Chapter 50: Arrogance and the Taste of Defeat

A dry wind swept through the arena, stirring up clouds of dust.

Amid the swirling heat and anticipation of the crowd, Chris’s third match—the fifth bout of the day—was about to begin.

His opponent stepped into the arena.

Though small in stature, the fighting spirit emanating from his entire body was anything but ordinary.

In his right hand was a short gladius, and in his left, a dagger held in a reverse grip.

The two blades reflected the slanting sunlight with a dull gleam.

“Chris, do your best.”

Beside me, Rowena offered her quiet encouragement.

I said nothing, simply watching the two fighters standing in the arena.

The gong rang.

The match began instantly.

The opponent charged at Chris like a gust of wind.

His twin blades wove an attack that resembled a storm.

The gladius in his right hand thrust sharply toward Chris’s throat, while the returning dagger flashed toward his side.

The sheer number of strikes—and their speed—far surpassed anything Chris had faced before.

Chris was completely forced onto the defensive.

Clang! Cling! Clang!

He desperately parried the relentless rain of blades with his single sword.

One mistake, and the match would end instantly.

The tension in the stands was palpable as the crowd watched his disadvantage in silence.

And yet, even in the midst of that storm, the light in Chris’s eyes had not faded.

With each strike he endured, the stiffness in his movements gradually disappeared.

He began to read the rhythm of the attacks, the trajectories of the blades, the timing of his opponent’s breathing.

He adapted, step by step, learning through his body.

Before long, a faint confidence appeared on his face.

(I can do this…!)

He deflected the opponent’s gladius and seized the fleeting opening that followed.

Judging it his chance, he unleashed his finishing move once more.

“Haah!”

With a sharp shout, he delivered the decisive diagonal slash.

The same technique that had secured his victory in the second round.

But—

His opponent leapt back as if he had been waiting for it.

Chris’s blade cut through nothing but air.

(It was read!?)

Shock widened Chris’s eyes.

That moment of hesitation was fatal.

The opponent used the momentum of his retreat to launch forward in a straight line.

At the exact same time, the dagger in his left hand flashed.

It spun through the air, flying straight toward Chris’s face.

Chris’s attention was fully fixed on the approaching gladius and the charging opponent.

By the time he noticed the dagger, it was too late.

“Guh!”

He twisted his head at the last second, barely avoiding a fatal hit.

But the blade tore deeply into his left arm, scattering blood across the dusty ground.

The sudden pain froze him for an instant.

The opponent did not miss that opening.

Closing in immediately, he struck.

The gladius carved shallow but precise cuts across Chris’s body—

His leg.

His side.

His shoulder.

Like a puppet with its strings cut, Chris collapsed to the ground.

The referee rushed in, confirmed he could no longer fight, and raised his arm high.

“Winner—Forno!”

The announcement echoed through the now-silent arena.

The man called Forno approached the fallen Chris and silently extended a hand.

Chris accepted it and stood, and the two exchanged a firm handshake, acknowledging each other’s efforts.

Then, as they passed—

At an angle hidden from the audience, Forno leaned in and whispered something into Chris’s ear.

The moment he heard it, Chris’s eyes widened, and he stood there in stunned silence.

All matches for the day concluded, and Gideon advanced without difficulty, earning his place in tomorrow’s final.

That night, the four of us gathered at our usual tavern.

As soon as we entered, voices from other patrons rang out.

“Chris! That was close! No match tomorrow, but keep at it!”

“Gideon! We’re counting on you tomorrow! Bring home the win!”

There were clearly more cheers for Gideon.

At that, Chris lowered his head and bit his lip.

Even at the table, the mood was heavy.

I took a sip of ale and spoke quietly.

“In the second round, you did well to control the pace. But that finishing move was a mistake.”

Chris looked up.

“That technique only works the first time. Once it’s seen, of course it will be countered. Your third opponent had already figured it out completely.”

I continued calmly, but firmly.

“After using that move, what if it’s avoided? If you don’t think about what comes next, it’s just a gamble. A finishing move doesn’t have to be just one. Think of other options.”

Chris’s face twisted with frustration.

“…After the match… my opponent told me the exact same thing.”

Seeing the gloomy atmosphere, I turned to Gideon.

“Sorry, Gideon. This is supposed to be your celebration.”

“Hahaha! Don’t worry about it! Hey, Chris—losing just means you’ve still got room to grow! That’s something to celebrate! Keep at it!”

Gideon’s bright encouragement made Chris lift his head slightly.

I then slapped his back hard.

“Stop sulking. From here on, I’ll train you properly. Pull yourself together.”

Chris stared at me in disbelief.

Rowena gently patted his back with her small hand.

“…let’s do our best.”

I hadn’t said it outright.

But he understood—that I had acknowledged him as a disciple.

Tears welled up in his eyes.

He held them back and nodded firmly.

“Yes!”

It was a renewed, spirited response.

Chris turned to Gideon with a refreshed smile.

“Gideon! Tomorrow—fight for both of us!”

“Leave it to me!”

Four mugs clashed together with a loud, ringing sound.