Round of 16 (1)

A thrown punch tore through the wind.

The rain that had been hammering down ceased for an instant, and silence rushed in to fill the gap. I slipped into that stillness and left a cut across a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thick, powerful wrist.

A wound that light would never stop an opponent this strong. A Fighter's body, tempered through training, did not halt so easily.

The rain returned and washed the blood away. A dense fighting spirit stirred, and then muscle hard as armor moved with raw force. Straight punches snapped out, swift and precise. Kicks arrived carrying massive blasts of wind pressure. Short, rapid attacks chained together without pause, shockwaves rolling outward with a force that made the air itself feel dizzying.

Take one of those roundhouse kicks clean and the match would flip in a single blow. That was only if it landed, of course. Whatever the case, damage only counted if you actually hit someone.

Every one of a Fighter's attacks was vicious. The body itself was absurdly durable, combat endurance was excellent, and even agility ranked among the best. Purely by composite stats, it was one of the strongest classes in the game.

The problem was that the offense was far too straightforward.

Even Swordsmen who fought with weapons carried skills that could twist the geometry of a fight. They shattered the ground while resetting their stance, forged blades from mana and cast them with flying-sword techniques. Assassins like me went without saying. But Fighters alone had almost none of that. Whether you wrapped your fists in fire or ice, a punch was still just a punch. Most of their techniques never rose above "hit faster," "hit harder," or "take less damage." The structure of the fight stayed monotonous as a result.

In a match like this, there was no reason at all to push inside. My opponent was an ape swinging his own body around as a weapon. When sword met sword, you got a deadlock. Put a blade against a bare fist, and you got a wound. All I had to watch for was the timing that would trigger a parry. Keep that one rule, and he would keep offering me targets all on his own. From there, I only needed to work my way up from the extremities, piece by piece.

People invented weapons for a reason.

He was trying, in his own way, to work around the problem. The constant fakes mixed into his combinations were the clearest example. From the perspective of someone who had already faced Ripper, though, they barely registered as a threat.

And why, exactly, had he taken his top off? Fighters seemed disproportionately likely to have exhibitionist tendencies. Did he actually think that looked cool? If so, it was tragic. A martial artist's dignity and decorum began with a clean, proper uniform. That bare-chested getup might work for a man, but as a fighter it was the worst possible choice. Every flex of muscle was on full display. Back, chest, arms — all of it telegraphing every move. How did he expect to win like that? Even covered by clothing, my eyes would not have been easy to escape.

"Pff."

I held the distance with absolute precision. Close enough that his fists almost reached, far enough that they never quite did. Pull back and I could slip a kick; commit forward and I still would not get dragged into a ground fight. With bleeding and poison already stacked on him, time was on my side. Watch the attack, dodge it, put a dagger into an arm or a leg. Just like this.

"You keep stretching those hands right out. Feels like I've turned into one of those old-school teachers. Back in the day they used to smack kids across the palms with a cane, you know. Saw it in a movie."

"Kh…!"

Ah. That made him mad.

A thin smirk was all it took for his movements to grow a little larger. A mid-level roundhouse — my target was the medial gastrocnemius of the calf. A spinning kick borrowed from taekwondo — the Achilles tendon this time. A greedy instep stomp aimed at my head — since he got greedy, the thigh and the ribs as well.

Honestly, I was a little offended myself. Hadn't I already shown him, in the rematch, exactly how I handled Gunlance? Did he really think fists could catch someone artillery couldn't? That was him looking down on me. So was I not allowed to play with him a little in return?

He should have brought a Machinist kit like last match. At least then we might have had an actual exchange. Apparently he decided that a lack of overall combat power had been the problem last time, and brought a pure body-enhancement build instead. That was the real mistake.

"Ahaha. Did you almost slip just now?"

When the kick came, I kicked his ankle out from under him. While he scrambled up, I toyed with my daggers, then threw one at his eyes the moment he charged. I sprang up and drove a hard kick into the back of his head.

I had been planning to keep playing with him. A few minutes later, he forfeited.

Boring.

And that was how my Round of 16 match reached its underwhelming conclusion.

I almost felt sorry for the casters scrambling to dress it up. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠truth was simple: my opponent had drawn a lucky bracket and ridden it this far. Now it was time to go back down. Official commentary could never say that out loud, of course.

With my personality, I would never have managed to hold back the unkind words. I crossed "try commentating someday" off the mental list of things I wanted to do.

I finished the dull match and wrapped up the interview as well. The Chinese press had been fairly sharp with their questions, but what did I care? I answered just carefully enough to stay out of trouble.

By now the articles should have gone up. I flipped through a strategy site and found my interview sitting near the top almost immediately.

Looks like the Fighter I just beat was thoroughly furious. We would never meet again, so I did not bother hunting down the full interview. Better to spend that time watching Luce or Traveler's matches. And I needed to start analyzing Kelberos as well.

An unpleasant bastard, sure — but still one of Europe's undisputed strongest. By reputation ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and career alone, he was no lesser opponent than Ripper. From the semifinals onward the format switched to best of five, so I would have to prepare in whatever gaps I could find.

In the last Round of 16 draw I had landed the worst result I could imagine. This match had put me against the player rated the weakest of the bracket, and my next opponent was a relative soft touch as well. I would prepare thoroughly, of course… but I honestly did not feel threatened.

Right. The problem was not my side of the bracket. I had drawn opponents so manageable they almost counted as ideal. At this rate, barring some major upset, I would reach the semis — maybe even the finals.

But a clean path for me meant hell for everyone on the other side. Assuming both of them won, Traveler would face Kelberos in the quarterfinals. Luce would meet Kelberos before ever reaching me. Even Ripper was looking at a likely quarterfinal against Luce.

And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me… all I could do was watch their matches.

I should have brought Luce over from the group stage. I wanted to go back and thrash my past self across the shoulders.