Chapter 86
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 86
Chapter Title: Quarterfinals: Facing Percival
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The quarterfinal matches were a step tougher than the round of 16.
Abel's opponent was an unknown rider whose name no one knew, but he put up a surprisingly seasoned fight.
Because of that, Abel's plan to wrap things up as quickly as possible fell through, forcing a grueling thirty-minute bloodbath.
"Still, the gap in mana capacity sealed the win. Otherwise, it might've dragged on even longer."
"I caught a glimpse myself. He seemed pretty well-versed in the basics of combat."
Abel nodded at Iolin's response.
The guy was probably from the underground fighting pits.
No mercenary or subjugation squad with that level of skill would be a total nobody.
'Experience from the pits doesn't count for anything above ground.'
That said, judging by his ability, he was bound to make waves going forward. Though Abel had come out on top in the end.
Abel pressed a cold towel to his forehead and asked Iolin,
"How was your opponent?"
"A woman who hit like a truck. One solid blow, and I couldn't have guaranteed victory."
"But the match ended in five minutes flat?"
Abel had meant to watch Iolin's fight, but his own had dragged on too long for that.
By the time he dismounted and finished maintenance, it was already over.
Iolin gave a curt reply to his question.
"Her defense was sloppy."
"Ah."
Short and sweet, but it painted the picture.
Abel had watched Iolin fight enough times to know her style inside out.
Opponents who focused purely on offense with weak guards were easy prey for her.
She had a natural gift for exploiting openings.
Even in sparring, she'd end things in the blink of an eye more often than not.
"The real issue is the next round. For both of us."
"Yeah. Neither one's a pushover."
Iolin's semifinal opponent hadn't been decided yet.
The matches were about to kick off, and both contenders had turned heads with flashy early-round performances.
"Guess I'll have to scout for weaknesses while watching. What about you?"
"I've already seen mine. Not a walk in the park."
Abel's opponent, on the other hand, was set in stone.
Percival.
In the game, the man who would later earn the moniker "Swift Percival."
Among the second-years, he ranked mid-to-upper tier for now, but in his third year, his talent would fully bloom, catapulting him straight to the top.
'Doesn't mean he's a pushover right now, though.'
Mid-upper or not, a second-year was leagues ahead of any first-year.
First-years had barely been in school for half a year, while second-years had over a year under their belts.
'The curriculum kicks into real combat training starting second semester of first year.'
One slip-up, and he might not just miss third place—he could crash out of the semis entirely.
He needed to stay sharp.
"I'll go watch the match."
"Right. See you."
Abel had to head out right after the next bout, so he said goodbye to Iolin.
Once she headed to the stands, Abel flopped down onto the floor.
"Not easy, huh."
The round of 16 had gone his way with some luck, but the quarterfinals had drained more stamina than expected.
And the semifinal opponent was even tougher.
'That's why I originally planned to try for second year.'
By then, he figured he could've cruised to the finals.
But you couldn't take back a choice once made.
More than that, competing in this tournament made him glad he'd entered.
Pouring everything into back-to-back fights like this breathed fresh fire into his lately complacent mindset.
"Tournament's a cakewalk by comparison."
Sure, the tight schedule of a tournament hammered your stamina.
But next to real combat, it was child's play.
Take the last field exercise.
Did the Gigadeus Fragment give them a moment to breathe before charging?
Hell no.
In true battle, you'd fight praying for even a minute—no, thirty seconds—of rest.
'First semester's just the tutorial.'
Abel assumed his breathing posture and recalled the game's timeline.
In the grand scheme, first semester was nothing but prologue.
The real 'war' kicked off in the second semester.
From then on, no more peaceful school days like before.
A brutal era would dawn.
This vacation was the last breather to prep for it.
"Huuuuh."
Abel drew in a deep breath and exhaled, restoring his mana.
Once he focused, stray thoughts and surrounding noise faded away.
He vaguely registered cheers erupting now and then, but he kept at his breathing without pause.
-Abel!
-Abel!
He snapped out of it when he heard his name called.
"Abel! Time to get ready!"
Looking up, a stagehand was addressing him.
"Ah, got it."
Abel gave a quick nod and rose, heading to his Gigant.
In the interim, repairs were done—the damage from the last match had been neatly replaced.
He climbed into the open cockpit and placed his hand on the core.
Wuuung-!
It powered up swiftly, and engineers swarmed for final checks.
-Lower armor: clear!
-Upper armor: clear!
-Right joints: clear!
-Left...
