Class Exchange Match (3)
Penelope and Apollon's duel unfolded exactly as expected.
Whump-whump-whump! Spell after spell lit up the arena. Wind bullets, sudden bursts of flame, and spears of ice hammered at Apollon without pause—only for a single sweep of his blade to scatter every last one of them.
"Hmm. Much the same as always, I see."
Apollon wore that greasy smile of his as he twirled the flamberge in his hand and looked Penelope over.
"……."
"The way you struggle is simply exquisite. A genuine pleasure to watch."
Penelope bit down on her lip. Apollon smiled at the sight. There was nothing refreshing about that smile. It was thick, filthy—slick with a man's naked desire.
"Penelope. Every time I duel you, my heart races… and yet it aches to wound you. Do you feel the same?"
"Ha……. Would you kindly shut up with the useless chatter?"
She cut him off at once, face twisting at the butter-slick flattery.
"There he goes again. That bastard."
Watching from the stands, Penelope's friend—Berry, seated right beside me—growled under her breath.
"He always toys with her like that. Acts like he owns her."
"He's been like this for a while?"
"Yeah!"
The moment she had someone willing to listen, Berry launched into a machine-gun rant about the ugly history between Penelope and Apollon.
"It's been like this since first year. Every time Apollon beats her, he asks her out."
"That's some kind of psycho."
"Right? Getting stuck with trash like him…… I feel so bad for Penelope."
Even from where I sat, Apollon's gaze was anything but normal. The way he looked at Penelope's body was unpleasantly sticky. I could more than understand why she wanted nothing to do with him.
In the original, he was the guy who used a flamberge to scare people.
A knight who tore skin with that wavy blade just to sow terror. Beyond that, a third-rate villain with barely any screen time. Knowing a creep like that had his sights on Penelope did not sit well with me.
"……."
The match went exactly as one-sided as Berry's grim expression suggested. Penelope's magic vanished under Apollon's sword strokes, and the duel only ended once his blade had closed in right beside her.
The winner is Apollon Simon.
The instructor's announcement set the stands on fire—mostly with the roaring of the Knight Department students.
—Waaaaaah!
—Of course. Like Apollon was ever going to lose.
—Anyone here actually think the Knights aren't taking the championship?
They were all grinning ear to ear. Not a single person doubted that the Knight Department would claim the second-year title. This was a match between top students. Common sense said the Mage Department never stood a chance.
—Ah, damn it……. We lost again.
—Shit. The upperclassmen are going to tear into us for this.
The Mage Department side, by contrast, looked like a funeral. The losing streak that had dogged them since first year was bad enough; the thought of the seniors chewing them out for dropping another one already had them sunk in gloom.
"I'm heading out."
Berry stood up at once.
"Where to?"
"Going to check on Penelope. She's got to be wrecked right now."
A real friend, then. Anyone could see the atmosphere wasn't kind to Penelope—she'd be shrinking into herself. Worried, Berry left without another word.
"……."
I stayed put and watched the next matchups.
Knight and mage kept stepping out one by one, and the results stayed more or less the same. Knights won most of them. The Mage Department scraped a win here and there, but nothing that shifted the overall tide. The mages' faces only hardened further; some of them even got up and left.
Knight Department, 2nd Year — Jackson Percival
Mage Department, 2nd Year — Heracle Leonhardt
Please step into the arena.
At last. The one person who could flip this whole mood in a single stroke—me—had been called.
The arena was in decent shape. Someone must have polished it recently; the square platform gleamed. I climbed the steps at an easy pace, and across from me, someone was climbing up to meet me.
A mean-looking face. Solid muscle packed onto the frame beneath it. A sword at his hip.
Jackson.
He swaggered onto the platform with pure arrogance written all over him, swept a look around the stands, and opened his mouth in a mocking drawl.
"You've got some nerve. A reserve student, strutting out here like you belong."
"Why are you making such a big deal? Pathetic."
"Shut up! ……Guess you don't remember. I'm ranked seventh in the Knight Department. A bottom-feeder like you isn't even in my league."
Jackson's face was already swollen with confidence. Eyes that believed, without a shred of doubt, that he could never lose.
"Can't you hear them? The stands watching us right now."
"……."
"If you've got ears, open them. The students already know who's going to win!"
He waved a hand around as he said it, pointing first at the Knight Department seats, then the Mage Department's. I obliged and actually listened. The whispers drifted up clearly enough.
—Heracle-whatever—who's that supposed to be? Why's he even out there?
—Heard he's a Mage Department reserve.
—That guy against Jackson? Not even worth watching.
—How many minutes till Jackson puts him down? I say five.
—Three.
On the Knight side, there wasn't a flicker of doubt. Absolute faith that Jackson would win.
—Ha, damn it. Why the hell is that Heracle idiot going out there to embarrass us?
—If you're a reserve, stay in your place. What's he doing in the Class Exchange Match?
—Ugh……. Just thinking about those bastards getting even cockier pisses me off.
The Mage side had no doubt either. Absolute faith that I could never win.
The reactions ran in opposite directions, but the belief underneath them was identical.
Heracle can never beat Jackson.
That single sentence was the shared opinion of every student in the Colosseum.
Fine. I got it. I heard what they were muttering, and I understood why Jackson's shoulders were riding so high because of it.
But still.
"So what?"
"……What did you just say?"
I stuck a finger in my ear and dug around. Conversations that weren't worth a second of anyone's time. Listening to Jackson had already been a waste.
"If they say you win, you win? If they say you lose, you lose? That all it takes for you?"
