Though I Don't Want to Attend the Birthday Party (3)
Attendance at the birthday party didn't appeal to me, but a room-versus-room duel tournament had broken out over the chance to join Elijah's birthday banquet. The winner's room would receive 100 florins each as prize money. At first, I wasn't keen on it, but I'd decided to win. The money was secondary. What I craved was shoving protein into my body until I was stuffed—for at least a day. The other reason was Grelliot. We'd made it to the finals against his room, and he'd been picked as their starter. I absolutely couldn't lose. I didn't want to. If they were going to treat me like such an enemy, I had no intention of playing nice.
'I'm definitely winning.'
The finals unfolded in a somewhat anticlimactic fashion.
Our room, 13th Room, wasn't particularly strong overall. Right in the middle of the pack. Making it this far was pure luck stacking up. 15th Room, on the other hand, was different. Grelliot alone was top-tier among all the candidates. The rest weren't pushovers either. Even their selected fighters showed a clear skill gap.
And the result?
"13th Room's third fighter, confirmed combat ineffective. Next fighter, Dillon. Step forward."
It was already Dillon's turn as the fourth fighter. Meanwhile, 15th Room was still on their first. In other words, three had fallen to one guy. I hadn't expected the gap to be this wide.
13th Room, who'd climbed half on luck. 15th Room, who'd powered through on pure skill. An obvious outcome?
'I hate losing... And I hate 'we lost but fought well' even more...'
The third fighter, Pelin, dragged himself back to the benches, limp and defeated. A tall kid around fourteen, skinny with lots of freckles. Tenth intake, I think. I was starting to memorize names and faces.
"Sorry..."
He mumbled weakly as he slumped in. Richard, who'd come down to cheer, encouraged him.
"Hey, why act like you've committed some grave sin? You didn't do anything wrong, man."
The benches around 13th Room were buzzing with our guys who'd come to support their roommate. The opposite side, 15th Room's benches, were packed too—but theirs was a festival atmosphere. Like they'd already won.
"Looks like we've lost..."
Pelin's whine drew a smirk from Richard.
"Man, if you say that, what does that make the Judah we still have left?"
Only then did Pelin spot me and bow his head apologetically. Understanding his feelings, I just shrugged it off.
Like it was no big deal.
"Well, honestly, the three who went first were the scrawniest of us."
That made Pelin's face fall even more. Richard chuckled and nodded toward Dillon with his chin.
"Still, that guy's up now, at least."
The room leader and number two of 13th Room. Dillon, who had the next-best skills after Richard. He stared down his opponent with sunken eyes.
15th Room's first fighter lifted his chin arrogantly, his words dripping with clear mockery.
"Why not just forfeit now? Better than getting wrecked by one guy."
Dillon didn't reply. He just gazed calmly. Ignored, the opponent's face flushed red.
"Free spar. Begin."
Gawain checked their states once more, then raised his glove high.
Thud.
The moment it dropped, the opponent charged. His wooden sword slashed down fiercely, laced with taunts.
"Act all high and mighty—!"
Dillon moved without changing expression. From mid-guard aimed at the navel, shifting to high-guard over the head.
Clack!
The clashing wooden swords slid off each other. The opponent's blade grazed Dillon by a hair. But Dillon's tip nailed the throat precisely.
"Guhk—!"
The opponent clutched his neck and staggered back, face burning with humiliation. He fixed his stance and lunged again.
"Don't get cocky—!"
Dillon countered coolly. He deflected the blade sideways, then struck the wrist. The opponent dropped his sword.
As he faltered, Dillon closed in fast. Sword in one hand. He feinted a thrust, then grabbed the collar with his free hand, tripped the leg, and shoved.
The sword hovered over the fallen opponent's face.
"Hah, I surrender—!"
Just before the tip hit the brow. Dillon's blade halted right there.
He rose slowly, murmuring curiously.
"Why mix words mid-fight...? It'd disrupt your breathing.... Bizarre...."
Innocent curiosity, pure wonder—so the loser hung his head in deeper humiliation.
"15th Room, defeated. Send out your next fighter."
The crowd's roar swelled. The underdog rebellion after endless losses.
*
Dillon kept racking up wins after that. Just as Richard had said. He dropped the remaining three in seconds. Even when the format changed to other weapons, he won handily. Short fights, but full of lessons.
'Textbook perfect.'
His moves were concise, precise. Executing drill stances like illustrations from a manual.
'How does he do that against a real person?'
I was purely impressed, but Richard clicked his tongue.
