Caelin leaned forward, eyes locked on the fight.
"That would've done serious damage if those weren't wooden swords…" he murmured, a grin forming.
"What's your next move, Alaric?"
Alaric steadied himself, adjusting his stance.
Mark smiled, raising both swords closer to his face, eyes locked onto him.
Alaric smiled back.
His grip tightened.
A deep breath—
Then he moved.
In an instant, he closed the distance.
Mark's eyes widened. He barely managed to block the incoming strike.
Alaric didn't stop.
He pressed forward, strikes heavier, faster, giving Mark no time to think.
"What's with that strength…?" Mark thought, gritting his teeth.
Alaric swung from the right.
Mark recognized the pattern—he had seen this before.
He blocked.
And just as he prepared to counter toward Alaric's exposed side—
Alaric dropped low.
He slipped under the opening, rolling forward and closing the gap.
Before Mark could react—
thud
Alaric's blade struck his stomach at close range.
Mark staggered.
No space.
No recovery.
Alaric was already on him again.
Strike after strike.
Mark blocked, barely holding on, then tried to retaliate—
Alaric dodged.
Stepped behind him.
And—
crack
A clean strike from behind.
Mark dropped to the ground, still gripping his
blades.
"Stop!"
The referee stepped in.
"The match is over."
For a split second—
Silence.
Then—
The arena exploded into cheers.
Lalanat exhaled in relief, hands finally loosening.
Elara lowered her arms, her expression softening.
Caelin grinned.
"Yeah… that's it."
From the corner, Graneth nodded with quiet pride.
"Yes… that's my rival."
Alaric let out a breath, the tension leaving his shoulders as he walked toward Mark.
"You fought well."
He extended his hand.
Mark grabbed it, wincing slightly as he stood.
"Damn… you really got me at the end," he laughed, then groaned, "ouch."
Both shared a brief laugh.
Mark shook his head.
"Since I lost… you better win the championship."
Alaric smiled.
"Bet."
As they walked off, the crowd continued cheering.
"Great fight!"
"Mark, well done!"
"Alaric, you're insane!"
The noise followed them all the way out.
As he walked through the tunnel, Alaric noticed one of the next match fighters approaching from the opposite side.
As they were about to pass each other—
"I'll be there."
The words were low, almost casual.
They crossed paths.
Alaric slowed slightly, glancing back, unsure if he had heard it right.
At the end of the tunnel, Caelin and Lalanat were waiting. They waved as soon as they saw him.
Alaric's expression softened. He waved back, a small smile forming.
Lalanat stepped closer, concern in her eyes.
"Does it hurt… where he hit you?"
Alaric shrugged casually.
"Now that you mention it, I just remembered I got hit," he laughed.
Caelin grinned.
"Nice moves out there."
Alaric smiled.
"Thanks."
He looked around.
"Elara's not with you?"
Lalanat shook her head.
"We left her to save our seats… and our lunch box."
Alaric's face lit up.
"Lunch box?"
Caelin laughed.
"You're way too easy to read."
He turned, gesturing ahead.
"Come on. You might want to see who you're facing in the final."
Together, they headed off to watch the next match.
On their way, they ran into Simon and his friends.
As they were about to pass, Simon spoke,
"Class Two still chasing behind us?"
He glanced back with a smirk.
"Not bad. But don't get your hopes up—we'll win anyway."
He turned to leave.
Alaric blinked.
"Ah… who are you?"
Lalanat leaned in and whispered. Realization hit.
"Ohh—you're that guy Elara humbled."
Caelin and Lalanat burst out laughing behind him.
Simon's expression darkened.
"You've gotten bold after winning a few matches."
He stepped closer.
Alaric met his gaze, eyes sharp.
"You keep starting fights you can't finish, hm?"
The tension tightened as they closed the distance.
"Alright, that's enough," Caelin stepped in, pulling Alaric back.
"And Simon—you wouldn't want Elara hearing about this. So keep walking, and we'll do the same."
Simon paused, then smirked again.
"It won't matter who her 'princess' is once we claim the Chosen Class."
He turned to his friends.
"Let's go."
As they walked away, Caelin and Alaric glanced back.
Lalanat sighed,
"Why is he always causing trouble?"
Alaric shrugged.
"Who knows. Let's hurry—we might miss the fight."
They broke into a run toward the arena.
They spotted Elara sitting by their belongings.
"There she is—let's go," Lalanat pointed.
As they approached, their classmates noticed Alaric.
"Nice work!"
"Thank you, Alaric!"
"You're amazing!"
"Win it for our class!"
Alaric reached Elara and tapped her shoulder. She looked up, slightly flustered.