"You son of a—"
A vein jumped on Jackson's forehead. He was about to snarl something else when—
A brief additional notice, if I may.
This time it wasn't the instructor. Vice Chairman Kiron's voice rolled through the arena.
"……?"
Jackson's eyes went round. None of the earlier matches had gotten a special announcement like this. I looked toward the officials' seats with mild interest of my own.
Click. Click…… A woman was walking over. Long golden hair braided down her back, dressed in a gown. Princess Helene had taken her place here.
"……Heh."
On her way to the seat beside Kiron, Helene's eyes met mine as I looked up at her. And then she broke into a shy little smile and waved.
Still at it.
That whole "destined one" nonsense. She was still far too interested in me. Exhausting.
Helene hopped into the seat next to Kiron, and he continued.
From this match onward, Her Highness Princess Helene has graciously decided to observe in person. Sudden as the decision may be, please do not let it distract you. Focus on your duel.
Kiron's words sent a ripple through the Colosseum. The sheer weight of Princess Helene is watching in person hit hard.
—Whoa, damn. The princess is watching?
—Shit, I should've signed up. I'm already regretting it.
—I'm so jealous. Jackson lucked the hell out.
Helene watching meant she was paying attention to whoever was fighting. And with the phrase "from this match onward," every student's focus locked onto one person.
……Jackson.
"Hah……! Her Highness is watching me……!"
Jackson's mouth stretched toward his ears. He'd plunged headfirst into a fantasy ocean where Helene was specifically interested in him. The way his jaw hung open, ready to drool, was genuinely pathetic.
Give me a break.
As if Helene would spare a thought for a guy like him…….
As Her Highness has only just arrived, allow me to restate the rules. Victory is achieved by the opponent's declaration of surrender, or by forcing them outside the arena bounds.
Begin.
The instant Kiron finished, Jackson bared a vicious smile. He drew the sword at his hip, leveled it at me, and shouted through his teeth.
"Hey. Reserve. Want to make a bet?"
"On what?"
I answered with a bored look. Jackson laid out the terms—a wager with no outcome except my humiliation.
"Will you surrender with your own mouth, or get thrown out of the arena? I'm betting you say it yourself."
"Heh."
What a precious little idea. Exactly the kind of thing a thug who only picks on the weak would come up with. Jackson's entire measure was right there in plain sight.
"Suit yourself."
I snorted and shrugged.
"……Cocky bastard. I'll teach you your place."
Jackson gripped his sword, settled into his stance—and the duel began.
A strange current was running through the Colosseum. The Knight Department students, who'd had no tension to begin with, and the Mage Department students, who'd had no expectations, were both wearing the same puzzled look. Neither fighter had moved an inch.
"……."
Jackson Percival, seventh-ranked second-year of the Knight Department, held his stance without so much as a twitch.
His eyes were locked on Heracle, unblinking. His hand gripped the sword as if he might draw and strike at any second. His feet were planted, ready to explode forward.
"……."
That much was only natural. A knight's basic combat doctrine was to close the distance before a mage could finish casting. Simply holding a textbook stance should have been enough to build momentum—and yet—
……What is this?
Something was wrong.
A bead of sweat rolled down Jackson's cheek. He didn't even notice it, still staring hard at Heracle. But nothing changed. From the moment the duel started, Jackson had not taken a single step forward.
……Why.
Heracle wasn't moving. Just watching Jackson with a look that said he was bored, that this was tedious. That idle expression was infuriating. Jackson wanted nothing more than to charge in and beat him into the ground.
And yet.
……I can't move, can I……?
He couldn't see an opening.
It made no sense. When a knight couldn't find a clean line on a mage, it was usually for one of two reasons: magic was already flying and slowing the approach, or a magic shield was too solid to punch through. But Heracle was doing nothing. He simply stood there, upright and natural, watching Jackson with quiet arrogance.
Yes—a stance full of gaps. A stance that had to be full of gaps.
And still.
What the hell is this……!
Jackson could not, for the life of him, find an angle that would break through Heracle!
—What's wrong with that guy?
Jackson wasn't the only one who noticed something was off. The prolonged, inexplicable standoff finally drew confused murmurs from the stands.
—Why's he just standing there? Is he an idiot?
—Just run in and swing. It'd be over.
—I heard that bastard can't even use magic. What's he scared of?
Jackson agreed with them. He'd thought the same thing. Heracle couldn't use magic. He wasn't using any now.
But then—how was he supposed to explain the body standing over there? That physique of Heracle's, looking stronger than Jackson's own……!
"What are you doing?"
"……Hah!"
Heracle's flat voice snapped Jackson out of the spiral of thoughts he'd been thrashing in.
Hah, hah—Jackson was panting like he'd already fought a full battle by himself. Heracle watched him with open boredom and muttered,
"I know your specialty well enough. A body clearly tougher than anyone else your age."
"……."
"Climbing to seventh on pure physical class alone—I'm not ignorant of that."
Nonsense to Jackson's ears. Plain truth to Heracle. He'd played Song of Sword and Sorcery; he knew Jackson's lore.
"But too bad."
"W-what do you mean……?"
"My stats just hit two recently. And I've got a physical cheat."
Stats? Physical cheat? Jackson didn't understand the words. But one thing landed with perfect clarity.
Heracle had something no one knew about. A special power that could beat him……!
"So. You coming or not?"
"Th-ugh……."
Jackson couldn't even manage a retort. His body had locked up in the face of something beyond comprehension. The instant he tried to force it to move—
"Fine then."
Heracle loosened up.
"I'll come to you."
—And drove his foot into the ground, surging straight at Jackson.