"Tch tch. Fighting that stiff? No fun."
"......"
Did he ever think his own style was too brutish? Probably not.
And finally, 15th Room's fifth fighter. Grelliot stepped up.
Dillon was tall for our room. Grelliot was bigger.
'Gotta be around 180cm.'
Dillon and Grelliot just stared silently.
Gawain announced the format.
"Sword spar. No weapons or body parts beyond sword and body."
Grelliot tossed his shield aside. No words between them. Just swords pointed.
"Begin."
Gawain dropped the glove.
The result was brutal.
Dillon fought well. Dodging or parrying overhead strikes, attempting counters. He even landed a few.
That was it. Grelliot took no damage from the counters. Dillon struggled just to block.
Eventually, his sword snapped. Then he went barehanded. Futile thrashing.
Dillon took hits without mercy but never cried surrender. No screams, but tenaciously desperate.
'Why go that far...'
Even I, his ally, wondered.
"Enough. Your opponent has no fight left."
Gawain finally intervened. Considering the overwhelming gap, Dillon had fought admirably.
But he couldn't win. The epitome of "lost but fought well."
"Next. 13th Room's fighter. Judah. Step forward."
"Hoo...."
I exhaled deeply and stood. It had come to this.
In the arena center, Grelliot glared straight, not even winded.
"Kill him."
Richard clapped my shoulder.
"Yes. I'll be back."
"Win! Drop that oversized pig!"
"Don't overdo it, even if you lose!"
Bolstered by my roommates' cheers, I advanced. On the way, Dillon returned to the benches, supported by Argon.
"Sorry.... I tried my best.... Couldn't even wear him down...."
"......"
Then it hit me. Dillon had fought that hard for my sake, the one left behind.
He'd wanted at least a light injury, but failed.
"Senior."
I patted his shoulder.
"Talk like that, and it sounds like I'm definitely losing."
Blunt confidence we'd win. Dillon and Argon stared blankly. I grinned at them.
"I'll kill him and come back."
"Rules prohibit intentional killing...."
"Watch from there."
Ignoring Dillon's grumble, I strode to the stage where Grelliot waited.
'Kids like him always have that sense of responsibility.'
Not for nothing was he room leader. I wasn't miffed he thought I'd lose. Realistic, rational assessment.
Hell, I couldn't guarantee victory myself. Fresh intake, not even a month in. Young, small frame.
Vs. seasoned prospect. Decent age, big build, extra training. Plenty of experience.
'Still, I'll win.'
I didn't know defeat. This body wasn't mine, but in my past life, I'd faced stronger foes countless times.
None beat me.
Finally, face-to-face with Grelliot. Had to crane my neck. He seemed even bigger today. Imagination?
'Bare hands would tilt odds more my way.... If weapons, sword's secondary. Drag to fists. What disarm techs were there...'
Gawain declared.
"Bare-knuckle fight. Both fighters, discard weapons."
I sighed inwardly in relief, tossing sword and shield aside.
"Surrender."
Grelliot looked down and said.
"Not a taunt. You're too small and weak compared to me. One slip in control, and I might kill you. This is real."
Gawain seemed worried too, awaiting my reply.
Utter bullshit, no need to think.
I replied kindly, with utterly unkind words.
"Cut the crap, senior."
"......"
"I honestly don't know why you hate me so much. Can't figure it out, so today, I'll give you a reason."
I raised my middle finger toward his face.
Grelliot's face crumpled.
"If I beat you ugly like this, wouldn't that be reason enough to hate me?"
The crowd erupted in hot cheers. My voice wouldn't carry, but the upright finger said enough.
"...No regrets."
His words held truth. Duels absolved death from blame. And he could kill me.
Still, I didn't back down. Escaping was worse than dying.
At vision's edge, high up. Elijah watched. Smiling. Like the wicked lady enjoying others' pain.
How long had she smiled like that? From the start, probably.
Gawain raised his glove solemnly.
"...Begin."
The instant it hit the ground, Grelliot charged fiercely.
***
One hit, two, three. Judah stopped counting after three. Too many blows, no time to spare.
From start to now, he'd been busy blocking. Not even proper defense. Power gap too vast. Arm blocks hurt like face shots. Hardly blocking.
He curled to shield vitals—face, gut. No thought of counter. Not even in range.
Skill aside, weight class was unfair.
At first, everyone but 13th Room cheered. One-sided violence stirred sadistic human urges. Thrill denied in daily life.
But soon, silence fell as it dragged.
A burly youth mercilessly pounding a boy half his size. Not a duel. Assault. Abuse.
