Grab Him!
“What just happened?”
“Wasn’t the match over?”
“That freshman’s back never touched the ground!”
The moment Agres sent Deleve’s blade flying through the air, everyone assumed the duel was finished. But the referee had not called an end to the fight. Elimination required one of two conditions: a formal declaration of surrender, or having both shoulders and back pinned entirely to the turf. In short, complete subjugation.
“Wait, does that mean the match is still going…?”
Deleve was disarmed, not subdued. Agres had sheathed his sword under the impression that the clash was settled, and that careless dismissal ignited a spark of pure fury in his younger brother.
“Hey, whoa! Deleve!”
“The conditions for defeat haven’t been met yet!”
Convinced his older brother was looking down on him and refusing to take him seriously, Deleve lunged forward. Yet despite the heat of his anger, his mind remained remarkably cold.
I must strike with composure.
Instructor Xiel had hammered the principle into them: an attack dictated purely by emotion was destined to be countered. So no matter how furious he felt, Deleve forcibly suppressed his temper, channeling that energy into a focused, deliberate charge.
Thud!
Taking the full weight of the tackle against his torso, Agres staggered back a step. The arena gasped. Agres himself stared in disbelief.
He charged me… without a weapon?
Surprise rendered him momentary speechless. Dropping one’s sword was almost universally accepted as total defeat in noble swordsmanship. Rushing an opponent barehanded in the middle of a formal arena defied every standard of martial etiquette. Yet this, too, was straight from Xiel’s curriculum—the instructor had repeatedly drilled into them that a battle did not end simply because one lost a weapon.
“You little brat!”
Agres’s own temper flared in response. Barely regaining his balance, he found Deleve barreling into him once more.
“What the hell has gotten into you?!”
“Fight me properly, brother! I haven't been eliminated yet!”
The spectacle left the entire audience gaping in astonishment.
“Good grief…”
“What on earth is that boy doing?”
To think a swordsman would discard all decorum and throw his own body into a brawl the moment he lost his blade! It was the antithesis of noble elegance. The elders of the Kundel family sat in mortified silence, unable to utter a defense, while the Rihardt nobles across from them seized the opportunity to sneer.
“Look at those unrefined Kundels,” one whispered loudly. “Resorting to physical wrestling… Once a sword leaves your hand, the duel is over!”
Darren Rihardt, however, held a distinctly different view.
No. That is precisely what one ought to do.
Dignity and face had their place, but nothing superseded victory. To Darren’s surprise, Amos Kundel was following the exact same train of thought.
You grew complacent, Agres. A grave mistake.
So long as rules existed, any action taken within their boundaries was fair game. If anything, Amos found the sight of his two sons brawling barehanded quite entertaining. The general audience shared that sentiment. A swordsman who refused to surrender even after losing his blade, fighting tooth and nail to the bitter end—it was precisely the kind of desperate courage that stirred a crowd. Shouts of encouragement for the lone surviving freshman erupted from every corner of the stands.
“Deleve! Deleve! Deleve!”
“Go, freshmen! Show ’em what you've got!”
Down in the dirt, the scuffle grew frantic.
“Hey, Deleve, listen to me for one second—!”
Agres, still too flustered to strike his younger brother in earnest, merely tried to fend him off, while Deleve relentlessly sought an opening to land a blow. Then—
Whoosh!
Deleve’s fist grazed the tip of Agres’s chin.
“…You really are asking for it.”
Agres finally closed the distance with full intent. The contest was decided in a split second. A swift, decisive sweep of Agres’s leg sent Deleve crashing flat onto his back, firmly pinned beneath his elder brother's weight.
With that, the fifth years secured their absolute triumph.
Bwooooooo—!
The resonant blare of a war horn signaled the conclusion.
“Waaaaaah!”
A deafening roar of cheers shook the stadium. The long-awaited Exchange Event had finally drawn to a close with the end of Match 2. The official champions were the fifth-year seniors, but the true protagonists of the day, etched indelibly into every spectator's memory, were the freshmen who had fought tooth and claw to the final breath.
Everyone had witnessed Deleve Kundel’s desperate, barehanded struggle. It was a spectacle unprecedented in the history of the academy's duels. Though the first years had failed to topple the seniors, they had seized the hearts of the entire audience.
