Arena Finals (6)
The standard dimensions of a modern shinken—a true sword—are a 73-centimeter blade and a 27-centimeter hilt.
But the sword I had always handled carried a slightly longer blade.
The first sword I ever used belonged to my master, and he had been an unusually large man. Back then my own frame had been big enough that it felt natural. I liked the balance so much I even bought one just like it. That sword still sits in a quiet corner of my room.
Only now my body had become so much smaller. Holding something similar made the blade look enormous. Even the size of my palms was different from my pro days. The weight was nothing like what I was used to, and a body under correction started from entirely different muscle conditions. It should have felt unfamiliar.
Yet the moment my fingers closed around the hilt, every sensation came flooding back as if it had never left.
Duelist's Corridor. My eyes opened inside the long, straight hall. The air drawn through the respirator felt especially cool. Below my field of vision I could see my own body.
Is this lingering attachment too?
I hadn't consciously chosen it, yet the Swordsman gear I had prepared looked almost exactly like the black uniform unique to kendo. Compared to a real one there was a little more skin showing and the fabric felt softer, but from the outside the resemblance was unmistakable.
The soft, padding steps felt no different from before. The perfectly flat ground even gave me the illusion of standing inside a dojo. Yes—luck had finally decided to smile on me after a long drought. A place where I could simply swing a sword without a single complicated thought. For me right now, it was the best battlefield imaginable.
I walked forward at an unhurried pace. There was no need to run. The opponent's warhorse was already fast enough. Only when the enemy's silhouette stood fully clear did I draw.
The blade sang a low, heavy note—far weightier than the daggers I usually carried. I emptied my lungs in a single breath and met the first strike.
“Huuu……”
The attack that had once felt crushing was now light. I turned the impact straight back into a thrust that pierced the horse's heart. The instant the blade came free I settled into Mist stance and drove for Kelberos's waist before he could reset.
Sharp metal rang out. He had blocked it cleanly, but that hardly mattered. I drove my body forward while pulling the sword inward, twisted the edge, and stabbed through his thigh. Exactly one and a half steps. His counter never touched me—the gap was precisely the width of a single finger joint.
“You… could it be……”
“Shut up. I'm concentrating.”
I needed no noise. The only things that should reach my ears were my own breathing and the enemy's movement—the scrape of armor plates meeting, the faint rasp of chainmail links, the subtle shift between inhale and exhale when a human forms intent. Inside senses sharpened to a razor edge, the conclusion arrived without any intervening process.
The distance I must keep is exactly half a step. The spot he's aiming for is the lower right—my ankle.
I stabbed the tip of the sword into his shield. The keen edge split the air and left a pale afterimage. His arm recoiled from the shock; for a moment he looked exactly like a herbivore frozen in terror. I rolled the blade, stabbed inside the shield, scraped across the breastplate, and withdrew. Kelberos twisted for a counter. No need to answer it. At that distance and angle, even if he turned, he would never reach me.
I flicked the blade sideways as if shaking off blood. When I deliberately drove the tip into the floor, the mana that had been about to erupt scattered without force.
By severing the opponent's mana, the 'Gouge' effect…
Annoying.
I wiped every irritating system message from my vision. Right now I simply wanted to clash steel against steel. So that was what I did.
I closed in aggressively, weaving through the narrow space between sword and shield. For him it was far range. For me it was the classic one-step-one-cut distance. I met his weapons again and again. Elation rose from the pit of my stomach until it felt as though my mind itself were melting. A sensation that I could do anything in this moment. No—wouldn't it actually be possible?
I batted aside the rain of black blades pouring from the sky. They only looked numerous; as long as I didn't move rashly, only a handful would ever reach me. Fundamentally no different from parrying a few thrusts.
Was this guy always this slow?
The instant the thought formed, I could no longer smile. Ah, I shouldn't do this. Already it felt as if insects were crawling over my skin. The back of my neck itched. From the tips of my toes something sticky seemed to climb upward, a thick, nauseating slime that coated my entire body. My head knew it was only my own persecution complex. But reason and emotion had been living separate lives for a long time now.
