Let's See What You've Got
The clash between the second-years and the fourth-years exploded across the arena.
"Block them! To the left!"
"Those bastards are targeting only the wounded!"
The second-years had copied the first-years' playbook down to the letter, relentlessly striking where the enemy was weakest—hounding the injured students who huddled under their classmates' protection.
"You... you shameless cowards!"
From the second-years' perspective, it was only natural. There was nothing cowardly about it. Their opponents were fourth-years, two full grades above them. Injured or not, they had not been eliminated yet, which meant they were still combatants on the field. They were simply a bit easier to cut down.
"What's the matter, seniors? Can't even handle this much as fourth-years?"
A second-year hurled a taunt, instantly stoking the fourth-years' fury.
"Don't take the bait! Now isn't the time to push forward!"
Despite their rage, the fourth-years clamped down on their discipline and tightened their ranks. The fifth-years were casually watching the fire burn from across the river, entirely uninterested in intervening, while right behind them lurked the monstrous first-years who had already eliminated two of their classmates.
We're trapped between a rock and a hard place.
Without question, the fourth-years were in the worst position on the field. How in the world had things unraveled like this? The original plan had been simple: sweep through the first-, second-, and third-years in order, put up a respectable fight against the fifth-years, and comfortably claim second place. That neat little script had been torn to shreds.
It's all because of those damned first-years.
The moment those freshmen charged headlong into the second- and third-year formations, the entire match had derailed. Worse still, the first-years were absurdly strong. Whatever demonic training they had undergone, the way they hunted in three-man cells to drag down a single fourth-year was far beyond the level of ordinary students.
"Keep pressing!"
The second-years maintained their relentless assault, but the fourth-years struck back with venom. Two years of advanced training did not simply vanish because a few of them were nursing bruises. Realizing their danger, the remaining three able-bodied fourth-years mirrored the first-years' tactics, banding together to crush the second-years one by one.
"It's a dead heat," Berhal remarked from the viewing platform.
The fourth-years had five fighters left, two of them wounded. The second-years had ten, all relatively uninjured. While the numerical gap was substantial, the difference in individual skill leveled the playing field into a brutal stalemate.
"It really might come down to a duel between the first-years and the fifth-years."
Berhal let out an incredulous breath. Who could have imagined such a farce? The freshmen, who should have been swept off the stage within the first few minutes, had survived to the bitter end and were poised to lock swords with the graduating class. This year's Exchange Event was pure, unadulterated chaos.
And the man responsible for unleashing that chaos, Ziel, merely watched the sands of Rickbein Ground with an utterly impassive face.
At this rate, the second- and fourth-years will annihilate each other.
Everything was proceeding precisely according to Ziel's design. In Match 2, survival was paramount. Endure as long as possible, eliminate as many opponents as opportunity permitted, and secure victory if the conditions aligned. Ziel had already extracted far more than the maximum potential from his freshmen.
Sure enough, the attrition reached its bloody climax.
"Only two left on their side!"
"Dammit, we're wiping each other out!"
"Just swing!"
For every two second-years that hit the dirt, one fourth-year collapsed beside them. Before long, only a single battered survivor remained on each side.
Now.
As if plucking the thought directly from Ziel's mind, the first-years, who had been catching their breath in the back, surged forward in unison.
"Reaping the fisherman's spoils," Berhal muttered.
Before the words could even settle, the freshmen descended upon the last remaining second- and fourth-years. Exhausted and bleeding, neither survivor had the strength left to fend off an organized ambush. Anne and Yurio swept in from flanking angles to overwhelm the second-year, while Deleb and Celia cornered the fourth-year—
"And that makes another one for me!"
Quantus roared, barging in at the last second to deliver the finishing blow.
"Wait... is that idiot actually going to end up with the most eliminations on the official record?"
"Don't say that. Please, for the love of God, don't jinx it."
Deleb and Celia shook their heads in dismay, only for the reality of their surroundings to suddenly hit them.
"It's just us and the fifth-years now."
"...It really happened just like Instructor Ziel said."
He had told them they would win. Whether he meant winning the entire event or simply outlasting the other grades had never been clear, but one fact was indisputable: they had conquered every obstacle before them. They had already achieved a result unprecedented in the history of the academy. That alone was an astonishing triumph.
"Hah! Only the fifth-years left! Let's take 'em down!" Quantus bellowed, pounding his chest.
For once, Deleb and Celia found themselves nodding in agreement. They had made it this far. Since fate had dragged them to the threshold of the finale, why shouldn't they test their mettle against the pinnacle of the student body? Their blood was pumping, their confidence overflowing.
"My word... this Exchange Event is turning out to be an endless string of upsets."
"Indeed. Those first-years... it defies all reason."
The noble family heads who had snickered at the freshmen's cowardly evasions earlier could no longer maintain their condescending smirks. The results spoke for themselves. Brilliant strategies, flawless operational discipline, audacious aggression rarely seen in newcomers, and individual martial prowess that outstripped any previous freshman class—it was an undeniable spectacle.
