Chapter 116
Chapter 116
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 116
Chapter Title: 50. Laurel Crown (1)
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Sven clutched his nose.
It hurt, and it felt good.
Tears streamed from the agony in his nose, but the lingering sensation in his hand told him his sword had sliced into Oliver somewhere.
Breathing through his mouth from the nosebleed, Sven struggled to his feet.
"Huff... huff..."
Blood poured from Oliver's thigh.
"You... you bastard..."
Murderous intent flickered in Oliver's eyes. He looked ready to lunge at any moment, but the wound left him limping badly.
Sven grinned.
Blood stained the area below his nose, baring his crimson teeth.
"Heh... heh heh heh..."
His body had hit its limit. The pain from his shattered nose was excruciating. Adrenaline surged, plunging him into a bizarre euphoria instead.
"Me, Sven Gain. Even in death, I won't go alone."
The audience watching Sven's blood-smeared grin felt a strange mix of emotions.
Ridiculous to some, terrifying to others, awe-inspiring to more.
"Berserker..."
Someone muttered it.
It fit perfectly. Sven, red teeth flashing as he swung at Oliver, looked just like a legendary mad warrior.
"Sven!"
Citizens from Liberda started chanting his name.
It began around them, but soon the entire crowd encircling the stage joined in.
"Berserker Sven! Berserker Sven! Berserker Sven!"
Sven burst out laughing at Oliver's face.
When would he hear the world's roar chanting his name again?
Amid that thunderous acclaim, he charged at Oliver Elgast, the Empire's prized knight.
The enemy was stronger.
He admitted it.
But something beyond raw skill propelled him forward.
Fortune.
It was lining up just right.
Oliver dropped his earlier nonchalance. Face twisted like a demon's, he slashed back fiercely.
Attacks rained from every angle like a storm. Yet every path stood out with unnatural clarity.
In his hyper-accelerated mind, Sven had a stray thought.
Yuri Brioll.
What if Brioll's third prince stood on this stage?
No. Foolish notion.
No need to dwell.
Sven roared with laughter and struck back.
Their swords collided. A deafening crack echoed as both blades shattered, spinning through the air before clattering onto the stage.
Weapons gone.
Fists remained.
No waiting—they swung as one.
Oliver was faster. Sven reeled back under a barrage of blows.
"Die, you persistent pest!"
Oliver's fist slammed into Sven's gut.
"Guh!"
Sven doubled over, clutching his stomach. Blood filled his mouth.
Stock-still, he flashed Oliver a bloody grin.
"Hey. You're nothing to the third prince."
"What?"
"Not even I could beat him properly..."
With that, Sven crumpled to the floor.
Oliver's victory.
The referee thrust both hands skyward, declaring the winner.
The crowd erupted in applause and cheers.
Then Oliver collapsed.
"Nngh..."
In that final strike, Sven had kicked his thigh.
The already gashed wound tore open worse from the impact.
Oliver lay rigid, unable to rise.
The referee hurried over.
"You alright?"
"Can't walk."
"Stretcher incoming."
"Damn it..."
In the end, winner and loser alike were carted off on stretchers—a absurd spectacle.
Oliver had won, yet the cheers rang for Sven.
An upset unfolded.
Oliver beat Sven, but his injuries sidelined him from the tournament.
Semi-finalists: Rolang, Hasan, Proin.
Rolang, next up against Oliver, crushed the Empire's replacement knight.
Proin gave Hasan a run but fell in the final clash.
Two left.
Rolang. Hasan.
Now, the tournament final for the Emperor's medal—a clash of honors.
"VIP seats here, Your Highness."
"Good."
Yuri arrived to watch the final.
With Rolang in the finals, he had to cheer.
"Your Highness, why all these wounds?"
"Trained with a new master."
"Again? So many masters."
"Not official disciple, but I see him as one."
"Take a break."
Yuri meant Inariel. Under oddly apathetic Hernando's okay, he'd been drilling with Inariel in the workshop.
Unaware Simon dismissed it as banter.
"Anyway, Sir Rolang's in the finals."
"Rolang versus Hasan..."
"Who wins?"