“Aren’t the freshmen incredible? Didn’t they usually finish dead last every year?”
“This batch is historic. I heard their new elective instructor is some kind of miracle worker.”
“Forget dodging last place—could they actually take third overall?”
No one had realistically expected the underclassmen to overcome the fifth years in Match 2. Yet neither had anyone imagined they would endure this long. It was beyond an impressive showing; it was nothing short of miraculous.
Amidst the thunderous celebration, however, two individuals were incapable of smiling: Deleve and Agres.
“…What is wrong with you, seriously?”
Agres extended a hand to help his brother up, but Deleve slapped it aside and pushed himself to his feet.
“You really have no clue, do you, brother…?”
With a heavy sigh, Deleve turned his face away, clearly signaling he had no desire to converse. Agres felt like pulling his hair out in frustration.
“Hey, little brother. Did I do something to upset you…?”
“Everything. You did everything wrong.”
“Me? Why? What did I do?”
As Agres stood there wearing a look of complete bewilderment, an unfamiliar, flat voice broke into their conversation.
“Student Deleve Kundel. You fought well until the very end.”
Agres stiffened. When did he get here?
He had not sensed a trace of the man’s approach. Even with the arena drowning in thunderous noise, Agres was a skilled combatant; failing to notice someone walking right up to him was unnerving.
“Instructor,” Deleve murmured, his posture instantly straightening.
Instructor? Agres blinked. Then this is…
“Instructor Xiel Steelheart?”
He had heard the rumors that the first years’ instructor was remarkably handsome, but seeing the man in person confirmed the whispers were entirely understated.
“Yes. Do you know me?”
“Ah, well… I’ve heard quite a bit about you. Forgive me, I am Agres Kundel, Deleve’s eldest brother.”
“I see.”
“Pardon me for asking, but… Deleve seems terribly upset with me. Do you happen to know why…?” Agres asked with an awkward scratch of his cheek.
Deleve opened his mouth to stammer a deflection. “The truth is, I wanted to win fair and square so my brothers would—”
His words collided directly with Xiel’s impassive pronouncement.
“Student Deleve Kundel simply wished to play with his brothers as he used to,” Xiel stated plainly. “He exerted every ounce of his strength to win because he believed that if his martial prowess improved, his brothers would spend time with him again.”
“Excuse me?” Agres gaped.
“That is what he told me.”
Agres stared blankly at Xiel before slowly shifting his gaze to Deleve. The boy had turned bright red, staring resolutely at the dirt.
“Ah…” Understanding struck Agres like a blow.
“He claims his brothers refuse to play with him,” Xiel added evenly.
“I-Instructor! Did you really have to share that part?!”
“Was it a secret?”
“Well… n-not technically, but…!”
Overcome by sheer mortification, Deleve buried his face in his hands. Agres looked genuinely stricken as the realization settled in. It was a reason he had never once contemplated—the sole driving force behind his brother’s frantic, barehanded charge was nothing more than a yearning for family.
“Deleve… I’m so sorry.”
“…Forget it.”
Awkwardly stepping forward, Agres wrapped an arm around Deleve’s shoulders. “I’ve been a terrible older brother. I had no idea. I’m truly sorry.”
“I said drop it.”
“Aken and I have been ignoring you, haven't we?”
“…Shut up.”
Deleve grumbled under his breath, but he did not push his brother away, leaning subtly into the embrace. Witnessing the tender scene unfold in the center of the arena, the spectators erupted into another wave of affectionate cheers, interpreting the moment as an inspiring display of fraternal devotion. In truth, it was—a reconciliation born of clumsily mendable wounds.
“Please take good care of my brother,” Agres said, offering Xiel a respectful bow.
Xiel nodded once. “Understood.”
It was a characteristically curt reply, but it brought the brothers' dispute to a tidy close. From Xiel’s pragmatic standpoint, the outcome was thoroughly satisfactory.
“…Did you truly have to lay it all bare like that, Instructor?” Deleve grumbled under his breath once Agres stepped away.
“Was I mistaken to disclose it?”
