As the Long Winter Fades, Part 7
"Yes! The day has finally arrived to mark the end of this year's academy semester with the final matches of the sparring examinations!"
"Without further ado, let us begin the first match of this final day! Featuring none other than the renowned Marc Visus!"
"Spectators, please welcome the contestants with a round of applause!"
Amidst the announcer's grand introduction, Marc Visus stepped into the arena.
Dressed in the neat, standard-issue attire provided to the participants, he carried the Serion family's treasured sword, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Not a shred of tension could be felt from his posture; instead, he exuded absolute confidence.
As soon as his face came into view, the crowd erupted into thunderous cheers, shouts, and applause.
Up in the VIP section—the highest vantage point offering the clearest view of the duelists—Regulus Serion, the head of the Serion family, watched the arena with a solemn expression.
"Whoa! It's Marc Visus! I knew coming on the last day would be worth it!"
"I can't believe I'm seeing the academy's biggest celebrity in person! Wow!"
"Kyaaa! He's so handsome! Look over here!"
Marc waved back as if to return the praise and adoration, walking toward the center of the arena.
"And now... the opponent enters!"
"The next succes—cough, cough! The lady of the Serion family, Seraphina Serion, makes her appearance! Please welcome her with applause as well!"
Clap... clap... clap...
"Woo... woohoo...!"
Wearing the same sparring uniform as Marc, Seraphina entered the arena holding the greatsword she had swung for years—a weapon whose only merit was its sheer durability.
She hadn't expected much, but the crowd's response was lukewarm at best. The few cheers she did receive were born of basic politeness and pity.
There was a time when a mere glance from her would move people to deep respect, but the tables had turned completely.
Even if she possessed a cold personality, her peerless strength had made it easy for others to overlook her flaws.
But now that a greater genius had emerged, she was reduced to nothing more than a relic of the past—a sore loser with a frosty attitude.
Naturally, the reception she received was pitifully sparse compared to the roaring welcome Marc had just enjoyed.
And for a fleeting second, Seraphina caught sight of her father looking down at her with a gaze full of pity.
"You can do it, Seraphina!"
Yet, even in this cold atmosphere, there was one man who raised his voice for her.
Startled, Seraphina and a large portion of the crowd turned their eyes toward the source of the shout.
It was, of course, Rofel Teufel. Despite being wrapped in bandages and leaning on crutches, he was smiling warmly at her.
What an utterly hopeless man, she thought.
Yet, she couldn't help but let a soft, pleased smile break through her icy demeanor.
Seraphina gave Rofel a small wave before walking confidently toward the center of the arena to face Marc.
Before the duel began, Marc and Seraphina approached each other slowly to shake hands.
Since this was the final day, reserved only for the elite, the proceedings had to be conducted with the utmost solemnity.
As their hands met, Marc spoke in a low, quiet voice.
"I'm surprised you didn't run away or forfeit, Seraphina. I'll at least give you credit for that."
Though Marc was highly conscious of his public image, his words were sharp and aggressive.
The arena was vast, creating a significant distance between the duelists and the spectators.
While projection magic allowed the audience to watch the match from all angles, it only transmitted visual movements, not the audio of their voices.
This was why Marc could speak so freely without worrying about his reputation.
"No matter what happens, you'll have to return to the family eventually, so I'll make sure to hold back a bit. Master told me to finish this as quickly as possible, but out of respect for our past—"
"I do not care."
"...What?"
"I said I do not care. Give it your all. Just like you did on the day you faced Rofel."
At her words, Marc flinched.
The day he had dueled Rofel.
That day was the first obstacle in his otherwise triumphant life since entering the academy. To him, it was a day of pure humiliation, having lost to an opponent he had utterly looked down upon.
And since she was the only one who knew the truth of that defeat, her words were a blatant provocation.
Taken aback by her unexpected reaction, Marc stood there, dumbfounded, before the match had even begun.
He opened his mouth to retort, but they were forced to back away from each other as the signal to start drew near.
"Now, both contestants, please take your positions. Three!"
A massive illusion of a flag materialized between Marc and Seraphina, serving as the starting signal.
"Two!"
As the countdown ticked away, Marc lowered his stance, ready to spring forward and close the distance instantly.
He intended to defeat her in a single exchange, keeping his promise to his master to show her her place.
He had planned to spare her some dignity in front of the crowd out of lingering sentimentality, but since she had rejected his mercy and even provoked him, he had no choice.
With that thought, Marc coiled his muscles, waiting for the illusionary flag to drop.
"One!"
Boom!
The sound of Marc kicking off the ground reverberated through the arena as he closed the distance in the blink of an eye.
Gripping his greatsword with both hands, he swung it with all his might.
At that moment, Marc was absolutely certain of his victory and her defeat.
But.
Clang!
It was not the sound of flesh tearing or a body collapsing to the ground, but the crisp, clear ring of steel clashing against steel.
Seraphina had blocked Marc's blindingly fast strike.
"What...? How...!"
The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them.
By all accounts, the Seraphina he knew should never have been able to deflect that blow.
Flustered, Marc forced himself to stay calm and leaped back to create distance.