"You asking 'cause you don't know?"
"Sir Rolang, obviously!"
Yuri crossed his arms, eyeing the stage.
The referee mounted, artifact in hand, commanding attention.
Unlike before, the referee milked the tension.
After hyping the crowd, he pointed stage-left.
Rolang strode out sword in hand, faint smile playing on his lips. Utterly relaxed.
Hasan emerged opposite. Midway to the stage, he halted, scanning the crowd.
His gaze locked on Yuri front-row.
Lips tight, he stared before mounting the stage.
Yuri muttered.
"What're you glaring at?"
Pre-final, referee pointed VIP-ward, bellowing.
Highest perch overlooked stage and seats: Emperor, family. Ekaterina Ivarna Grangzaiyen beside him.
All non-imperials rose in respect.
Moment passed. Referee boomed again.
Both stood loose, eyes locked.
Referee retreated.
Instantly, swords clashed.
One boom, then echoes.
Like woodpeckers hammering wood, blades battered relentlessly.
Blinding speed: vanish at stage's edge, reappear opposite.
No probing. No chatter.
Sole aim: swift takedown.
Crowd gasped at the nonstop fury. Elite caliber, plain to see.
Cheers erupted for favorites.
"Win, Rolang!"
"Hasan! Uphold the Empire!"
Yuri spoke.
"Jared, Simon, Guinness."
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Cheer."
They rose, hollering for Rolang.
Rolang fans and Hasan backers evenly split.
Brioll natives, Liberda folk, Burson, Holy Kingdom—all united for Rolang. Even some Imperials yelled Rolang over Hasan. Looks trump borders sometimes.
Yuri lounged back amid the din, studying intently.
Fierce clashes masked trap-digging.
"As expected..."
Rolang looped a subtle motion, faking habit to bait Hasan. Hasan gripped short, fooling Rolang's range.
One-shot setups.
Yuri watched keenly: whose ploy first?
"Here you are."
A voice. Hose crossed seats toward him.
"Mind if I sit?"
"Please."
"Thanks."
Simon, Guinness, Jared crammed tight, freeing a spot.
Hose's bulk cramped it, but they fit.
"Your Highness, your pick to win?"
Jared jumped in.
"Sir Rolang, obviously. Cheer him on!"
Shouted Rolang's name.
Hose looked unconvinced.
"C'mon, beyond team spirit—pure power."
"Figure Rolang loses, eh."
"Leaning that way, yeah."
Hose leaned in.
Rolang-Hasan crashed near their seats.
Hasan side-thrust Rolang's ribs. Rolang parried coolly, riposted. Hasan ground-rolled evade, gapped out.
Circled stage, glaring.
First deadlock since kickoff.
Neither struck.
"Hasan's hiding two aces. Rolang's got one."
"Short grip aside—what's the other?"
"You spotted it."
Hose grinned.
"Second's secret. Spoil the fun?"
"How'd you know?"
"Sorry—sparred him."
"Hasan?"
"Yeah. Days back, asked a tech check. Secrecy clause."
"Outcome?"
"Couldn't stop it. Forewarned, maybe. Blind? No dice."
Yuri eyed Hose.
If he couldn't counter, Rolang might not either.
"What tech?"
Yuri knew blindside killers. Like the Feigned Injury Art he'd taught Simon.
Yuri glanced at Simon.
"That tech?"
"Huh?"
"My feigned injury..."
"No chance."
Yuri cocked his head, stageward—
Rolang moved.
His tell: hand open, light hilt curl—then always overhead smash.
Again: open, curl.
Hasan tensed reflexively, braced.
Trap.
Rolang faked lift, pivoted, low-slashed Hasan's legs.
"Damn..."
Yuri groaned low.
Sword slipped perfectly into Hasan's exposed low guard.
Hasan backpedaled fast, grazed thigh only—not deep.
Then the real play.
"Rolang!"
Hasan whipped horizontal, robotic.
Post-dodge gap: out of blade range.
Yet—
Hasan's sword lengthened.
End-hilt grip, full extension thrust.
Rolang, casual retreat—too slow for the reach. Chest gashed.
Blood sprayed.