“It’s not… completely wrong, but still…”
“You appear to have reconciled.”
“…Yes. We did.”
“Then the objective was achieved.”
As Deleve hung his head, blushing furiously, Xiel offered a rare word of acknowledgment. “Setting that aside, you did not surrender until the bitter end, Student Deleve Kundel.”
“…”
“Whatever your private motivations were, you performed admirably.”
“Instructor…” Deleve looked up, his blue eyes shimmering with touched pride.
“However, your form was severely lacking when Agres Kundel pinned you.”
“…”
“In such a disadvantageous position, you should have hooked your heel behind his knee to compromise his balance.”
Deleve sighed inwardly. Of course. A compliment from him never ends without tactical critique…
“Still, your initial reaction was commendable.”
Deleve blinked, surprised by the final concession. Before he could respond, Xiel turned and walked toward the bench where the eliminated freshmen had gathered. Every face among them was flushed with exhaustion and genuine pride.
Xiel regarded the class with his usual steady gaze. “You all performed exceptionally well.”
“Instructor…”
“It is a commendable outcome.”
“If only we had managed to take down the fifth years, it would have been perfect!” Quantus Hophel boomed, scratching his head.
Xiel shook his head in disagreement. “Whether you defeated the fifth years is of secondary importance.”
The students tilted their heads, listening closely.
“You carried out everything taught in our training sessions and exceeded expectations,” Xiel explained in his level, rhythmic tone. “Physical endurance drills. Reflex training. Evasion exercises. And tactical coordination for chaotic melees. You demonstrated the clear results of every lesson. To surpass your past limitations is, in itself, a definitive victory. You triumphed in the contest against yourselves.”
“Ah…”
A quiet awe rippled through the squad. Their eyes widened with dawning realization and deep-seated validation. A victory against ourselves… It was an insight none of them had anticipated hearing from an instructor who usually treated martial arts with machine-like practicality.
“We have won,” Xiel concluded flatly. “Therefore, you have earned the right to be proud and rejoice.”
“Instructor…”
A tidal wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm the teenagers. Just then, Quantus took a heavy step forward.
“…Why are you approaching me?” Xiel asked, his brows twitching slightly.
“Instructor, there’s something I’ve always wanted to try.”
“What might that be, Student Quantus Hophel?”
Xiel hesitated, taking half a step backward. Quantus was wearing an ominous, predatory grin. With every lumbering step the massive youth took, a peculiar pressure rolled off him—an oppressive sensation Xiel had rarely felt even during his darkest days in the Organization.
Is this… fear?
Yet it lacked the cold edge of true danger. Before Xiel could analyze the anomaly, Quantus bellowed at the top of his lungs.
“Grab him, everyone!”
At the signal, the entire freshman class charged like a pack of hunting hounds.
“Toss him up!”
Before Xiel could even consider executing an evasive maneuver, dozens of eager hands caught him by the legs, torso, and shoulders. His body was unceremoniously hoisted into the air.
Hmm.
Suspended weightlessly above the cheering throng, Xiel stared at the open sky as they caught and tossed him upward again and again. Oddly enough, the sensation was not unpleasant in the slightest.
Could this be… what people refer to as pride?
And so, amid chaotic laughter and hoisted celebrations, Match 2 of the Exchange Event drew to its warm conclusion.
The closing ceremony commenced shortly thereafter. Presiding over the awards was none other than Second Prince Dietrich Baldrain, who had graced the tournament with his imperial presence.
“Your Highness, here are the finalized tournament standings,” an aide reported, offering a formal parchment.
“Hmm.” Dietrich glanced over the compiled scores and let out a soft chuckle. “Quite the unexpected development, Sir Lelio.”
“Indeed, Your Highness. It was an astonishing contest from start to finish.”
Just then, Berhal Abue approached the imperial balcony with respectful decorum. “Your Imperial Highness, it is an immense honor to greet you here once again.”
“Ah, Sir Berhal. It has been far too long.”
“Please, Your Highness, ‘Sir’ is unwarranted. It has been years since I laid down my imperial commission.”
“Nonsense. The days when you personally instructed me in the blade remain vivid in my memory.” Dietrich offered a warm smile before tapping the parchment in his hand. “This year’s Exchange Event was exceptional. It generated an unprecedented level of fervor.”
