Inter-Class Competition (3): The Unbreakable Blade
The night before his match against Neriel Marit, Aren lay sprawled out flat on the training grounds after clashing swords fiercely with the Bronheim duke's daughter in a final check-up.
"Hey, before tomorrow, let me teach you one secret technique."
"Oh, you have something like that?"
Suddenly, she approached—not just anyone, but the eldest daughter of the Bronheim family, a senior expert—and offered to share a trump card. Aren couldn't help but be intrigued.
She drew close beside him, her face grave as she spoke.
"But remember one thing. This is a secret technique you can only use after both sides have exhausted their limits, right at the very end."
"The literal last resort, huh."
"Exactly. And once it fails, that's it. No second chances."
"What kind of technique is it?"
"It's like this..."
Aren's pupils dilated wider and wider as he heard the details. Just as she said, it was unmistakably a final trump card not to be used lightly.
＊
Most of the audience watching from the stands had little interest in this match. After all, Neriel Marit's victory was a foregone conclusion.
They'd heard that this guy Aren had pulled off some feats lately, but no one had properly witnessed them. Compared to Neriel—the Magic Tower Lord's prized disciple, hailed as the Scales' Prodigy and already a candidate for next Tower Lord—those rumors seemed utterly pathetic.
"Ugh, Knight Class is gonna lose."
"Yeah, looks like they just tried to grab three points early, knowing they'd lose the fifth set anyway."
So when the two stepped onto the stage, the crowd's interest plummeted, everyone hunching over their betting slips.
Neriel felt the atmosphere keenly as she unleashed a barrage on Aren.
Pabababak—!!
Dozens of ice spears poured from above her head, stabbing into Aren's position. He dodged them all by a razor-thin margin, close enough to graze like a sheet of paper.
Neriel's eyebrow twitched slightly. Not because his movements were mystical, but because his stance felt oddly... passive.
"What, not even drawing your sword? Did seeing my power kill your will to fight or something?"
She jabbed at him mockingly. If that were the case, it'd be yawn-worthy—she hadn't even shown half her strength yet. Sure, from a monkey's perspective, her effortless 4th-circle spells might be intimidating.
"Ahh, I didn't want to show this here..."
"...What?"
Contrary to her expectations, Aren sighed deeply, head bowed, his tone implying he was hiding an ace up his sleeve. Neriel's brow furrowed.
"Watch closely. And don't tell a soul I even have this sword."
Srrrring...
'What's that?'
With a dramatic line like he was putting on weight, he drew the blade. Of course a swordsman would use a sword, but the moment it fully emerged from the sheath, Neriel's eyes sharpened.
'Not ordinary.'
The hilt looked a bit worn, but the blade felt sleek and resilient. A masterwork sword without a single flaw.
'Is that his trump card?'
'Eh, just trying out a cool line.'
Unlike her heightened wariness, Aren was just hamming it up solo. The sword had no special effects—no beams, no hero's power. Even Professor Azela had dismissed those as myths. But later, she'd mentioned one hidden strength.
Which was exactly...
"Hmph! Posing like that!"
A golden beam shot from Neriel's fingertip, hurtling straight for Aren's body. Instead of raising the edge, he turned the flat of the blade forward to meet it.
Paaaang—!
'What?!'
Shock etched across Neriel's face. She'd meant to shatter the sword and break his spirit, but the beam split around the blade, halting dead.
'This thing's great.'
Aren smirked in satisfaction. Yes—that was the sword's sole virtue: unbreakable toughness.
According to Azela, its original owner, Iferia, had such vast mana that her sword auras wrecked every blade. So she'd commissioned a blacksmith for one that would never break, effects be damned. This artifact was the result.
Titititing—!
Mana bullets floated around Neriel and rained on Aren, but he blocked them all with the broad flat like a shield, just as before.
"Grr! What kind of sword...!"
"Eh, my business."
As she ground her teeth, Aren flashed a mocking grin.
'Jealous? Go roll in the labyrinth like a dog and snag your own item.'
Whoosh—!
He closed in on Neriel, thrusting the sword forward.
"Tch...!"
Her reaction lagged from surprise, but as befitting the Scales' Prodigy, she conjured a mana barrier right on point, seemingly blocking it easily... but
Pachink!
"Kuh!"
