common.
Fighting, in the end, was just that.
"Die."
The moment his blade came down toward Laurent's body, Hasan looked into Laurent's eyes.
They were calm.
That gaze had not changed once since the moment he stepped onto the stage.
Laurent never panicked, never acted rashly.
This time was no different.
Hasan instinctively sensed something was wrong.
Just before the blade reached, Laurent's body slipped to the side. The movement was as if someone had yanked him back from behind.
He had dodged through a space so narrow it couldn't even be seen with the naked eye.
It made no sense.
How could he react in that infinitesimal moment? How could he move like a ghost?
It was as if he had already read Hasan's move.
His ultimate strike had failed. Only one thing remained.
A cold sensation touched his neck.
Laurent's sword slipped through his skin and drew blood. It flowed down. It felt like there was emotion in the motion.
Hasan said in a hollow voice,
"I lost."
Not to the 3rd Prince of Briol, but to the lackey who followed him around.
But he didn't feel that bad.
At this point, he understood.
Laurent was several levels above him.
As the blade left his neck, Hasan collapsed to the ground.
After using magic, he wouldn't be able to move for a while. Watching Laurent's back grow distant with steady steps, he shook his head.
"Damn Briol bastards…"
***
Laurent had won.
It happened so fast, most people didn't even understand what had just occurred.
But those who caught that moment were shocked by Hasan's strange technique, and then stunned again by Laurent's composed response.
"He's more than worthy of being the tournament's champion."
Jose murmured, and Yuri nodded.
"Exactly."
Laurent faced his opponent with elegance, never once flustered.
Not as a fellow competitor, but like a champion calmly accepting a challenge.
Hasan stumbled off the stage, and the referee quickly stepped up to bring order. He pulled Laurent to the center and had him turn toward the audience to bow.
Then, using an artifact, he shouted aloud.
[The tournament champion has been decided! Sir Laurent Flandre, from Briol!]
Cheers erupted.
Laurent wasn't just skilled—his demeanor was also upright. Even the Imperial citizens who had cheered for Hasan showed no resentment at his victory.
"If it's Laurent, he deserves to win."
"He's been amazing since he was young, and he's grown up just the same."
"Can't we naturalize him into the Empire?"
"Don't bother. Don't you know how loyal he is to the 3rd Prince?"
"Briol really has a lot of talent…"
Amid such conversations, the tournament approached its final ceremony.
As the winner, Laurent ascended the stairs and stood before the emperor.
Ibarra wore a wide smile.
[All subjects present, please offer your respects to His Majesty the Emperor.]
Not just Laurent—everyone in the audience turned to bow toward the emperor.
After remaining bowed for a while, the referee suddenly stood and spoke.
[His Majesty will personally place the laurel crown on the champion's head. Please join in congratulatory applause.]
Applause and cheers burst out.
The laurel crown was placed upon Laurent's head.
[And now…]
Ibarra turned and fumbled behind him.
What he eventually held up was a golden medal that glowed brightly.
[As His Majesty declared, the victor will be awarded this medal. It can be used in any way. So now, this medal…]
Anticipation swelled in the referee's voice.
Ibarra placed the medal around Laurent's neck himself, patted his shoulder, and said something. Laurent bowed his head.
[Now, then…]
Gradually, the arena quieted down.
There was no set procedure for what came next.
Laurent could simply wear the medal and bask in the glory of victory.
But since the emperor had made a public declaration before the tournament began, everyone's attention was on what Laurent would do next.
Would the consort of the imperial princess—known as the Empire's treasure—be decided here and now?
Naturally, people's gazes shifted from Laurent to the princess.
Dressed in ceremonial attire, Ekaterina's presence was literally dazzling.
So beautiful that once one met her eyes, it was hard to look away for a long time. For a moment, the entire arena fell silent.
The image of Laurent kneeling before her and offering the medal came to mind on its own.
That was why—
When the sound of hurried footsteps echoed, the crowd instinctively searched for the source.
"Huh?"
All eyes in the arena belatedly followed one person.
Laurent was descending the stairs.
Everyone stared blankly.
He crossed the arena and headed for the very front row of the audience.
Then he knelt on one knee and held the medal out to someone.
Laurent's voice rang out.
"I, Laurent, dedicate this tournament victory to the Prince."
Silence fell.
Yuri let out a long sigh.
"Ah, I told him not to give it…"
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