Arena Finals (2)

This was a final, no question about it.

Before the real match began, there were all kinds of events. A few days earlier they had pulled us aside for trash talk, and they had filmed us and photographed us from every angle imaginable.

In my case, it seemed the ground techniques had caught on. A clip of me clamping the camera orb between my thighs was already rolling on the screens—me covering my eyes as I drove a dagger home. I had never acted a day in my life and had no idea what I was doing, but the stiff, tense expression on my face had somehow come out looking cold and sharp. Watching it now, though, it also looked a little… suggestive. And the voice playing over it made me cringe. Well. Hopefully it was fine.

"Kelberos… anyone who plays this game has heard that name at least once, right?"

"But it's not like I've only taken down one or two famous players."

"I don't think he'll be anything special."

"Looking forward to it. I'll dunk you in the ocean for sure."

I had assumed all of that was scripted. Then they told me to just go for it, and I remembered how much of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a struggle it had been. Kendo had never had a trash-talk culture. Still, it made for a fun memory. I hadn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wanted to come off too soft, so I went hard—and the staff had loved it.

Once the guest singer's performance wrapped up, the casters' voices came through.

The pre-match prediction poll had me losing by roughly an eight-to-two margin. Of course it did. I had climbed here by taking down Ripper, but my opponent was Kelberos—a player everyone acknowledged, and one who held a clear class advantage over me even before anything else entered the equation. That twenty percent of people had still bet on me was, if anything, a decent showing.

In sports, an underdog's revolt is always a joy to watch.

Next came the player introductions, the same way they had at the group draw—highlight reels rolling as each name was called. My package still had that archer getting dunked in seawater, and somehow they had also dug up footage of Haruka caught in my Silver Thread. The nickname "Korean Tea-bagging Girl" made another appearance, too. Clearly they had no intention of letting that one go anytime soon. The English-speaking world was still having too much fun with the meme. Staging that match against Muse right as interest was starting to fade had been the real problem. I knew I had brought it on myself… but still. Wasn't there anything that could be done?

The silver lining was that this was the finals. Unlike last time, there was far more actual highlight material to work with. The first round of the main bracket against Lime, where I had baited a Weapon Break out of the Lancer with a double clone. The opening exchange with Ripper using the Chain-Sickle. The dagger trade mid-brawl. Beyond the ground fight with Muse, even the recent undead bombardment on the snowfield. Probably from Crow's point of view—the reel ended on me closing in to finish ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him off.

Silence fell, and I walked out onto the stage.

Next was Kelberos.

The undisputed favorite for the title walked out with quiet composure—as if he were simply reclaiming what had always been his, every step unhurried and sure. Last year's mid-season international champion. A name that racked up titles in the European league and never failed to come up whenever MVP talk started. Traveler and Luce had both fallen beneath those feet.

Thinking about that far made me genuinely angry. It wasn't that I had ever believed Luce was the strongest. Still—as a fan, the thirst for payback was only natural, wasn't it? The right amount of anger made for fuel and drive. Carrying that fighting spirit boiling in my chest, I stepped onto the stage and faced Kelberos.

The man himself—the source of it all—gave a little chuckle and asked,

"I did another interview recently. Not sure if you saw it."

"I saw it. Why?"

"I was wondering whether I seem better at reading my opponents' skill now."

"Pfft… Yeah, I'll give you that."

Ah. That made the revenge urge go a little fuzzy. Still, I had no intention of going easy on him.

Before a match, pro gamers always shook hands. A custom that went back a long way, they said—and I liked it. It felt like a formalized duel. I didn't care for having to look up at this guy because of his build, though.

Who does he think he is, looking down on me?

The moment I transferred onto the battlefield, rain lashed my body. Ships rocking on the current, the groan of twisted timber. Under a bleak night-shadow, I took my first step.

Choosing Magic Knight—was that meant for a scouting phase? It was a class better suited than Dark Knight for trying out all kinds of approaches, after all. Odds were high he wanted to read me before the real fight began.

You'll regret that. If that's how you're going to play this, I'm taking this match for sure.

I moved through the wreckage of the shipwrecks by rope. On this battlefield, darkness covered the eyes and the rain drowned out sound. Finding an assassin who moved without using mana—like I was doing now—was nearly impossible. There was no chance he would notice the ambush first. The only question was how much damage I could deal.

The instant I locked onto Kelberos's position, I hauled on the rope as hard as I could. Launching from the bow with everything I had, I rode the centrifugal force, released the rope mid-swing, and drove my dagger down toward the nape of his neck.

"Kh…!"

Kelberos's reaction speed was genuinely astonishing. His body twisted at once, and my dagger only managed to stab near his shoulder blade. Immediately, the distinctive chill of ice magic went for my ankle.

A thrust was sharp, but its contact point was narrow. I pulled my foot back and used the lowered stance to counter on the spot. The arm driving up from below was blocked. From the other side, the sword he had recovered came in carrying frost.

I was the one who had seized the tempo. Press the attack like this?

No. I didn't have a clean answer for a counter. Trading health right now would only put me at a loss. In the end I had to settle for stepping back and leaving a shallow cut on an extremity.

"A shame. I thought I'd prepared for it, but I suppose there's no getting through a first ambush completely clean."

"If blocking everything were that easy, why would anyone play Assassin?"

"Fair enough. Not just anyone can pull it off."

My master and I had reached one shared conclusion while analyzing Kelberos. This guy was not someone who had just sat in a room playing games. I had no idea what he had done in the past, but it was clear he had trained systematically in martial arts.

Simply having "learned martial arts" was not, in itself, surprising. Combat in Infinity Black was entirely movement-based, so of course pro gamers received all kinds of training—and retired athletes filtering into the scene was common enough. Even accounting for that, though, Kelberos's level of polish was considerable. You couldn't believe he had started late.

Which meant that against him, my own past as a competitive athlete was not much of a special weapon.

Every single one of his attacks was a problem. Close in and superior reach sent kicks or blades my way; back off and magic would obviously pour down. One slip and the whole structure would collapse into something ugly. On top of that, Kelberos was exceptional at locking down a favorable position. I absolutely could not let myself get forced into a desperate situation.

Still… for the moment, I was ahead on the exchange.

I blocked his longsword and used the flap of my coat to hide my body—out of his line of sight. Switching the weapon in my hand to a throwing type, I sent it straight at the top of his foot. He slipped out of the way as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and the attack missed.

That was before it should have been visible from his angle. He hadn't reacted to what he saw—he had predicted it.

"As expected. Your low attacks are especially vicious."

"I'm flattered."

"Though it's curious. In terms of actual polish, your mid and high are stronger."

"Heh."

An ice spike came flying as if to test me. I hopped clear of it and burned guard to stop a sword stroke. A couple more hidden weapons, and Kelberos spent a Blink—distance opened between us.

What he had just said was fairly sharp. In sportified kendo, low attacks simply were not used. At the range people called issoku-itto—the distance from which a single step could land a hit—dropping your stance was poison. The most critical vital point, the head, became far too easy for the opponent's blade to reach.

But this was still a game, wasn't it? Clinging only to kendo's distinctive style was a way of blocking your own growth. Especially for me—getting hit in the left foot was a real problem—so I had been forced to develop my own approach to the low line. Compared to high and mid stances, the absolute time investment had been smaller. Did that mean it was a weakness?

Absolutely not.

"So? If you're so sure, prove it."