First Game

"A First year in his First Game, Luke!!" the deep voice of the announcer echoed through the arena, cutting through the chatter.

The crowd fell silent, eyes shifting toward him as he stepped forward. His heart beat steadily, unshaken by the attention. He was no stranger to combat, but this arena felt different. It was alive with expectation.

The sandy floor of the arena crunched beneath his boots as he crossed toward the center. His opponent awaited him—a second-year student, known for his precision and speed. The upperclassman stood casually, a smirk playing on his lips, his sword held lazily in one hand. He was confident, perhaps too much so.

Good. Overconfidence is always an advantage, Luke thought.

"Begin!" came the shout from the sidelines.

The second-year student moved first, a blur of motion as he lunged with incredible speed. Luke anticipated it, sidestepping at the last moment, feeling the air shift as the blade cut past him. Without hesitation, Luke countered, his own sword flashing in an upward arc.

Clang!

The second-year parried, sparks flying from the clash of metal. The crowd murmured in approval, already hooked on the tension between the two fighters.

Luke shifted his weight, reading his opponent. The second-year's movements were quick but shallow—he relied too much on speed, neglecting power. Luke feigned a low slash, causing his opponent to overcommit to a block. In an instant, Luke's sword shifted directions, aiming for his opponent's exposed shoulder.

But the second-year was fast—faster than Luke had anticipated. He twisted at the last moment, avoiding the blow by mere inches, and retaliated with a series of rapid strikes, pushing Luke back.

The crowd roared as the two clashed, exchanging blows with a flurry of sparks. Luke's mind was calm, his body instinctively adapting to the rhythm of the fight. His opponent was strong, but Luke could see the gaps. He just had to wait for the right moment.

There.

The second-year overextended on his next attack, putting too much weight into his forward thrust. Luke sidestepped smoothly and swung his blade downward with precision, knocking the second-year's sword out of his hand with a powerful strike. The blade flew across the arena, skidding across the sand.

The crowd fell silent.

Luke didn't hesitate. He pointed his sword at his opponent's chest, his eyes cold and determined.

"Yield," Luke said, his voice steady.

The second-year hesitated, then raised his hands in surrender. "I yield."

The arena erupted in applause, but Luke barely noticed. His focus was still on the battle, his body humming with the adrenaline of the fight.

"273, victorious!" the announcer's voice boomed, and Luke stepped back, lowering his sword. He hadn't even broken a sweat.

As he walked off the arena floor, Reyard met him at the entrance with a nod of approval. "Not bad for your first fight, Luke."

Luke smirked. "It was decent. I still have a lot to work on."

Reyard chuckled. "If that's your idea of 'decent,' the other first-years better watch out."

Luke glanced back at the arena as another name was called. This is just the beginning, he thought, his determination growing stronger.