He lunged from a different angle, renewing his assault.
He aimed for her flank, spinning his body to swing his greatsword, and even when the blow was blocked, he maintained his momentum, unleashing a relentless torrent of strikes.
Every single strike carried the full weight of his strength—a fierce, unrelenting combination.
In a battle of attrition, the advantage lay with him. Even if she managed to block his attacks, she wouldn't be able to hold out for long.
Just as he expected, Seraphina seemed entirely occupied with defending, unable to mount any counteroffensive.
But just as he thought he would secure an easy victory, a sharp, agonizing pain in his flank shattered his confidence.
"Gah!"
Amidst his seemingly seamless flurry of attacks, Seraphina had found an opening. Her greatsword traced a fluid, wave-like arc through the air, delivering a swift counterstrike.
Marc, who had been pressing the offensive just a moment ago, was sent flying backward.
It was at this point that the crowd began to murmur.
Marc Visus, who had never allowed a single clean hit from any opponent, had just been struck.
Too distracted to care about the eyes on him, Marc struggled to process the pain and the sheer impossibility of Seraphina's current state.
"Ugh!"
"Gah!"
"Argh!"
Over and over, Marc lunged at her, but the result remained the same.
Seraphina effortlessly parried and deflected Marc's techniques, which were supposed to be a flawless imitation of the Serion style.
What was worse, her mastery seemed to be evolving in the very midst of their clash.
Something is wrong. This is completely wrong.
Looking closely, Marc realized her stance was different from usual.
Having trained in the same Serion swordsmanship, he could tell there was something deeply bizarre about her movements.
It was infinitely close to the Serion style, yet it was undeniably not the Serion style.
Marc was not the only one gripped by this bewilderment.
Up in the VIP box, Regulus Serion had risen to his feet without even realizing it, staring down at the duel in utter shock.
Having observed countless swordsmen over his long life, he could measure a person's talent with a single glance.
This was no less true for his daughter; having watched Seraphina swing her sword countless times, he knew the exact limits of her ability.
He knew the depth of her talent better than anyone else.
Yet now, he could feel no trace of that talent in her sword or her stance.
It was as if it had never existed in the first place.
And yet, her swordsmanship was incredibly precise and lethal.
It was a clean, sharp blade that could perhaps rival that of his former master.
The successor he had handpicked was struggling, while the child he had long abandoned was wielding a technique reminiscent of his old mentor.
He could hardly believe the paradoxical scene unfolding before him—one that defied all his years of experience.
"I see. So that is how his realm was achieved."
At that moment, Seraphina herself was marveling at her own performance.
It was her first time applying in real combat the techniques she had only ever practiced in solitude.
Focus on what you have built.
Recalling the memories Rofel had shown her, and combining them with the advice her second brother had passed down from her eldest brother, she had reached a conclusion.
Looking back, she had been relying far too much on "talent" without even realizing it.
In her pursuit of the Serion swordsmanship—a style created by geniuses, for geniuses—she had neglected the foundation she had built with her own hands.
The very concept of talent, which had nurtured her, had also bound her in chains.
Thus, she had arrived at a final decision.
She would discard talent from her technique.
In other words, she chose to abandon herself within her own sword.
She cast aside everything she was born with, filling the void solely with the fruits of her relentless effort.
The result was this: the state of selflessness.
In truth, even she did not fully comprehend the nature of the sword and technique she was currently channeling, which was why she maintained a defensive posture for now.
But one thing was absolutely clear: she had stepped into a brand-new realm.
Marc threw everything he had at her, but to no avail.
She simply deflected every strike with fluid grace, returning a single, devastating counterblow each time.
As the duel wore on, Marc's composure crumbled, replaced by growing panic.
No matter how he attacked, his blade could not reach her, and he was only met with painful retaliation.
This situation mirrored the nightmare of the day he had been utterly crushed by Rofel.
Don't tell me she... No, that's impossible! It can't be! It's just... it's just a fluke!
"This... this can't be happening...! It can't!"
Driven half-mad by the denial of reality, Marc drove his sword into the ground.
He was activating the treasure sword's ability to draw out his latent potential.
A violent aura gathered around him, kicking up clouds of dust.
Yet, Seraphina did not move to stop him.
Instead, she watched him calmly, as if waiting for him to finish.
Finally, with bloodshot eyes, Marc ripped the greatsword from the ground and charged straight at her.
Seraphina quietly leveled her blade and took her stance.
She still remembered the stance Rofel had used when he delivered the finishing blow to Marc.
Watching the distance close between them, the spectators held their breath, all sharing the exact same thought.
One clash. This single exchange would decide everything.
...!!!!
Boom!
A blinding flash erupted alongside a massive explosion that sounded nothing like steel meeting steel.
The sheer force of the impact felt like a localized earthquake, causing even the spectators sitting far back to sway.
The shockwave was so immense that the projection magic, powered by mana circuits, flickered and cut out for a brief moment.
As the dust settled like a dispersing mist, only one figure remained standing tall.
It was the Cold Rose of the Knight Academy. Seraphina Serion.