They finished in short order, and the lead engineer rapped the cockpit twice.
-Checks complete! Ready to move!
Abel grabbed his weapon and positioned at the gate.
'His specialty's raw speed.'
The style: zip around, relentlessly probing for openings.
Similar to Iolin in that regard, but their actual approaches differed sharply.
'If you're not used to it, you're even more vulnerable.'
Even before his talent peaked, his speed alone was top-tier.
The unaccustomed got outpaced and picked off pathetically.
'So the key is not to panic.'
Let that velocity dazzle you, and you'd squander a winnable fight.
Kugung-!
-Abel! Enter the arena!
He'd just run a mental sim when the gate slid open.
Abel strode in without hesitation.
He passed through the tunnel into the brightly lit arena, and fervent cheers exploded.
-Waaaaaaaaah!
-Abel! Abel! Abel!
If anything, the roar felt even bigger after his two prior wins.
Abel raised his weapon high in response. Around then, his opponent emerged into the arena.
-Percival!
-End it quick again!
-Goooooo!
Percival drew cheers rivaling Abel's—maybe even louder in spots.
Probably because his style was so flashy.
'Not many lean into pure speed.'
High speed implied a lot.
Ample mana to sustain it, plus delicate control to spare the joints.
-Now! Both fighters, enter the arena!
Abel steadied his breath and advanced.
Just before the match, his gaze flicked to the VIP box.
Wondering if that tycoon from the first round, 'Deborah,' was still there.
'She is.'
He spotted her right away. No hunting required.
He turned, and their eyes locked.
'Perfect.'
Abel grinned.
Could've been coincidence, but even fleeting attention was a win.
Someone of Deborah's caliber showing interest—even briefly—boosted the odds of sponsorship, whether from her or another admirer.
-And now! Swift Percival! Saint Abel! Who will claim victory?!
Doyle was in fine form, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.
Abel, now dubbed "Saint," readied his weapon.
'Spear.'
His foe wielded a spear.
Not the typical long lance—a short spear.
Still longer reach than a sword, even so.
'A long one would just get in the way for speed.'
Tension crested.
-Staaaart!
Doyle signaled the off.
Bang-!
Percival kicked off the ground almost simultaneously.
Absurdly fast—enough to make you doubt it was a Gigant moving.
'Right!'
Abel clocked the direction and raised his sword vertically that way.
Kagagak!
A shrill scrape rang out right after.
He'd closed the gap in a flash and swung.
Hard to believe this was Gigant-grade velocity.
Kung!
Percival veered left the instant his strike was parried, thrusting forward with the spear.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Abel blocked the stabs with his sword's flat.
Hard on the weapon, but fresh ones were issued per match—no big deal.
The point was to rattle the opponent.
Percival leaped back after two strikes whiffed emptily.
'Must be thrown off.'
First attacks getting stonewalled clean like that? Not his usual.
Most would've failed to track the speed and eaten hits.
Percival was rattled, but not enough to tip the match yet.
Kuung!
He paused to catch his breath, then charged dead-on.
Abel reflexively lifted his sword high—only to see him duck low.
Kagagagak!
The spear blade barely kissed Abel's sword edge and slid past.
But the assault didn't end there.
As if anticipating the block, Percival spun the shaft to target Abel's left side.
Bang!
Abel couldn't evade this one.
But he didn't just take it. The moment it landed, he unleashed a long horizontal sword sweep.
Percival, deeming full dodge impossible, parried with the shaft.
Kwaaaang!
And went flying backward.
He hadn't fully absorbed Abel's power.
-Waaaaaaaaah!
Abel's fans erupted in cheers.
Objectively, he'd eaten one hit while Percival blocked—but optics said otherwise.
Abel stood firm; Percival sailed away.
Abel kept watch for approaches, mulling his foe's weakness.
'Blinding speed, but attacks are predictable.'
Percival's patterns were mostly the same.
Blitz from a blind spot, then thrust.
Insanely quick, hard to read—but knowing it was coming made it blockable.
The trickier follow-up shaft swing had its flaw too.
'Weak.'
Match Tito-grade Gigants halved output but doubled armor.
Designed so glancing blows barely dented.
For rider safety—and 'spectacle'—which neutered Percival's shaft attacks.
-More seasoned than I expected.
Percival, perhaps steadying himself, spoke up.
Abel lowered his weapon to a diagonal guard.
-You're falling short of expectations, Senior.
Pure provocation, zero ambiguity. As predicted, Percival didn't bite.
So Abel kindly added encouragement.
-Feeling tired already?