Fortunately—even while my mind was coming apart—my body never stopped executing the optimal fight.
“This is absurd……!”
“I told you to shut up. Do my words mean nothing to you?”
My body moved on its own toward the blade entering the edge of my vision. I knocked the sword aside, aimed for the wrist, slashed the flank, then stabbed the shoulder and slipped free. Meanwhile the filthy, crawling sensation covered my instep. From instep to calf. From calf to thigh. In the blink of an eye it crossed belly and chest and reached my head.
I'm hungry.
Damn it, I'm starving. I should have eaten a proper breakfast. When Mom told me to have more I should have just said yes. Dinner… we were going to eat out as a family. I always preferred meat. Fatty pork over beef. Grilling kimchi in the golden pork fat, then scooping a few spoonfuls of doenjang stew—that was my taste. I personally hated wraps. Especially lettuce; it always tasted bitter. I never understood why everyone loved those wrap vegetables so much. Every time we went to a barbecue place they kept piling lettuce and perilla leaves next to me, and I never finished them. Then Mom would smack me on the back and start nagging… except she can't anymore.
Because my mother died crushed to pieces along with the crumpled car. She took the full force of that giant mass of iron slamming into us in my place.
A voice kept ringing inside my skull.
I love you, my son.
I love you, my son.
I love you, my son.
I love you too, Mom. I love you too. I really wanted to say it. But now there is no one left to hear it.
“Ugh… uk.”
Nausea surged up from my gut. When my mind cleared, my sword was already buried in Kelberos's belly. The massive knight crumpled powerlessly; vivid red lines were carved across both arms. Severance judgment. I must have already cut them. I had a vague memory of clashing blades a few times.
The back of my neck itched with unbearable intensity. The limit of my patience. I could not hold it any longer. I raked my nails across the skin as if trying to tear the flesh itself. In that moment I was grateful for the seventy-percent pain sensitivity—because the pain finally dulled the itch. If I did this in reality, scars would remain, wouldn't they? I must not leave the capsule until I calm down.
I was about to take Kelberos's head and end the match when his face twisted with pure rage.
“You… you weren't focusing on me at all.”
“I wouldn't know.”
“In the final match, bring out the Swordsman again. Without fail.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Is this… is this even possible?”
“Ah—it's overwhelming. There's simply no other way to describe it.”
“The highlight reel is ready. After you review the footage, we'll meet you at the analysis desk.”
The fluster in their voices was unmistakable. Even for veteran casters, an unusual silence hung for a brief moment. The result had been that shocking.
In the replay, Kelberos never landed a single effective hit on Ga-wol. Every attack was either stopped before it began or simply could not pass that one blade. The shield that had once seemed impregnable was always a full tempo late. When she blocked the skill Binding Grasp she never even properly secured her vision—those red eyes merely flicked, for the briefest instant, across the point where mana was gathering.
As always the chat window stayed playful. But the professionals and staff who had been watching the match could not hide their shock.
Kelberos had been a wall for so many people. In this very Arena he had ended Traveler's journey and snuffed out Luce's light. Rookies from the European league still pointed to the moment they first faced him as the day they learned to bow their heads. Infinity Black's pro scene was fundamentally a team game—he simply hadn't entered this Arena—but few players carried a presence as massive as his.
That towering wall had crumbled with almost pathetic ease. Excuses could be found if one looked hard enough. But he had never been a man who needed excuses.
“Her understanding of the sword is on another level. Looking at the engagement metrics, she held the advantage in virtually every exchange.”
“This moment is symbolic. Do you see it? Kelberos's skill hasn't even activated yet, and her sword is already moving.”
“That's why the attacks looked as if they were stopped before they could even begin. Reaction and prediction are so thoroughly mixed that analysis has been extremely difficult.”
Even as the atmosphere shifted completely, time continued to flow, and the final match began.