"If they somehow manage to defeat the fifth-years..."
"That will not happen," Amos Kundel interjected coldly.
The patriarch of House Kundel kept his eyes fixed on the sand below. "The outcome is already decided."
Until now, chaos and unexpected variables had carried the freshmen forward. But the fifth-years were a completely different beast.
That boy is a genius.
Agres Kundel.
In terms of pure, raw talent, Deleb held a slight edge over his eldest brother. But four years of rigorous training created a chasm in practical experience. More importantly, when Amos considered the realm of swordsmanship Agres had recently attained...
It is simply impossible.
"Deleb, isn't that your brother over there?"
"Yeah. My oldest brother."
"He's massive. Looks terrifying, honestly."
"He's not terrifying at all," Deleb muttered under his breath, repeating the words like an incantation to steady his racing heart.
His brothers had never been monsters to be feared. It was only after they entered the academy that the distance between them had grown, until speaking to them felt like crossing an impassable gulf.
This is my chance.
He had perfected the 7th Form of the Kundel Heavy Sword Style—a milestone neither of his brothers had achieved at his age.
"Isn't Big Brother Agres insanely strong?"
"He is. Extremely."
"Can we really beat them?"
Though his chest burned with adrenaline, Deleb's mind gradually cooled down. Looking at the situation objectively, their opponents were fifth-years. Victory was a distant dream, especially against a swordsman like Agres Kundel.
"Instructor Ziel wouldn't have put it that way."
If Ziel were down here, he would have laid out a method to win, or at the very least, a way to fight back without yielding an inch. Deleb adjusted his grip on the hilt of his heavy blade.
"We fight as hard as we can, for as long as we can."
Ziel had not merely drilled them in tactics and formations. He had forged an indomitable mindset into Deleb—and into every single student standing beside him.
"Let's go!"
Rallied by Quantus's boisterous charge, the first-years advanced. To everyone's astonishment, it was not the fifth-years who initiated the clash. The widely held assumption that the freshmen would turtle up and brace for an onslaught was shattered in an instant.
Fascinating.
While whispers of disbelief rippled through the spectators, Professor Isabella, the fifth-year supervisor, simply watched the arena with an amused, knowing smile.
Then, the fifth-years finally moved.
The initial collision was instantaneous.
"Ugh!"
"Aargh!"
Anne and Quantus were thrown backward, crashing hard against the ground.
"Good grief."
"As expected..."
Just as the two freshmen had lunged toward a single fifth-year, a synchronized pincer attack slammed into them from both flanks. There was no time to react, let alone evade. Yurio, who had been trailing closely behind to exploit an opening, froze in shock before hastily retreating.
They're strong. Absolutely ridiculous.
Against the fourth-years, their team maneuvers had found purchase. But against fifth-years who had preserved their stamina entirely, the gap in raw capability was a yawning chasm.
Even if we were at full strength, the result wouldn't have changed much.
Yet the sudden elimination of two vanguards failed to break the first-years' resolve.
"Celia! Take three from your side and flank around their rear!"
At Deleb's sharp command, Celia nodded and broke into a sprint.
We're taking at least one down with us.
Even if the match ended here, their performance was already the greatest in academy history. But having clawed their way this far, leaving without taking a single scalp felt intolerable. No matter how monstrous the fifth-years were—
"At least one of you is coming with us!"
Clang!
Eight freshmen converged upon the fifth-year holding the outermost flank. Four crashed in first to absorb his guard, and the moment they recoiled, the remaining four surged into the breach to press the attack.
"Their coordination is exceptional," Prince Dietrich remarked, genuinely impressed. "What do you think, Sir Lelio?"
"A textbook offensive, Your Highness. However... the fifth-years possess far more composure than their juniors."
The fourth-years had panicked under the freshmen's relentless swarming, bleeding two members before they could steady their feet. Yet this lone fifth-year was parrying the combined assault of Deleb, Celia, and Yurio on his own. Though he was steadily forced backward by the sheer volume of strikes, his footwork remained grounded and calm.
It was precisely in that fleeting moment of balance that Deleb struck.
"Hup!"
Deleb unleashed the 7th Form of the Kundel Heavy Sword Style, a crushing technique he had held in reserve throughout the entire match.
"Ngh!"
The sudden, devastating weight behind the strike shattered the senior's stance, sending his upper body lurching violently off-balance.
In that razor-thin opening—
Slash!
Yurio's training blade grazed across the senior's shoulder, and Deleb followed through immediately, slamming his armored shoulder into the man's chest to drive him to the earth.
"Whoa!"
"Heavens above!"
A fifth-year had fallen. It was the graduating class's very first elimination.
"...Damn it all to hell," the downed student muttered, staring up at the sky in sheer disbelief.
He had been parrying cleanly, only for that terrifyingly heavy blow to blow through his guard without warning. This is mortifying. His injuries were negligible, but the moment his back touched the arena dirt, the rules dictated his elimination.
