Academy Athletic Festival: Sparring Showdown
The Academy Athletic Festival has begun.
The academy's main event is the class competition. But the festival features all sorts of smaller contests as well. Among them is the Sparring Tournament for combat-class students. This one has no class divisions—everyone enters as individuals.
The participants include me. And there's Milon... and Glan too.
"Sparring Tournament entrants, please line up over here."
"Hold on. Something's off, isn't it? Since when do special class students participate?"
"Special class students are eligible too."
Milon startles when he spots me, then starts arguing with the organizer that special class shouldn't be allowed. But special class students are academy students all the same. There's no reason they can't join. It's just that no one from special class ever has before.
"..."
I flash Milon a smile and wave. His face drains of color. He looks like he's seen a ghost... How hurtful. We were once at the stage where marriage talks were floating around, you know.
"Since this isn't a class competition, everyone will fight as individuals. You might even face someone from your own class, and prizes will be awarded per person, not per class. I'll assume all entrants have already reviewed the detailed rules, so no further announcements."
The Sparring Tournament is held in the academy colosseum—the same place where I took my entrance exam. As we head to the venue, we're handed draw sheets. According to mine, things kick off with the round of 32.
Tiny print notes that the academy isn't liable for any injuries sustained during matches. There's also a section on fouls. Only one that really matters here: no lethal weapons.
In short, mages can't use wands or staves, and swordsmen can't wield real blades. Practice wooden swords or training dummies are fine, though. Naturally, I've brought along a wooden practice sword myself.
"The tournament starts in ten minutes. Wait in the prep room, and first-round fighters, come forward."
With that, preparations ramp up in earnest. We can watch other matches through the waiting room window, and since chatting's allowed, plenty of students are already trash-talking or sizing each other up.
Milon's one of them.
"I'm Milon, young master of the House of Roishutent. Quit now, and I'll pay you handsomely."
"How much?"
"Fifty gold."
"Deal. I'll forfeit. Hand it over now."
"Of course."
Milon buys off his opponent. Meanwhile, someone else is picking a fight with Glan.
"You look scrawny. Think that twig body can handle the tournament?"
"Guess we'll find out when we clash."
"Heh. Just don't cry like a baby later."
That muscled guy harassing Glan? He'll be the first to get wrecked and start bawling. It's all straight out of the original story.
But there's one thing that isn't.
"Celestia. You're in it too, huh."
"Glan Braden."
Glan spots me and marches right over, pointing his wooden sword.
"What's this about?"
"One question. During the dungeon practical... what were you hiding? Who did you kill?"
Unlike before, when he swore he wouldn't suspect me, he's openly wary now. But this is a problem.
"I don't like that. Kill someone? Don't even joke about it."
"..."
"Did the dungeon show you some weird illusion? Dungeons are masters at burrowing into your mind, amplifying doubts, conflicts, hatred. Right?"
"Mariella saw it too. Yuria too. You hiding something. The smell of blood. Sticky red liquid. That wasn't any illusion..."
"Has anyone gone missing?"
"...What?"
"The only people in the dungeon were class participants, professors, and their assistants. Did even one vanish?"
"Well..."
"Keep suspecting me like this, Glan, and it's troublesome."
"But I know you're hiding something."
"Of course. Everyone hides something."
"Yeah, true..."
"This is why being a popular girl is such a hassle~ But you're not my type anyway."
I say it with a sly giggle. Glan's face hardens. He grudgingly turns and heads back to his seat.
It's not just Glan. Plenty come my way.
"Heard the news. Special class, huh?"
"Wanna see how tough special class really is. Don't disappoint."
"What? A delicate miss like you, hugging teddy bears and sipping tea? Special class must be a joke!"
They swarm before the matches even start, tossing barbs. Such youthful vigor. Baseless confidence included...
But the prize money's mine for the taking. Not interested in winning, but I know how to snag the cash...
"Next contenders, come on out!"
While we're trading barbs, the matches keep rolling. Third in the round of 32: Milon. His opponent forfeits, so easy win.
Fourth: Glan. He crushes the guy who mocked his frailty with pure swordplay. Victorious strut and all.
Last in the round: my turn, match sixteen.
"I'll take you on with my eyes closed."
"Eyes closed? You mocking me!?"
"I'll win with them closed."
Truth is, I get stronger only when they're shut, but why not mix in some showboating? He did underestimate me, after all.
One strike. Done. Overwhelming superiority. Can't hide the grin tugging at my lips.
Back in the waiting room, the stares have shifted. Whispers tickle my ears delightfully.
"Special class really is different..."
"Looks delicate, but insanely strong. Decided in one clash."
"Can anyone even beat her...?"
My lips curve up. The awe and assessments don't stop till I sit.
Amid it, Milon and Glan stay quiet. Milon sneaks complicated glances. Glan looks lost in mental sims.
"Round of 16 begins. Straight to it—next up!"
Next: Milon versus Glan. I watch their match via scrying orb.
Glan Braden.
He shelves his tangled suspicions about Celestia for now. Focus on the Sparring Tournament. No distractions.
Prize money means tuition funds, plus a cut for the mercenary band. Unlike his noble friends, commoner Glan is short on cash.
"Hey. Commoner."
"Milon..."
"One proposal. Forfeit here. I'll give you three gold special."
"Three gold? Even a million wouldn't sway me."
"To trash like you, three gold's a fortune... Don't hate me. I'm pretty strong."
Round of 16 opponent: Milon. He offers a bribe—I refuse. No way I'm losing to someone who looks down on me.
Time to prove I don't need to. Looks like he wants to buy the win. Not happening. Victory's mine through full effort.
"I won't lose either."
"Hah. No way I lose to some untaught commoner trash."
He chants as he speaks, unleashing magic. Fire Bolt. Basic stuff. But the power's no joke.
Fwoosh!
"Oh? Dodging that?"
He keeps firing. I dodge, focusing my mind quietly.
"Enchant."
Ting!
I coat my wooden sword in frost. Milon favors fire magic—ice counters it perfectly.
Thus fortified, I slowly close the distance.
"Try this, you commoner scum!"
Fwoosh—Boom!
Fire Cannon this time. Seen it before—the merc band's mage's go-to. Blocking that raw power's pointless.
But knowing exactly when and how it'd come let me barely evade.
"Close one...!"
I charge. Post-Cannon, Milon panics.
"Not even that...? Tch!"
Crackle!
Switches to lightning. Lightning Bolt. Unlike other shocks, it doesn't hit hard. I tank it with mental fortitude.
"Nngh...!"
"Hahaha! Pathetic! Forfeit now!"
"Why don't you?"
"What?! How...!"
Crackle!
"Urk...!"
"Hahaha—huh...?"
"Shouldn't have let me close in!"
Clang!
I swing at Milon. His magic barrier blocks the first strike. Doesn't create distance, though...
"For a commoner...!"
Shatter!
Second strike blocked too. But each attack reveals more gaps. And finally...!
"Don't underestimate commoners!"
Crack!
Milon's head splits open.