Why Does That Guy Look So Exhausted?
The circular dueling arena measured roughly thirty adult male strides across. The arena was surrounded by spectators whose faces brimmed with curiosity and delight. They lounged in comfortable chairs like theatergoers, giggling and chatting among themselves. And at the center of their eager anticipation stood the two long-awaited protagonists: a young woman from some nameless count’s family and my half-brother, Arwen Reinhardt.
The female student wore a tense expression, clearly nervous before the murmuring crowd. In contrast, Arwen looked utterly drained, shoulders slumped as if he were ill. His face seemed noticeably darker and more haggard than usual; I doubted it was just my imagination.
Why does that guy look so exhausted?
The sharp contrast between the anxious girl and the weary Arwen was striking. Between them stood the referee, his face solemn as he held out his arm to separate the two students who would soon begin their duel.
The referee glanced down at the watch on his wrist, then lifted his head once the time had come. His magically amplified voice boomed across the arena and spectator seats.
"Both contestants, salute!"
At the referee’s signal, both duelists gave a slight bow. Then came the command.
"Ready… Begin!"
The referee raised his arm sharply and stepped back briskly, exiting the arena. At that exact moment, Arwen’s quarterfinal match began.
The instant the bout started, Arwen swiftly drew the sword at his waist. The listless, staggering posture he had shown moments ago vanished completely. His clean, efficient draw elicited small gasps from the stands.
Just pulling out a sword and they’re already impressed… The Reinhardt name really carried that much weight, even when attached to someone like me.
The silver longsword gleamed under the sunlight, radiating a sharp, lethal aura. Its blade looked sharp enough to slice through human skin in a single cut; anyone could tell at a glance that this was a real sword. Unlike the preliminaries, which used practice blades, the main tournament employed live steel.
The female student showed no sign of panic. She extended her right hand, the one gripping her staff, and began wiggling the fingers of her left hand as though playing invisible piano keys. Her lips moved in a low chant. Even a six-year-old child could tell she was preparing a spell. Her witch-like attire and stance only made it more obvious.
The air above the arena trembled with concentrated mana. I was slightly startled by the flow of mana brushing across my skin. For a moment, I considered remembering the girl’s name.
Arwen, unaware of what magic she was casting, didn’t rush in recklessly. He watched the situation carefully. While he hesitated, three flaming orbs blazing with yellow fire materialized above the girl’s head.
Only then did Arwen charge toward her. The girl responded by launching the three spinning fireballs hovering above her.
They struck exactly where Arwen had been headed. A thunderous boom rang out as the solid stone floor cracked like ice struck by a hammer. It wouldn’t have been strange if my half-brother’s blood had sprayed across the arena.
But Arwen’s corpse was nowhere to be seen at the point of impact. Right before collision, he had changed direction with a nimble, almost thief-like movement completely unsuited for a knight.
I wondered how many spectators had even caught that instantaneous pivot where he twisted his ankle to redirect himself. Most people stared blankly at the arena, but scattered voices of praise for the young man’s brilliant maneuver rose from various seats. Only after the dust settled and Arwen stood firmly on both feet did applause spread throughout the entire crowd.
Of course, there was no trace of satisfaction on Arwen’s face. He was too busy figuring out how to deal with the two remaining fireballs that still hovered before him, blazing like the eyes of a demon.
This time, unlike before, Arwen charged straight at his opponent without hesitation. While his lower body sprinted at full power, the upper body holding his sword remained almost perfectly still.
Even though her first attack had missed, the girl showed no panic and began preparing her second spell. At the same time, she hurled the two remaining fireballs at Arwen.
The orbs flew at him with a clever, awkward timing that made changing direction difficult. A smart tactic.
Just before Arwen’s body would have been swallowed by the flames, he twisted mid-sprint, leaped, and spun in the air as though lying on his back. The fireballs barely grazed beneath him.
But the danger wasn’t over. The final fireball, flying right behind the first two, was aimed precisely at where Arwen would land.
Nevertheless, Arwen spun gracefully as he touched down and calmly swung his sword at the last orb. It was no ordinary slash. A blue glow flickered along the blade as it cut through the air.
Infusing a sword with mana—a basic yet extraordinary technique. While coating a blade with mana was fundamental for knights, landing a precise strike on a fast-moving target while maintaining concentration was no easy feat. Hitting an incoming spell traveling at high speed was even harder.
Yet Arwen succeeded. The fireball split vertically with a blue wound and fell powerlessly to the ground. Behind Arwen, who had already dashed forward without looking back, the remnants of the fireball exploded.
Even those ignorant of swordsmanship could recognize the brilliance of that movement. A roar of cheers erupted from the entire audience.
Leopold wore a face like he had bitten into a bug, but that was all.
Arwen closed in on his opponent without slowing. When only five steps remained between them, a magic circle appeared beneath Arwen’s feet. It was a trap.
Two stone pillars, each the size of an adult man, surged upward toward his chin. But Arwen had clearly anticipated it; he evaded the attack with ease. Instead, he used the pillars as stepping stones to close the distance and swung his sword straight at the girl’s chest.
A razor-sharp blade slicing through delicate human skin… blood raining down like a crimson shower from the girl’s gruesome death… None of that happened.
The instant Arwen struck, the left of the two human-shaped totems beside the referee split horizontally as though it had been cut by a sword. The referee raised his hand as the totem toppled.
"Stop!"
Before the referee could even finish signaling the end, Arwen sheathed his sword as if he already knew the outcome. Once both contestants stood at the center of the arena, the referee grabbed Arwen’s hand and raised it high.