"Good work," she said quietly.
Alaric leaned in, squinting.
"Hm… suspicious. Since when do you act shy?"
She slapped his shoulder.
"Then I won't compliment you anymore."
"Hey— that was a joke," he laughed.
Caelin and Lalanat chuckled at the exchange.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the arena.
"Fighters, make your appearance!"
All eyes turned to the battlefield.
A boy stepped out, raising his hand confidently to the crowd.
"Oh, that's Arthur," Lalanat said.
"You know him?" Alaric asked.
Lalanat nodded.
"Yes. We're from the same nation—Balp."
Alaric took a bite of bread, eyes still on the arena.
"Is he good?"
"His father is a knight," Lalanat replied. "But I've never seen him fight."
Alaric hummed, watching closely.
Elara crossed her arms.
"The winner here is your next opponent."
Alaric smirked.
"Doesn't matter who it is."
Elara frowned slightly.
Lalanat gave a nervous smile.
Caelin spoke again,
"Do you know the opponent's name?"
Elara answered,
"Mors. Same nation. One of the most promising fighters we have."
Alaric's eyes sharpened.
"Interesting…"
"Both fighters ready?" the referee called.
They nodded.
"Begin."
The arena fell silent.
Mors moved first.
Fast.
Too fast.
Arthur barely reacted—his swing cut through empty air.
An opening.
Mors didn't hesitate.
A strike to the stomach.
Arthur dropped to one knee, breath knocked out.
Before he could recover—
Mors was already behind him.
A clean strike from the back.
Arthur collapsed.
"Stop!"
The referee stepped in.
"Mors wins!"
The crowd froze for a moment.
Then—chaos.
Gasps. Shouts. Disbelief.
Mors raised his blade and pointed it directly at Alaric in the stands… then turned and walked away.
Alaric's eyes stayed locked on him.
Impressed.
Caelin was still stunned.
Lalanat looked worried.
Elara glanced at Alaric.
"So… can you beat him?"
Alaric didn't answer immediately.
"...I don't know."
She grabbed his collar slightly.
"Oi. Focus."
He snapped back.
"I mean—I'm not sure yet."
She sighed.
Alaric continued, calmer now:
"I understand his style. He fights more like an assassin than a knight."
He paused.
"I won't match his speed… but I know how to deal with it."
Elara relaxed slightly.
"That's a relief."
"I believe in you, Alaric," Lalanat said softly.
Caelin clapped his hands.
"Alright. Let's grab lunch before noon."
"Good idea," Alaric nodded.
They left the arena.
At noon, Class Two and Class Seven would face off—
And the title of the Chosen Class would be decided.
After searching for a place to rest, they settled beneath a wide tree.
Caelin stretched his arms. "Let's eat here."
Alaric let out a breath and dropped to the ground. "Finally. I'm exhausted just from walking."
Elara and Lalanat began unpacking the lunchbox.
Alaric's eyes lit up. "Wait… since when did you prepare all this?"
Lalanat smiled softly. "You had two matches today. We thought you might be hungry."
Alaric tilted his head. "But how did you know I was going to win?"
"Ehh—ah, I mean…" Lalanat fumbled, her words slipping away.
Elara cut in, "Just eat. Even if you lost, we'd still need lunch. Don't overthink it."
Alaric nodded. "Fair enough. Then let's eat."
Lalanat quietly looked away, still lost in her thoughts.
As they began eating, Caelin spoke up. "That Mors… he's fast."
Alaric only nodded, too focused on his food to respond.
Elara leaned back slightly. "Fast is an understatement. It's not just his speed—he ends fights before they even begin."
Lalanat added, "His build is light… maybe he follows a strict discipline, especially with his training and diet."
No one responded.
They all turned to Alaric.
He was completely absorbed, stuffing his mouth and already reaching for the next bite.
Caelin and Lalanat exchanged amused smiles.
Elara sighed, clearly annoyed. "No one's taking your food. Slow down."
Suddenly—
Alaric froze.
He coughed, choking, pounding his chest.
"Here—water!" Lalanat panicked, quickly handing it to him.
Caelin burst out laughing.
Elara clicked her tongue, half-annoyed, half-relieved.
Their lunch break ended in chaos… and laughter.
The final match had arrived.
Class Two felt uneasy. This duel would decide more than just victory in swordsmanship. If they won, they would suppress Class Seven by a point. The tension left them both anxious and excited.
Class Seven, however, stood confident with their fighter, Mors.
Pressure hung over both sides, and the arena buzzed with restless energy even before the fight began.
A loud voice cut through the noise.
"The King has arrived."
