Martial Arts Tournament — The Finals

The second semifinal match that followed immediately also ended in Milia's victory…

"You idiot—!!"

With a terrifying expression, Milia charged toward the waiting room. Before Schwarz could even open his mouth, she lunged at him, seized his cheeks, and yanked them hard.

"Ow! That hurts, My Lady!!"

All he could do under her ferocious grip—looking for all the world as if she meant to devour him—was cry out in pain.

"What on earth were you thinking, doing something like that!? Senior could have blown your hand clean off!!"

"B-but she didn't…"

"That's hindsight and you know it!"

Glaring at him, Milia clicked her tongue and finally released his cheeks.

Schwarz rubbed the bright-red, swollen flesh and looked up at her…

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

"I-I'm sorry…"

He bowed his head in apology as she let out a long breath of relief.

"Honestly…"

Milia pressed a hand to her forehead and shook her head. At that very moment—

Knock. Knock.

Someone rapped on the waiting-room door. It swung open to reveal none other than Amelia.

"Pardon the intrusion."

"Senior?"

Milia stared at her in open puzzlement.

Why is she here? The thought had barely formed when—

"Wondering why I came, are you?"

"Ugh…"

Amelia's faint smile suggested she had read the question straight off Milia's face, drawing a low groan from the younger girl.

"How is the hand?"

"As you can see, fully healed."

Schwarz raised his left hand for her inspection. Not a single scar remained—impossible to believe that only moments earlier a gaping hole had punched clean through it.

"That is fortunate."

"Are you all right, Your Highness?"

A full-power straight punch. Honestly, Schwarz still found it astonishing that Amelia could move at all after taking it.

"Nothing serious. A faint throb remains, nothing more."

"I-I'm truly sorry…"

"Think nothing of it. I did put a hole through your palm, after all—even if it was not entirely by my will."

Amelia gave a short, dry laugh. When Schwarz bowed again she waved the apology away and turned her gaze on Milia.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Milia. Let me make this clear: I had no such intention whatsoever."

"I know. I know, okay?"

The words were conciliatory, yet Milia's eyes still smoldered with displeasure. Amelia could only offer an awkward smile and a helpless shake of her head.

"In any case, you are quite the reckless one. I never expected you to employ such a method."

"I-I'm sorry."

Even now, Schwarz himself struggled to understand what had driven him to do it. Sacrifice flesh to break bone—easy enough to say, far harder to carry out.

"No need to apologize. The fault is mine for underestimating your resolve."

"Still, thank you, Your Highness."

"Hm? For what?"

Amelia's eyes widened at the sudden gratitude.

"Had you truly wished it, severing my hand entirely would have been no great difficulty."

"True enough."

A colder decision in that instant would have sent his hand flying. In this world, after all, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠such wounds could be mended with relative ease.

"But I failed to remain calm. That is why I left you an opening and lost. Nothing more."

"But—"

"As I told you before, you have a habit of undervaluing yourself."

Cutting him off, Amelia gave his shoulder a light clap.

"Be proud. Whatever anyone may say, you are the man who defeated Amelia bein Rosenberg."

"Th-thank you…"

"Very well. Give us a fine match in the final as well. You too, Milia."

"Got it."

Schwarz and Milia both nodded. Amelia offered them a casual wave and strode off down the corridor.

The moment her figure vanished, a voice filled the waiting room.

"So it came to this after all."

"Yeah."

Hearing the announcement, Milia turned to Schwarz. He exhaled a short sigh and rose from his seat.

He had wanted to avoid this situation by any means, yet the world rarely arranged itself according to one's wishes…

Master and servant facing each other in the tournament final. If a god of fate existed, that deity clearly held a grudge against him.

But fleeing was no longer an option. To forfeit now would be to trample on Milia's resolve—and that was something Schwarz could never do.

"I'll say it again: if you go easy on me, I won't forgive you."

"Understood…"

With things as they stood, only one path remained open to him.

"Good. Then let's give it everything we've got—no regrets."

"Yes, My Lady."

To face each other with every ounce of strength so that neither would be left with regret. That was the sole choice he could make.

—Waaaaaaaaah!!

Amid the roaring crowd chanting their names, Milia and Schwarz faced each other from opposite sides of the arena, expressions set like stone.

Then Alfons rose from the VIP seats, and silence fell over the entire venue.

"Milia Valentine. And Schwarz. We extend Our deepest gratitude to House Valentine for producing talents such as yourselves. That gratitude extends equally to every competitor who has shed blood and sweat throughout this tournament."

"We are most honored, Your Majesty."

"May you both deliver a battle worthy of the final."

