Fists Against a World of Swords
The sun blazed mercilessly over the circular arena. Hundreds of roaring cheers and waves of raw excitement shook the entire stadium.
Swords and magic. They ruled this world—the ultimate symbols of power and strength.
A single sword strike could shred plate armor to pieces. A spell could rain down the destructive force of an entire battalion. And the place that forged such monstrous knights was none other than the Imperial Academy.
Every year, the knight selection tournament was held here. It was the one official path to joining the storied orders that young dreamers aspired to. Students poured every ounce of their training, every polished technique, onto this grand stage.
So if someone told you to step onto that same stage completely unarmed, who in their right mind would answer the call?
No shield. One clean sword blow would spill blood. Ranged attacks with bows or magic? You wouldn’t even be allowed to close the distance.
And yet.
“What the hell is this?”
Someone in the stands muttered in a trembling voice.
“Why does it look so even?”
“Even?” The student beside him let out a disbelieving snort. “That’s not even—it’s completely one-sided.”
In the center of the arena, atop sand scorched black by flames, a black-haired male student slowly rolled his shoulders. Golden highlights in his hair and the gleam in his eyes caught the sunlight and sparkled. At his feet lay a man who had been beaten into a broken mess.
“Don’t screw with me…! After everything I went through to get here…!”
The man gnashed his teeth and forced himself upright again. One eye socket was swollen a deep, ugly purple. Blood streamed endlessly from his nose. Even while staggering, he refused to release his sword. Losing now meant the end. Not only would his chance at the knight order vanish, the noble patronage that had supported him would be cut off as well.
He spat out a glob of blood-flecked saliva and readjusted his grip.
“There’s no way in hell I’d lose to a punk like you!!!”
Of course, pride was part of it too. The opponent who had driven him to this sorry state was just a freshman. A barehanded freshman, at that.
“…Hoo.”
The black-haired student let out a short breath and settled into his stance. He spread his legs lightly, then raised both fists close to his chin. His head and shoulders began to sway side to side in a smooth rhythm that flowed naturally down through his waist and into his lower body. His feet glided across the sand like a dancer’s.
The swordsman lowered his center of gravity and approached with careful steps.
“Diiiiiie!!!”
In the end, the one who charged first was the man with the sword. Rage-fueled steel tore through the air in a wide, vicious arc.
Swish—.
And then all that remained in the swordsman’s vision was a swirling cloud of sand. By the time he caught sight of his opponent again, the black-haired student had sunk impossibly low, waist bent until it nearly touched the ground.
CRACK!