No hastily made barrier could withstand Aren's full strength. As it shattered, his sword pressed in, forcing her to retreat again.
She tried a counter in that brief gap, but
Paat...
Her spell fizzled, crushed by something. She frowned.
'Mana interference!'
Mana interference—when ambient mana density disrupts enemy casting unintentionally. Common in clashes between high-circle mages, but a first for her.
'This guy's mana is no joke.'
Retreating, Neriel scrutinized Aren intently. Even the current Tower Lord praised her mana sight as superior; her perception was otherworldly. From the fight's start, she'd gauged it: this man's mana reserves were abnormal. Low output now, but who knew at higher realms?
'Why's a guy like this in C-Class?'
Not even A-Class had this level. For the first time at the academy, a faint thrill stirred her, lips curling.
'But right now, I'm stronger.'
Right now. That qualifier hinted at a sliver of respect. But defeat? Never.
"...!"
Her lips moved silently; ambient mana vibrated in response.
Aren's eyes widened—he charged. She'd been spamming chantless sub-4th-circle spells. Starting a full incantation meant big magic incoming. He had to stop it.
Kwaaang!
"Kuh?!"
But Neriel wasn't dumb; she'd laid invisible colorless mana mines on the ground. One reacted to Aren and exploded.
By the time he shook it off,
Hwaruruk!
A massive flame storm erupted around her.
"Th-that's...!"
"Burn Over!"
Astounded cries from the crowd.
Burn Over—a 5th-circle fire spell summoning a controllable flame storm like limbs, blending offense and defense. Even genius A-Class kids botched 4th-circle often; she'd nailed 5th.
'It's over.'
She poured more mana; flames swelled. Obeying her, it roared toward the prey.
Kwagagaga—!
Terrifying power nearly wrecked the reinforced stage.
'Damn.'
Aren fled the blaze, but Neriel pursued.
Paaa—!
The storm split like jaws, engulfing him. Backed to the stage's edge—no escape.
Aren resolved himself. He stood firm.
Gooo...
"...?!"
Neriel shivered. Air currents shifted unnaturally. Even her surrounding mana converged... on him.
Zeeying—
Mana is like air. Fuel the body as wood, ignite a spark, and combustion follows. Success births a ripple of your mana color around you—sword aura. Channeling it into cold steel marks a Sword Expert.
'Sword aura!'
Brilliant blue flames bloomed over his body, dwarfing her fire. As it surged into the blade, horror crossed her face.
Another 1st-year Sword Expert besides Silvena Bronheim? Why hide it till now? Another trump card?
Srrek—!
The blue blade met the flame wave, parting it slowly.
'Not on my watch!'
She acknowledged the surprise, but that was it. Her circuits burned hot, dumping all mana.
Pajik! Pajijik!
Sparks flew like lightning between them; mana shards scattered wildly.
Aren inched closer, step by step.
"Kuh...!"
Draining every ounce of strength, he focused all diffused mana to one point. No tomorrow. No mercy. All in this strike. That resolve honed his blade tip.
The flame storm split perfectly, revealing Neriel.
Victory flashed in Aren's mind—
Piiyuung—!
A massive mana orb flew from his blind spot. Her ace, crafted mid-clash. She'd baited the flame gap.
Kwaaaang—!
It hit, exploding. "Keok!" Aren flew back; his sword escaped his grip, stabbing the opposite ground.
Dust rose. Neriel clenched her fist.
'I win!'
She was spent too, on the verge of collapse. But victory mattered. For an ape, he'd fought well—but against the Scales' Prodigy? No chance.
"Kyahaha! Now do you know your place—"
Exhausted, she hopped in joy—then
Shuuuung...!
"...Huh?"
A crack split the dust; something flew at her. Round, blunt—unidentified object.
Ting!
It smacked her forehead. Stinging pain rocked her skull; her body tilted back. The world slowed like slo-mo.
'That’s...'
First in view: the pommel, sword hilt ornament that struck her.
"Hmph."
Aren emerged from the dust, smirking openly, face screaming 'I win?'
Rage boiled in Neriel, but
"Y-you... ape..."
Plop.
She collapsed onstage, unconscious before fury escaped her lips.
"The winner iiiis! Knight Class C-Group, Areeeeen!"
The referee's red flag waved; the first match's victor was set.