Chapter 157

Chapter 157: Victory in the Finals

The winter sun gradually rose to the center of the sky. After the snow melted, the black mud on the ground was still damp. The final match was taking place at the center of the arena.

Torkelin swung his longsword, and blue-ice light flickered through the air, leaving behind several afterimages as he slashed towards his opponent. Rock, unable to dodge in time, could only block with both swords crossing.

The heavy force from the sword transmitted to his wrists, causing sparks and a grating sound where the blades met. Torkelin did not retract his sword but continued to press forward, using his strength as an advantage.

The sword blade tilted just two inches away from Rock’s forehead. Holding two swords was less effective than holding one. As Torkelin advanced, Rock had no choice but to step back.

This couldn’t continue. Rock turned his foot and pulled his sword to the right, then quickly retracted one sword to slash at Torkelin’s wrist.

Seeing this, Torkelin did not withdraw or dodge; instead, he slashed diagonally upward, aiming for victory even at the cost of injury.

Rock agilely rolled to the left. His sword barely grazed Torkelin’s wrist, drawing a shallow cut that bled, staining the cloth wrapped around the hilt. Seeing Rock roll to the side, Torkelin did not engage further but increased the distance, readying himself again. Rock was nimble, and close combat would not be wise.

He raised his longsword high in the air, and ice-blue light glimmered along its blade. A cold wind swept toward Rock, making him feel as if his blood were freezing, his body stiffening. Before he could activate his magic to counteract the negative effect, Torkelin charged again.

Clang!

A sword flew into the sky with a clear ringing sound. Rock reached into his boot, pulling out a dagger, and rushed straight at Torkelin. The dagger shimmered with magical frost, though it was not sharpened, it was still deadly.

Torkelin stomped heavily on the ground, sharp ice spikes jutting up, piercing through Rock’s shoe. The spikes shattered, but many still pierced his foot, causing an intense cold and pain that slowed his speed. Torkelin increased the distance, sweeping his sword.

Damn, does this guy have any weaknesses? Rock turned around, picked up the fallen thin sword, and swung it crosswise, charging again.

Due to his injured foot, Rock was no longer as agile and couldn’t sustain a prolonged battle. He needed a quick victory. Crimson magic began to spread over the sword blade, veins bulging on his skin. White vapor rose from him in the winter air.

The red sword shadow clashed rapidly with the ice-blue opponent, sparks flying and ice shards occasionally shaking loose, only to melt again. With violent collisions, the already fragile thin sword started cracking, finally shattering with a loud snap. Rock gripped the remaining sword and continued flipping and striking.

Torkelin raised his sword, blue ice light swirling, a cold wind reversing, creating suction that slowed Rock’s movement. Then, he forcefully swung down.

It’s the same move. Rock was surprised, but there was no time to think. Just like when he fought Isaiah before, he quickly approached and, in a flash, the thin sword shattered. A dagger rested on Torkelin’s collar, a slight bloodline appearing on his neck, with droplets of blood trickling down.

“Rock wins! The finals are over!”

The referee promptly called a halt and ordered assistance for Torkelin. After all, he was once the son of a viscount and a prodigy, not someone who should die here casually.

After a moment of silence, Torkelin slowly lowered his sword, his eyes intensely focused on Rock, as if trying to remember this opponent.

“I gained some advantage, but I won’t concede because of it,” Rock thought, meeting Torkelin’s gaze unflinchingly.

The great tournament in Ek City Academy was finally reaching its climax. Only after the competition ended did Rock notice the enthusiastic cheers from the crowd, some spectators exclaiming that it was worth the trip.

“Rock!”

“Rock!”

“Rock!”

“Rock!”

A group of students surrounded him, lifting him up and throwing him high into the air. Cheers and celebrations echoed around. Although Rock usually didn’t care about others’ opinions, the taste of victory was sweet, spreading joy within him, like dark clouds parting to reveal a beautiful sun and future.

Emanas, a name of honor and heroism, was what countless people aspired to. Today, it would open its doors to him.

Contrasting the lively celebration, another silent youth walked away. Torkelin covered the wound on his wrist and quietly slipped into the dark passage, leaving the bustling scene that had nothing to do with him.

An old carriage stood outside, its decorations faded and peeling. Torkelin boarded the carriage silently.

“Is Master’s wrist okay?” the elderly coachman asked with concern.

“It’s fine, let’s go, Uncle Fitch.”

“Alright.”

The old coachman did not ask further. He knew his master’s nature. Since the death of the master, he had become increasingly cold and stubborn.

I lost this time, but I’m young. Next year, I’ll come back. Wait for me, Rock. I will defeat you again, just like countless times before. This time, it was just your luck. Torkelin looked out the carriage window at the arena until it slowly disappeared from sight.

—

On the hill behind the Borris family estate, in the training forest.

“So, this is why you’ve been asking me to practice with you for the past month?”

Rock’s feet were wrapped in bandages, though it wasn’t obvious under his shoes, occasional pain still flared up.

“Exactly. I used to train with Torkelin under the master of the Wind-Sweeping Sword Sect. He learned this move quickly and enjoyed it, so there’s no reason not to use it in battle. I just wanted you to get familiar with it beforehand.”

Isaiah answered matter-of-factly.

“But that’s not fair,” Rock replied.

“What is fairness? There has never been perfect fairness, Rock,” Isaiah responded seriously.

“You’re the captain of the guards, you’ve had access to swords since childhood, no worries about food and clothing, ample nutrition, starting off with teachers, and plenty of practice time.”

“But those poor children don’t have these conditions. Many of them never even touched a real sword in their lives. Not only do they lack teachers, but they also have to work at home, leaving no time for practice.”

“How can it be fair that you win against them? Why should you get the qualification? What kind of result do you seek to achieve true fairness?”

“I admit my talent isn’t as good as yours, but I have a good sister and a better birth. I don’t reject these advantages; rather, I make good use of them.”

“I don’t believe it’s just hard work that made me who I am. There are more complex reasons, but should I feel ashamed? No.”

“I will live well, and I will strive to make those around me live better too. I want to be a hero, shining light on everyone around me.”

“Instead of being preoccupied with your narrow concept of fairness.”

— End of Chapter