Badronel Colosseum (8)
I look at my opponent. I look at Rasha. I watch the foot she plants forward, the eyes burning with killing intent, the body twisting as it coils up to drive a fist straight through me.
That movement is nothing like the memories etched into my soul. The Rasha I used to watch through a monitor—taking an entirely different form back then—had never once moved like this.
And yet that doesn't mean Rasha has become some completely different person from the one in the game.
She craves fighting the strong, just as she did in the game.
She relies on nothing but her own two fists, no weapons, just as she did in the game.
She'd rather toy with her opponent than simply land a fatal blow.
She stays true to her own enjoyment rather than mere victory.
Rasha is Rasha. Change her name, change her appearance, change the very world she lives in—the person herself doesn't change.
That fist hurtling at me to kill me right now is the same. At a glance, her fists look like they share nothing with the ones I knew, but in truth they spring from the same roots. Because what gives those fists their power is the memory of combat Rasha has piled up all her life.
The moment this dawned on me, I lamented my own stupidity in silence.
The answer was so painfully obvious, really. The only reason I'd missed it was that I'd been too enslaved by my memories as a Hardcore Veteran.
Back when I was a veteran speedrunning bosses, taking them on was barely different from transcribing memorized answers onto paper. The only difference was using a keyboard and mouse instead of a pen—it was exactly like answering test questions where the solutions were already fixed. And I had solved those questions tens, hundreds, thousands of times over.
I'd poured in so many hours I could have answered with my eyes shut, becoming the most rotten of rotten-water veterans—but in the process I'd forgotten how to actually work toward a solution. Back then, what I needed was never the process, only the answer.
So even after falling into this world, I kept chasing answers and ignoring the process entirely. That's how I'd lived as a hardcore veteran, so that's how I kept living.
I was treating the person in front of me not as a person, but as an unchanging exam question printed on paper.
And so, the moment the exam questions went and rewrote their own text, instead of trying something new, I chose to give up. I'd grown used to shrugging, conceding, and hitting the retry button rather than grinding through a run as it rotted—so naturally I repeated the choices of my past.
But things are different now. Now that I've recognized what my real problem was, I refuse to live that way any longer.
Firm up the eyes. Etch every one of Rasha's movements into them. Remember the time I was a pure, honest gamer, before I ever became rotten water.
BOOM!
Rasha's fist collides with my shield once more. Because I'd dumped my divinity just to survive moments ago, my shield is less solid than before.
And yet the shock traveling down my arm is lighter than before. Because rather than shutting out the knowledge carved into my head and responding by eye alone, I chose my movements based on the knowledge I actually possessed.
"Growing stronger already, are you?"
"Unlike a muscle pig with nothing left to do but rot till death, I'm still young♡ Growing is only natural♡"
"Haha. Good. I like you more and more."
The corners of Rasha's mouth sharpen into something even more ferocious—and the corners of mine, facing her down, curl upward to match.
No fear. No hesitation. All that remains is joy.
Yes. This is exactly why I loved Soul Academy.
Because even trials that looked impossible could be surmounted with enough effort. Because it showed me the reward for that effort instantly. Because it never rendered the knowledge I'd carved earlier meaningless. Because every single run gave me something new to savor. I truly did love Soul Academy.
Right fist. It swings past the shield, aiming to hammer my flank.
It looks like a blockable attack, easy as anything—but instead of moving rashly, I keep observing.
Rasha is a brawler forged through countless battles. She would never throw something that simple out without intent behind it.
Look. Her left fist is waiting to slip into the gap the instant my shield moves to intercept.
Blocking here is the worst option. Backing away is no good either—it would collapse my stance.
Which means I have to dive inside.
Shielding myself behind the shield as I push forward, the fist that had been hunting my flank brushes nothing but empty air.
At the same time, her left fist—poised to strike me down—loses the distance it needed to generate power and lands itself in an awkward spot.
Any normal fighter would have swung their mace, believing victory secured. I didn't.
I was certain that the instant I moved carelessly, the opening I'd fought so hard to seize would vanish.
And my prediction was proven exactly right.
"HWAHAHA! Excellent!"
The moment both her hands became awkward for attacking, Rasha slammed her forehead into my shield.
Anyone watching would have shrieked, do you want brain damage?!—but that concern simply didn't apply to Rasha. The headbutt of a woman who had turned every inch of her body into a weapon delivered an impact like an artillery shell slamming into my shield.
WHAM! My body, unable to endure the shock, went skidding backward across the dirt, and distance between us opened up naturally.
"Not much time left, so let's pick up the pace, yeah!?"
For the first time, Rasha raised not a fist but a leg.
The kick, launched from a left foot rooted into the ground with perfect stability, looked at a glance like a whip being cracked through the air.
Trying to dodge it clumsily would only break my guard. I have to block.
Feet planted, both hands gripping the shield, I glared at the whip slicing through the wind toward me.
Never trust sound against Rasha. Her attacks come faster than the sound they make.
Don't trust my eyes either. Her attacks left my senses in the dust long ago.
In the end, the only thing left to trust is the instinct carved into my very body, huh.
Objectively speaking, it's a hopeless situation—and yet for some reason, there was nothing but a smile on my lips.
KRAKOOOM!
It's got that distinctive parry feel in my hands, but it's not a clean one. I failed to fully nullify the impact.
Hah. She really is disgustingly strong. Would've been nice if she'd been this strong back when she lived behind a monitor. She'd have been so much more satisfying to take down.