"Winner, Arwen Reinhardt!"
The moment the referee declared victory, the stands erupted in cheers and applause to celebrate both winner and loser. As I rose from my seat to clap along, Tania approached and whispered in my ear.
“So Arwen made it to the semifinals after all.”
“Yeah. I expected as much.”
I already knew Arwen had grown stronger thanks to Josef’s comments during Helena’s swordsmanship lectures. Even without that worthless boy’s opinion, the fact that he had caught the eye of Professor Helena—renowned for her strict standards—was proof enough of his skill.
Moreover, his movements were strikingly similar to Masha’s. From his draw to his evasive footwork. There was no way Masha, who hated Arwen to the point of disgust, would have taught him swordsmanship. The cunning bastard must have stolen her techniques.
To reach the semifinals using only stolen skills…
Had his pathetic act of being a man who couldn’t even kill a single orc all been an act? No, it had definitely been an act. Once he shed that disguise and used the Reinhardt family’s secret sword arts, there was no telling how much stronger he would become.
After the duel ended, Arwen returned to his earlier exhausted state. His footsteps dragged heavily across the floor as he left the arena. I remained standing in place until his weary back disappeared from view.
Tania looked at me and spoke in a voice full of trust.
“Don’t worry. Sophia is the strongest person I know.”
“I’m not worried. Because the one who will stand as the final victor is me.”
Arwen’s semifinal opponent after advancing from the quarterfinals was Jericho Provence. When the bracket was announced, Jericho had been delighted at the chance for revenge. Unfortunately for him, that revenge would never come. The match I had just witnessed left me certain of it.
Arwen would reach the finals. And he would face me there.
I’ll finish him with my own hands, without Mother or those Valeri bastards helping.
This was revenge. Revenge against Arwen for taking what was mine. I would end it myself.
My plan to deal with Arwen was simple: neutralize the totem he had used in the duel just now.
In martial duels, the academy used totems infused with holy power from high-ranking priests of the Elysia Church to ensure student safety. These totems absorbed damage in place of the contracted individual. Thanks to them, students could focus entirely on displaying their abilities without fearing for their lives.
But what if Arwen’s totem was disabled right before the final?
He would die without even understanding why, sent straight to the side of the Goddess Elysia.
Disabling the totem was easy. All it took was an object possessing strong dark properties—such as a succubus’s womb or a gargoyle’s claw—to cancel out the priest’s holy power stored within the totem.
Of course, the totems were strictly managed by the academy. But one of those strict managers was none other than the academy president, Leopold.
When I first revealed my plan, the cowardly Leopold had opposed it, calling it reckless, extreme, and even inhumane. Yet after my persistent persuasion, he eventually gave in—while boldly demanding that I visit his bedroom the night the academic conference’s opening ceremony ended.
In the end, the same person who called me extreme was nothing more than a beast driven by his own desires.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll just consider it getting bitten once by a filthy dog.
Naturally, I would also destroy the effect of my own totem, just like Arwen’s. Leopold had protested, but it was unavoidable if we wanted to avoid suspicion from others.
So don’t complain, Arwen. This is a true sword fight where both our lives are on the line.
Before the eyes of countless spectators, it would become clear who truly deserved to stand as the master of the Reinhardt family. And among those spectators would surely be my pathetic little sister.
Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen Cordelia at all. Did she even come to the academy?
She was a sister I had never liked since childhood—neither her talent nor her personality. Whenever I scolded her even a little, she would cling to Arwen and cry her eyes out. She treated our half-brother as if he were her real sibling.
Still, it had been a while. If I saw her, I had planned to ask how Mother was doing. I had no idea where she was or what she was up to.
Surely she isn’t staying beside that cold, distant Arwen.
“Getting fucked from behind feels so good♡ Oppa, harder, fuck me harder~”
Cordelia said, lying face-down on the bed. Her puckered anus twitched visibly above the pussy hole where my cock kept sliding in and out. My thighs slapped loudly against her soft ones, but she still seemed unsatisfied.
“Cut me some slack, Cordelia. I just finished my match.”
The moment the quarterfinals ended, I had returned straight to my dormitory room. Before the match I had already cum once in Emilia’s ass, once on her tits, once inside Cordelia’s pussy, and once down her throat. I had nearly forfeited before the fight even began. Thankfully, the rule that disadvantaged mages by forcing them to fight within a limited ring had let me win easily.
“Haaang♡ You’re the one who promised to get me pregnant, oppa. Take responsibility for my life♡”
Cordelia pushed her hips back toward me as if she would never let my cock escape. Her plump ass cheeks pressed firmly against my lower belly. At the same time, the tip of my urethra rubbed wildly against her cervix.
Cordelia was completely lost in the new sensations of doggystyle, drooling uncontrollably.
“Cum inside me♡ Pound your seed into me like a breeding dog, haaaaaah♡”
My semen erupted directly against her womb. I could feel my baby batter pooling against her uterine walls and vaginal lining. Before the aftershocks of my climax had even faded, the sound of the locked door opening reached my ears.
There was only one person who would come here.
Emilia.
As soon as she entered, Emilia shouted.
“Perfect. Now it’s my turn. You’re not already tired, are you?”
With that, she immediately began stripping off her clothes.
“I’m going to die at this rate…”
I was wrong. It wasn’t that we would all die. Only I would die. My prostate would wither and perish. But my weak murmur never reached Emilia’s ears.