The two bowed. Alfons resumed his seat, and the announcer raised his voice once more.

At the announcer's cry the two assumed their stances.

"Like I said before—if you hold back, I won't let it slide."

"Understood, My Lady."

Milia leveled the halberd strapped across her back. Schwarz drew a deep breath and nodded.

There was nowhere left to retreat. All that remained was to face her with everything he had.

The gong signaling the start of the match rang out, and in the same instant Milia charged.

"Haaaaah!!"

With a fierce shout she brought the halberd crashing down. The blow carried no real weight—clearly intended to force him back rather than land. Schwarz retreated, and the weapon smashed into the floor with a thunderous crack, spider-webbing the stone with deep fissures.

"Hup…!!"

Milia recovered her breath in a flash, yanked the halberd free, and swept its gleaming axe-blade toward his throat. A brilliant arc sliced the air—but Schwarz had already anticipated it. He ducked low and drove straight toward her.

The fatal flaw of a halberd: its center of gravity sat near the tip, leaving an inevitable opening after any large swing. Schwarz slipped into that gap and launched a fist at her midsection—only for—

"You think I didn't see that coming?"

"What…!?"

She released the weapon entirely. Schwarz froze in surprise for a split second.

"Gahk!?"

Using the momentum of a backward flip, Milia drove her heel into his jaw. The unexpected impact sent a wave of dizziness through him and forced him several steps back.

Had her earlier swing carried just a little more weight, that kick would almost certainly have ended the match.

"Nice try."

Watching him reset his stance, Milia casually kicked the fallen halberd back into her grip.

"As expected of you, My Lady…"

The young lady of House Valentine—the Shield of the Kingdom. In Schwarz's eyes she had never looked more magnificent.

I'll get stronger. Strong enough that no one will ever be able to hurt you.

How much effort had she poured into keeping that promise? He could not even begin to measure it.

"You really are strong, My Lady."

"Flattery won't make me go easy on you."

She settled back into her stance. Further words were unnecessary. This was a moment for action, not talk.

As if on the same heartbeat they charged. The air split with the rush of their movements, and a fierce exchange of blows erupted.

In the space of mere seconds they traded more than a dozen exchanges. The spectators who had been roaring moments earlier fell silent, holding their breath as they watched.

Their skill was nearly equal. Magic would have given Schwarz the edge, yet he refused to use it—partly because of the watching eyes, but more because he simply did not wish to.

Under those constraints, victory would be decided by the finest of margins.

Milia's weapon was a halberd—essentially a polearm. Its greatest weakness was close combat. Schwarz exploited that weakness without mercy.

"Tch…!!"

He allowed non-lethal blows to land while deflecting the truly dangerous ones, steadily closing the distance. Frustration bloomed in Milia's chest. That impatience clouded her judgment just enough to open a hairline gap—one she herself never noticed.

Schwarz did.

He slipped past the thrusting spear-point, seized the shaft of the halberd, and yanked. Balance shattered, Milia was dragged helplessly toward him. Before she could react he caught her arm and collar and spoke into her startled face.

"Forgive me, My Lady. It seems this match is mine."

"No…!!"

A soft, disbelieving sound escaped her as he declared victory with quiet confidence—then, with a sharp shout, he slammed her body into the ground.

An explosive crack followed; the stone around her fractured outward in a spiderweb of ruin.

A full-power throw. "Serious" was an understatement; it was all but a finishing blow. Half-buried in the cratered floor, Milia's body did not so much as twitch.

The announcer began the countdown over her motionless form. The numbers ticked steadily downward.

Each second stretched into an eternity. Just as the announcer's lips formed the word "one"—

"Not… yet…"

Milia murmured the words and, using the halberd she had never released as a crutch, forced herself slowly to her feet.

Yet the sight of her standing drew that very cry from the announcer. Her eyes were half-glazed, her legs trembling violently. The hand gripping the halberd kept slipping from sheer exhaustion; the slightest lapse would send her crashing down again.

"I… can't lose… like this…!!"

Even so she snarled through gritted teeth, fighting to hold her stance—until—

"Ah…!!"

"My Lady!?"

A low moan escaped her as her body crumpled. Schwarz's startled cry rang out at the same instant the gong of match's end thundered through the arena.

—Waaaaaaaaah!!

The crowd erupted. Prepared fireworks burst overhead and triumphant music blared across the grounds.

"…"

An ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠official approached and pressed a bouquet into Schwarz's hands, yet his gaze never left Milia. Medical staff arrived almost at once, lifted her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠onto a stretcher, and carried her from the arena.

"You did well, My Lady."

Watching her go, Schwarz murmured the words under his breath.