Chapter 183
Competition (2)
The arena was silent for a moment as Henry and Marcus faced each other. Both gripped their wooden swords, the familiar weight of the training weapons grounding them. Marcus's expression was a mixture of determination and simmering frustration. He hadn't forgotten the last match.
"You got lucky last time," Marcus spat, his voice sharp. "Don't think it's going to happen again."
Henry raised an eyebrow, stepping forward into a ready stance. "Right. Let's see if you can do better this time."
The current scoreline showed blue clawing back, trailing just six to seven. If Henry managed to win this match, they'd be tied with red.
The instructors signaled the start, and the fight was on. Marcus lunged immediately, swinging aggressively, his movements fueled more by anger than technique. Henry sidestepped easily, barely shifting his weight, his wooden sword a calm extension of his intent. Every strike Marcus threw was blocked or avoided with minimal effort, but Marcus refused to relent.
"You're going to pay for embarrassing me," Marcus gritted through clenched teeth, swinging again. Henry parried with a smooth, almost lazy motion, letting Marcus's sword slide harmlessly off. The sound of wood against wood echoed across the arena.
IAM, Reuel, and Yohan watched from the sidelines. Reuel muttered under his breath, "He's not even breaking a sweat… this isn't fair."
Henry's movements were calm and almost lazy. Every time Marcus attacked, Henry found the smallest opening and used it to control distance, push Marcus back, or disarm him momentarily. Marcus's pride, however, kept him attacking. He wanted to show he wasn't weak. Every blocked strike was met with a glare and a more reckless swing.
"This is pathetic," Marcus growled as Henry sidestepped yet another wild swing and tapped him lightly on the shoulder with his sword, forcing him to stumble. "Don't think I'm giving up!"
"That's not what I'm expecting," Henry replied evenly, his tone calm. He circled Marcus slowly. "Just don't make it embarrassing for yourself."
Marcus's frustration began to show physically. He swung faster, trying to force Henry into a reaction. Henry didn't move faster; he simply adapted. Each of Marcus's attacks was anticipated, blocked, or redirected. Every time Marcus overextended, Henry exploited it subtly, nudging him off balance without breaking his own rhythm.
The crowd started to murmur. Even from the sidelines, IAM could see Marcus's growing fatigue. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was uneven. Yet he kept pushing forward. Pride, ego, and the memory of his last loss would not allow him to step back.
After boldly choosing Henry as his opponent, Marcus had fully expected an easy victory. He had picked him at random, seeing it as the perfect opportunity to climb in popularity and bolster the reputation and influence of his brand. It was a calculated risk: a win would boost his status immensely, but a loss would be embarrassing—yet he was confident in his skills.
After all, he knew Henry wasn't using an Avien, which he believed gave him a significant advantage.
This should have been simple. This should have been a guaranteed victory. But last time, everything had gone completely wrong. Henry had barely managed to beat him, and instead of catapulting Marcus to the top as he had hoped, his reputation had plummeted. The humiliation had been immediate. His classmates had ridiculed him relentlessly, laughing at what they saw as a pathetic display of incompetence. The pain to his pride alone would have been enough—but there was more.
Marcus's brand had taken a direct hit too. He had boldly challenged a rival—Henry's brand, Rollen—expecting to come out on top, only to lose outright.
The defeat wasn't just personal; it was public. The prestige of his brand had been undermined in one swift, humiliating match. When his classmates took the opportunity to gloat, it was devastating, but it got worse.
Shortly after the match, his brand terminated his contract. The very organization he had relied on to elevate his name in the academy had abandoned him.
Desperate, Marcus had begged for a second chance, scrambling to justify his previous failure with the same excuse he now clutched in his mind: he had underestimated Henry. And yet, the humiliation lingered, fueling a bitter, burning desire for redemption.
Now, facing Henry again, that same justification spilled out of him, almost involuntarily.
"You… you're just… too good!" Marcus shouted between gritted teeth as another of his swings was blocked effortlessly. "I'm not done yet!"
Henry tilted his head slightly, his expression calm and unshaken. "The only reason our last match was even close," he said, "was because I hadn't formed an Avien yet. Now that I have… your attacks are completely ineffective against me."
Marcus charged, swinging wildly, hoping that speed and aggression could overpower Henry. For a brief moment, his swing found a weak spot in Henry's stance—a tiny gap. Henry didn't miss it. He anticipated the follow-up and shifted, letting Marcus's momentum carry him past, off-balance. Henry's sword tapped Marcus's side, sending him stumbling forward.
"Not even close," Henry said quietly.
Marcus stumbled but caught himself, refusing to fall completely. His pride demanded he stay upright, that he fight to the very last breath, even if it was foolish. He squared himself again and lunged, forcing Henry to step back this time, if only slightly. But even in this small movement, Henry maintained control, guiding the battle without breaking stride.
IAM could see it clearly: Marcus was fighting his ego, not the actual fight. Each swing was more about proving something to himself than actually landing a hit. Reuel muttered, "He's digging his own grave."
"Don't… think… you can just toy with me!" Marcus growled, exhaustion creeping into his voice. His swings became increasingly wild, desperation bleeding through every movement. Henry dodged or deflected each one without breaking a sweat, sometimes moving only a fraction of a step.
Finally, Marcus attempted a spinning strike, hoping to catch Henry off-guard. Henry shifted smoothly, guiding Marcus's swing past and using the momentum to tap him lightly across the chest with the flat of his sword. The force sent Marcus sprawling backward, landing on one knee.
The crowd stirred. Murmurs spread through both classes. Marcus's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, eyes burning with frustration. He gritted his teeth, refusing to yield, but his body was beginning to betray him. His arms shook with exertion, his legs unsteady, his confidence cracking under the weight of the fight.
Henry approached calmly, not rushing. Every step was slow, every movement was calm. He circled Marcus slowly, watching, waiting for the moment Marcus's pride would push him past reason.
"There's no shame in calling it," Henry said softly, almost as if giving advice. "Just stop."
"I… I'm not… stopping!" Marcus hissed. He swung again, slower now, swinging more out of stubbornness than skill. Henry didn't move much this time. He simply guided the swing aside with minimal effort, and as Marcus overextended, Henry struck.
A clean hit to the side of the head sent Marcus toppling to the ground. Marcus hit the ground, stunned, still clutching his pride more than his weapon.
The arena fell silent for a brief moment. Then murmurs turned into applause. Henry stood over him, his sword lowered, waiting for Marcus to get up. When it was clear Marcus wasn't going to rise immediately, Henry stepped back.
Henry exhaled. "Finally…" he muttered.
He lowered his weapon fully, stepping back from the center. "It's over," he said simply.
The instructors moved forward, applauding with restrained smiles. "Good effort," Hobbie said, his voice carrying across the arena. "But I think it's clear—you still need to learn how to pick your battles, son."
"'Pick?'" IAM muttered to himself, his eyebrow twitching in disbelief.
Marcus grumbled something under his breath but didn't argue further. He collected his sword and moved off the stage, leaving Henry standing in the center.
Henry joined them shortly after, walking off the arena without a word.
The rest of the class buzzed about the fight for the next few minutes,praising Henry's technique, and speculating who would be called next. But for IAM, the match served as a reminder: pride could be a dangerous motivator, and even stubborn determination could not overcome someone truly prepared.
He glanced toward Henry, who now leaned casually against the edge of the arena, watching the next group of students.
IAM exhaled. One round down, and somehow it felt like the whole competition had just started.
And yet, his problem remained unresolved.