Takahiro (4)

I kept at it—attacking, blocking, evading—but my body felt like it was moving through water.

Heavy. Slow. Exhausted.

Sweat drenched my shirt, making it cling uncomfortably to my chest. My hands ached, and the grip on my sword was slick with sweat, but I clenched it tighter. I couldn't afford to drop it.

Slash. Slash. Slash.

Dodge. Dodge. Parry.

Yushiro moved effortlessly, reading my every attack before it even landed. His footwork was perfect, his counters seamless. I hated how easily he could read me.

I forced my tired body forward, refusing to let up. But then—Snowball parried my strike, twisting into a precise thrust aimed straight for my stomach.

I saw it coming.

I just couldn't move fast enough.

My arms were sluggish, my vision blurred, my body heavy. The wooden blade slammed into my gut, knocking the air out of my lungs. I crumpled to the ground with a groan.

"You're improving, Blondie," Yushiro said, his tone unusually serious. "Your speed and stamina are getting better. But if you don't keep a calm head in battle, your sword will never strike accurately."

I lay there, chest heaving, soaked in sweat, trying to catch my breath. The ground felt cool against my overheated skin, and I had no intention of moving anytime soon.

"Nice work, Taka." Kenji's voice reached me as he walked over. He turned to Yushiro, grinning savagely. "You're still the King of the Field… but I swear, I'll take that title from you one day."

"I'll be the one to claim it," I muttered in response to Kenji's declaration, lifting an arm—only to realize I was too drained to even push myself up.

The King of the Field.

It wasn't just a game. It was a test. A measure of endurance, adaptability, and strength. The King wasn't just the strongest fighter; they were the one who could take on opponent after opponent and still stand tall, unshaken and undefeated.

Kenji suddenly loomed over me, pointing his sword down like some kind of gangster challenging a rival.

"You wanna go again, Taka? I don't mind fighting you right now!"

Why is he acting like some street thug?

I forced a weak smile, trying to brush it off like Yushiro always did. Kenji huffed and turned to Yushiro instead.

"Why did you make us train like this anyway?" I asked, glancing at Yushiro.

Yushiro's eyes flickered with something—expectation.

Most of the time, we trained separately to improve individual skills. Then we fought together to test our progress.

Yet, even after defeating both of us, Yushiro still stood calmly, his breathing steady. Only a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

"Ho-ho-ho," Yushiro said, suddenly amused, his expression shifting into that mischievous look that meant trouble.

Kenji and I sighed in unison.

Whenever Yushiro got that look, it always meant he was planning something troublesome.

"Sir Kenji! Sir Yushiro! Sir Takahiro!"

A sharp voice called from the doorway.

"Yeah?!" Kenji responded instantly.

Lunchtime? That was my first thought—until I saw her.

Standing in front of the base was a tall woman with pale blonde hair and piercing, ice-blue feline eyes. A sword rested at her waist, its hilt well-worn but polished.

Miss Blade.

She stood stiffly, her expression unreadable, but the flicker of annoyance in her eyes told me one thing—this wasn't a social visit.