Then my planted foot tore loose from the earth and my body went airborne—and the instant I floated up, I clenched my teeth against the impact that would arrive a beat later.
...
When consciousness snapped back from the blackout, my face was planted in the dirt. I must have smashed into the wall and then tumbled straight forward.
I staggered, trying to rise—but unfortunately that turned out to be a terrible idea. The moment I pushed myself up with one hand, pain exploded and my head was driven right back into the ground.
KRAAK?! The shock alone, transmitted through the shield, shattered my arm bone?
Insane. If the shield I carried weren't a legendary artifact, it would have been cleaved in half along with me.
I laughed a hollow, disbelieving laugh even as cold sweat broke out over me.
Fear was crawling up my spine. The euphoria that had been building through the fight drained away, and frigid desolation flooded in to fill the gap.
A whining plea that being hurts, a resigned voice begging to just collapse already, and a desperate advisory that I should get on my knees and apologize for my insolence—all tangled together in my skull, choking off any coherent thought.
And from within that tangle, I gritted my teeth, healed my body, and forced myself back to my feet.
The dam hasn't broken yet. The toad still absorbing the rising flood of terror with its own body can still hold. My gut tells me: things are screwed, but not truly screwed yet.
Which means I can still raise my shield.
I don't need to think. I can ignore the swarm of thoughts gnawing at my brain. All I need is a tiny sliver of time to move my shield on pure instinct.
"You're disgustingly hard to put down. Are you even human?"
"I'll throw that question right back at you♡ Are you human?♡ No matter how I look at it, you seem like an orc-troll hybrid♡"
"Gahaha. That mouth of yours never shuts up. You're the best."
Laughing loud enough to shake the entire colosseum, she soon wiped the grin from her face and began preparing what would be her final blow.
The ground cracks. Air is sucked inward along the mana surging into her fist. Killing intent kindles in Rasha's eyes, dyed red at some point without my noticing.
Yeah, no. How am I supposed to block that? Even at full strength I'd be blasted apart, and this body is running on fumes.
Should I forfeit now? I'd probably walk away with my life.
Even as I giggled at these idle thoughts, instead of backing away, I raised my shield. Hoping for a miracle.
And a miracle in human form revealed itself at my back.
"Stand behind me for a moment."
Benedict stepped forward with an expressionless face and took his stance to throw a punch—and mana no lesser than Rasha's gathered around his fist.
Watching the scene unfold, I realized there was no space for me between the clash of two monsters beyond the bounds of humanity, and I took a step back.
"Haha! Benedict! It's been ages—shall we have a round?"
"I'd hoped that with all those years behind you, you'd have grown a little wiser."
"You're the one who grew up too much!"
After a conversation utterly devoid of tension, the two fists shot toward each other.
To me, standing at the sidelines, their clash looked less like two human fists colliding than like two dragons shoving each other back with their very breath.
And as threatening as the sight was, the aftermath was every bit as devastating.
The earth split open with a scream. A storm ripped through the arena, forcing me to drive my shield into the ground just to keep from being blown away. Some among the spectators fainted outright, unable to endure the shockwave.
Yet the two who had unleashed it emerged from the collision without a scratch.
Benedict merely flexed his arm as if it had gone stiff, while Rasha, showing no trace of exhaustion, roused her mana with a savage grin.
"Your daughter lost the bet, so you jumped in? Faster than I expected! Shall we fight right now?! Start right away!?"
"What nonsense is this, Rasha. My daughter won the bet."
"You're the one spouting nonsense! You butted in halfway through! This is blatant cheating!"
"And bombarding her with attacks past the one-minute mark without acknowledging the result—isn't that cheating?"
"...A minute passed? Seriously?"
Rasha blinked, then turned her gaze toward Count Badronel in the stands. The count, meeting her eyes, gave a slow nod.
"Count Aln is correct, Lady Rasha."
"Damn it. I couldn't put down that little runt within a minute?"
At the slight edge that crept into Rasha's voice, Badronel fell silent, and Benedict raised his mana—both of them bracing as if they expected a sore loser to go on a rampage.
But I was different. I wrenched my shield free from the earth, strode past Benedict, planted myself in front of Rasha, and flashed a smug, insufferably smug smile.
"So much for being strong—you look pathetic♡ Loo~ser♡ How about you bow your head graciously like the sorry loser you are?♡ Hmm?♡"
While Rasha stared at me blankly, Benedict snapped back to his senses and rushed frantically to my side.
"Lucy!? Now is not the time! Get behind me, quick—"
"Pff. PWAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Far from sharing Benedict's worry, she burst out laughing for a long while, then finally cut it off, swept her hair back, and stepped up beside me.
"Fine, runt. I'll count this one as my loss."
"You think there'll be a next time?♡ Guess that muscle-pig brain really doesn't turn very fast, huh?♡ You're going to live forever as the loser who got beat by me♡"
"Keh. Fine. Fine. See you around, then. I'll be hoping you've grown strong enough by then to make me get serious."
With those parting words, she turned her back and waved a hand as she headed out of the arena.
By the time just Benedict and I remained in the ring, the referee belatedly came to his senses and raised his voice.
"The winner! Lucy Aln!"
Perhaps it was finally registering that everything was over.
The moment the consciousness I'd been forcibly clutching gave out, my body pitched forward.
Aaaaargh. This is that trope, isn't it.
Lucy Aln, having spent every last ounce of strength to defeat Rasha, collapses like a lieee—