Weapons might've softened it. Bare fists were too cruel.
"Shouldn't we stop it...?"
At 13th Room's benches, Lindel said uneasily. Richard frowned; Dillon looked away, unable to watch.
"He's gonna get killed!"
Argon yelled, but Gawain showed no sign of stopping.
He was stumped too. Ought to have halted long ago. Outcome obvious.
But Judah wouldn't quit. Down and up in a flash. Bleeding profusely, eyes fierce like a predator spotting weakness. Will to fight burned bright. No surrender.
Couldn't intervene.
Elijah's smile faded. Before Judah entered, she'd barely watched, bored, waiting.
Then he appeared, duel began. What would he show? She smiled in anticipation.
But he just took hits consistently. Smile vanished.
Why? Bored? Disappointed? She couldn't be sure that was all.
What else, then?
"Hah, hah...."
Grelliot breathed raggedly. The beater was tiring first. Unbelievable. Bones broken, muscles torn—yet standing.
Envy for Judah. Even that defiant poise. His cheering crowd now pitied Judah.
Grelliot ground his teeth, swung fist.
Crack!
Judah failed to block; face smashed. He rolled back, sprang up fast.
"...Stop. Now."
Grelliot said, voice strained.
"You can't win. Keep this up, you'll die."
Ptoo. Judah spat blood-mixed saliva, heaved—and raised middle finger again. No breath for words.
"...Fine. If that's truly what you want. As your senior, I'll oblige."
That unyielding poise to the end. Drawing eyes, claiming allies like it was natural—utterly revolting.
Grelliot drew mana. Body enhancement. Undetectable unless striking. To fool Gawain, he reinforced only fist-end.
One strike to kill.
"Hoo, hoo...."
Judah steadied breath, eyes sharpening. Vision blurring. Grelliot doubled, then one. Knees quaking. Consciousness foggy. Instinct alone kept him up.
Instinct to not lose.
Odd power from halted Grelliot. Rippling like waves. Mana.
Why sense it? Why not Gawain? His moon-attuned mana? Unknown.
Too late to call stop. Didn't want to.
Grelliot's mana brushed his. Moon deer mana from days past surged through veins, igniting body.
'I'll win.'
What to win? What he could do. What he was good at.
Past surfaced. Now past life. Earth, Korea. Identity buried adapting here.
Striding Grelliot broke to run. Memories flooded fast.
Name. Kang Jewon. Gender. Male.
Grelliot pulled fist back. For max power. Tremors stopped.
Lv. 3
Energy returned. Surged beyond. Moon attribute—divine power—but no time to check. Instinct thought over fading mind.
'Just once. Once is enough. No need to grip tight.... If his sleeve or collar snags my hand.... I've reversed force plenty...'
Hands out. Left: incoming right sleeve. Right: collar.
Memories rushed. Doings. Desires. PE major. Leave of absence. National team dropout.
Dream then: Olympic gold. Sport, judo.
Slow hands touched sleeve, collar. Gripped hard.
Opponent full charge. Balance tipped.
Just add.
Instinct-engraved move. Soul's memory, not body.
'Uchi-mata.'
Grip and pivot back. Duck head, yank Grelliot with all force.
Heavy thud on back. Twist waist, hips fierce.
Finishing flip.
Thud—!
Dull, heavy crash echoed arena. Grelliot slammed mat.
Charge momentum, lift height, moon-mana strength. All upended him onto the floor.
"Grrk—!"
Grelliot groaned deep. Breath blocked, body-crushing pain instant. Gasped, eyes rolled back.
"Hah, hah...."
Judah gazed at unconscious Grelliot. Harsh breaths, then realization.
'I won...!'
That thought hit.
"Waaaaah—!"
Silent hundreds exploded in cheers. Deafening roar stung skin.
At center, Judah glimpsed dream fragment long blocked by reality.
"Hah, haha...."
He laughed weakly. Legs buckled, collapsed. Pleasant chills prickled; laughter unstoppable.
"Judah."
Referee Gawain approached. Gaze oddly cold.
"Disqualified for unauthorized mana use."
"......"
Judah looked up blankly. As if words didn't register.
Cheers faded.
As Judah opened mouth to protest—
"Wait."
Someone slipped between cautiously. Lia, Elijah's closest maid.
"The young miss wishes to testify as a mage regarding this match."
Gawain, Judah, crowd—all turned.
High-seated Elijah descended stairs gracefully.
Step, step.
Silent arena filled with her footfalls.