“It is solely because Your Highness graced us with your presence that our students fought with such vigor.”
“Haha. I appreciate the courtesy, Sir Berhal. But truly, it was fascinating to watch. The freshmen’s performance was remarkable on its own, but… I hear they have an intriguing instructor overseeing them.”
Berhal’s spine instantly stiffened. Good heavens, here it comes.
He had known the Second Prince was hungry for capable retainers, but he had not expected the prince to broach the topic so directly.
“His name was Xiel Steelheart, if I recall correctly?”
“That is correct, Your Highness.”
“Which brings me to a favor. Would you be so kind as to arrange a private meeting between Instructor Steelheart and myself, Sir Berhal?”
A direct imperial request. Berhal had neither the authority nor the political justification to refuse.
“Certainly, Your Highness. I shall convey your wishes to Instructor Xiel.”
Outwardly, the answer was smooth and accommodating. But inwardly, Berhal felt a cold sweat break out across his neck. Knowing Xiel's utter lack of social deference, the instructor’s reaction to an imperial summons was almost guaranteed to defy all conventional noble norms.
I can never predict what that man will say or do…
“Splendid,” Dietrich said, rising to his feet with an air of satisfaction, as though the recruitment had already progressed halfway to completion. “Now then… it is time we present the honors.”
Moments later, the prince’s voice, magnified by an array of acoustic mana stones, reverberated across the entirety of the vast stadium. Following a brief introductory address, the prince cut straight to the heart of the matter.
“We shall now announce the final standings for this year’s Edelbein Academy Sword School Exchange Event.”
Dietrich radiated regal poise. His high spirits were not merely a consequence of hosting a successful imperial event; scouting exceptional talent was always an invigorating endeavor.
Instructor Xiel Steelheart. A brief conversation will tell me whether he is worthy of my service.
Of course, the individual Dietrich truly coveted lay elsewhere—the enigmatic warrior who had accompanied the underworld Crow on that moonlit night to secure Velberg's Wing. Sir Eton was dispatched to trace his identity. I should have word on that shadow before long.
Shaking off his wandering thoughts, Dietrich focused on the ceremonial duties at hand. “First, we shall recognize the overall tournament champions.”
By tradition, the winner of the Exchange Event was always announced first. Because the upperclassmen’s victory was typically an obvious conclusion, proclaiming it early ensured they received their due applause before attention drifted toward the closer, more contentious lower rankings.
“In first place: the fifth-year class! Our congratulations.”
Amidst thunderous applause, Agres Kundel stepped forward as the fifth-year representative to ascend the central tier of the three-tiered podium erected in the center of the grounds.
Down near the field benches, the freshmen held their collective breath.
Please, please…
We tied for second in Match 1, and with our survival score in Match 2… could we actually take third?
Securing fourth place was a certainty. But third place—a spot on the hallowed podium—felt tantalizingly within reach.
“How many opponents did we knock out in the melee?”
“More than five, right?”
“Yeah, but we all got wiped out in the end…”
“Ugh, how will the faculty score the deductions?”
The rankings were tabulated through rigorous faculty deliberation and ratified by the Department Head. Third? Or fourth?
“Could we… possibly take second?” Deleve murmured aloud.
Celia chimed in with a determined nod. “He’s right. We fought brilliantly.”
Yet a few realists among them were quick to temper expectations.
“Come on, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“As your designated squad leader, allow me to weigh in: second place is mathematically absurd!” Quantus declared loudly.
“Quantus, could you keep your voice down for once?!” Ann hissed.
Despite the skepticism, the mere mention of second place sent an electrifying wave of hope coursing through their chests. It wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility. They had held their ground against the fifth years until the very end. Tenacity, discipline, teamwork, and tactical cunning—they had thrown everything they had onto the sands of Rickbein Ground.
“Next, we shall announce the runners-up,” Prince Dietrich’s voice echoed across the breathless coliseum.
Every student leaned forward, hearts hammering violently against their ribs.
“In second place… our heartfelt congratulations.”
The proclamation shattered every historical precedent.
“Taking second place: the first-year class!”