The entire arena rose to their feet in respect.
The King took his seat. Beside him stood a general and several guards.
As the crowd settled, the referee stepped forward.
"Fighters, make your appearance."
From opposite tunnels, both fighters emerged.
The crowd erupted.
Alaric glanced up at the King, feeling the weight of his presence.
Mors, however, kept his eyes locked on Alaric as if he were the only one in the arena.
"If one of you loses your sword, surrenders, or is too injured to continue, the match will end," the referee announced.
Both nodded.
"Ready?"
They tightened their grip on their swords.
"Begin."
Silence fell.
They circled each other.
Mors moved first. Fast.
He lunged.
Alaric reacted just in time, closing the distance. Their wooden swords clashed at the center.
The arena exploded with cheers and taunts from both sides.
They broke apart, then charged again.
This time, Alaric dropped low and rolled forward.
Mors reacted instantly, leaping past him.
Both missed.
They reset.
Mors attacked again, striking left, then right.
Alaric blocked, but the force pushed him toward the edge.
He dropped low and aimed for Mors' legs.
Mors stepped back just in time.
Miss.
Reset.
He's fast… and every swing is heavy. His reflexes are sharp, Alaric thought.
"Oi," Mors smirked. "When are you going to attack instead of running? This is boring."
Alaric exhaled. Then moved.
Full speed.
Their swords clashed again.
Mors grinned—
then suddenly pulled back, rolled behind Alaric, and struck his back.
"Ugh—!"
Alaric staggered, but turned immediately, blade still raised.
The crowd roared.
Lalanat gasped.
Elara and Caelin froze in shock.
Mors raised his sword near his face, smiling.
"Watch your back… or I'll do it again."
He lunged forward.
Alaric inhaled, stepped in—
dodged—
and struck cleanly across Mors' back.
"Ugh—damn it!"
Caelin grinned. "He's not letting that slide."
Before Mors could recover, Alaric was already on him again.
Fast, Mors thought.
He dropped low, rolling in to strike Alaric's stomach—
but Alaric reacted.
Driving his knee forward, he struck Mors' sword arm.
Mors winced, pain shooting through his arm before he could recover.
In the next moment—
Alaric's blade was at his back.
He didn't strike.
"I think we're done."
"Stop!" the referee stepped in.
"Winner—Alaric."
Silence.
Alaric dropped his sword, looking down at his trembling hand as he clenched it.
Finally, he thought.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
Class Two was the loudest, celebrating as they turned the score and won the chosen class match.
Alaric waved around. Some cheered, others looked annoyed, even jealous.
He walked toward Mors.
"Good fight. You almost got me."
He reached out his hand. Mors grabbed it.
"This won't be the last time we face each other."
Alaric smiled, both excited and impressed.
"Of course."
Both of them turned and walked toward the tunnel.
The king and the principal watched with interest.
"Who's that kid?" the king asked, looking down at Alaric.
"That's Alaric, son of Thandor, from Bane Nation," the principal replied.
The king smiled. "Bane got themselves a good fighter, huh."
The general beside him nodded. "Yes, my lord. This is more than just a school tournament."
They shared a quiet laugh as they continued talking.
As Alaric reached the end of the tunnel, his whole class was waiting for him.
"Good fight!"
"You really helped the class, thank you!"
"You're the hero of our class!"
Alaric hesitated, his voice slightly trembling.
"Thanks, y'all…"
Lalanat and Caelin stepped forward.
"Yo, you fulfilled your dream, huh?" Caelin said with a grin.
Alaric shook his head, smiling.
"Nah… this is just the beginning."
Then… something felt off.
For a brief moment, Alaric felt empty.
"By the way, where's Elara?" he asked.
"She went to see her father," Caelin replied.
Alaric blinked. "Wait… you mean the king?"
Caelin nodded.
"Damn… I saw him before the fight. I was terrified just looking at him," Alaric said.
Caelin laughed. "That's so unexpected of you."
Alaric frowned. "Ehh? What do you mean?"
Caelin held back his laughter.
"I mean, you're always so bold, just moving without thinking much. Seeing you nervous?
"That's not like you."
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
"Someone? We're talking about the king here."
Caelin laughed again. "Aight, aight."
Lalanat stepped closer.
"How's your back?"
Alaric paused, then remembered.
"Ah… I forgot about it, but now that you mention it… yeah, it kinda hurts."
Lalanat panicked.
"Eh— I didn't mean to! I'm sorry, Alaric!"
In her panic, she accidentally hit the exact spot.
"OUCH— that hurts!!" Alaric yelled.
The air filled with chaos and laughter.
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