The stands erupted in murmurs of shock.
"Is that boy Deleb Kundel?"
"They claimed he was the greatest talent House Kundel has produced in generations. It seems the rumors were not exaggerated."
"Magnificent. That strike just now... was a flawless execution of the Kundel Heavy Sword Style."
The surviving freshmen cheered with wild enthusiasm.
"Deleb, that was incredible!"
"How did you pull that off? That was insane!"
Yet Deleb's expression was grim.
I took him down, but... that was meant for my brother.
The 7th Form, transitioning into the threshold of the 8th Form—he had only grasped the core principles of the 8th Form a few days ago. He had intended to unveil it directly against Agres without even their father knowing. But he had been left with no choice; dragging out the skirmish any longer would have invited the other fifth-years to wipe them out from behind.
I did the right thing.
Taking down one fifth-year was already a monumental feat. However, the real ordeal began now.
"Kassel, you absolute idiot," someone grumbled.
"I told you we should have sent two to that side. We didn't expect anyone to actually get eliminated."
"No kidding."
The leader of the fifth-years, Agres Kundel, stepped forward with an easy stride.
"Seems my little brother is sharper than you thought."
"Are you taking his side just because he's your brother?"
"Nah, I'm just giving credit where it's due."
Beneath his casual demeanor, Agres was beaming with pride. To think he's already knocking on the door of the 8th Form. At Deleb's age, Agres had barely managed to grasp the 6th Form. Yet his little brother had vaulted past the 7th and was reaching for the 8th.
Look at you, brat. You've really grown.
A broad grin spread across Agres's face. "Do whatever you want with the others, but leave my brother to me. I want to see what he's made of."
Utterly oblivious to his brother's fond musings, Deleb felt his throat go bone-dry. Here they come.
The remaining fifth-years were closing in as a cohesive unit. Standing against them was an exercise in futility. Sure enough, the hammer fell with brutal swiftness.
"Celia, watch out—!"
Two fifth-years darted forward like silver blurs, cleaving through the formation and eliminating three freshmen, including Celia, in a matter of heartbeats. They slipped into every micro-fracture in the defensive line, dismantling their targets with cold, surgical precision.
This was the true might of the fifth-year class.
Their numbers had been cleaved in half in an instant, yet not a single freshman surrendered to despair.
"Shift right!"
Deleb sprinted, leading the remaining five fighters in a desperate maneuver. But none of them had anticipated the sheer, explosive burst of speed the seniors possessed.
Thud! Crack!
"Gah!"
"Aargh!"
Freshmen were swept off their feet, tumbling across the dirt and nursing stinging bruises as they were systematically struck down. In the span of a single breath, the dust cleared to reveal only one boy left standing.
Deleb Kundel was the last freshman remaining on the battlefield.
"Not bad, little brother," Agres said, stepping out from his ranks with a relaxed grin.
"...Brother."
"Let's see what you've got."
Shiiing.
Agres drew his training sword with effortless, flowing grace. Opposite him, Deleb raised his heavy blade, his knuckles whitening as tension coiled tightly through his frame.
"Relax your shoulders. Your arms are shaking."
"Mind your own business. Why do you suddenly care now?"
"What's with the attitude? Are you sulking over something?"
Tap!
Before Agres could even tilt his head in confusion, Deleb kicked off the ground and charged. His jaw was clenched so hard his teeth groaned, and the emotion pouring into his sword was unmistakable.
Student Deleb Kundel is angry.
Ziel observed from the sidelines, his gaze locked onto the sand despite the near-total wipeout of his class. Agres Kundel was unequivocally strong—far too strong for the current Deleb to defeat under normal circumstances.
"Whoa, hey, easy there, little brother! What's gotten into you? Loosen up a bit—"
"Stop going easy on me and fight!"
"Whoa, hold on."
Agres easily deflected Deleb's furious thrusts, but he couldn't completely hide his bewilderment. What happened to him? Deleb had always been the sweet, obedient youngest brother who hung on every word his older brothers said. When had he turned into a ball of feral spikes?
In the next instant, Deleb pivoted his weight, unleashing the crushing descent of the Kundel Heavy Sword Style's 8th Form.
A thunderous downward cleave tore through the air.
However—
CLANG!
Agres met the strike with an effortless rising slash from the 9th Form. The violent collision blasted the heavy sword right out of Deleb's hands, sending the steel spinning high into the empty sky.
The weapon flipped through the air before dropping into the dirt with a dull thud.
"Whew."
Agres lowered his blade and rolled his shoulders with an easy chuckle. "Well, that settles that, doesn't it? Man, look at you go. You've really gotten strong, little bro."
"..."
"You've grown so much. Good job, kid."
The duel was over. At least, that was what Agres assumed.
The moment Agres moved to slide his blade back into its sheath—
Thump!
Deleb lunged forward with everything he had left.
"Whoa, hey—!"
SLAM!
With a wild, desperate tackle, the boy hurled his entire body straight into his older brother's chest.