Chapter 58: The Swordsmanship Tournament 3: Promise of a Rematch

Ker-chiiiing!

The harsh screech of blade meeting blade echoed for the second time since the match began. With this sound came a change in momentum that seemed like just a subtle shift to the onlookers.

To the fighters in the ring, it was night and day.

"So, you've finally stopped holding back, huh?" remarked Abel, grimacing from the sensation of the clash. Or rather, the lack thereof. It would have been better if his sword had been deflected back at him. Instead, his slash had met little resistance, its momentum having been perfectly parried to the side. He nearly toppled over but managed to keep his balance by forcefully digging his heels into the ground.

"You know, I'm not sure how I can get you to believe me on this, but I've been trying my best this whole time." Sion quietly regarded Abel for a few seconds before his lips curled up in amusement.

"I have to say, knowing might be half the battle, but it really is only half. I had a hell of a time trying to parry that strike even though I know exactly where it's coming from. That overhead swing of yours really is something," he said with a grin as he loosened his grip on his sword and returned to his lower stance. "Out of respect for the sheer power of your swing, allow me to offer you some friendly advice, Prince Abel. If you try the same move on me even one more time... then this match will immediately end in your defeat."

Sion's smile changed; now it showed teeth. Abel instinctively knew the Sunkland prince was not kidding around.

"So you say. In that case, there is only one thing for me to do."

Abel raised his sword high above his head. The same position, the same angle, the exact same attack. He changed nothing, boldly presenting Sion with the same all-out aggression of the Remno-style first stance as before.

"Should I take this to mean you surrender?" The hint of a frown appeared on Sion's brow. In response, Abel laughed. It was not the laughter of surrender.

"What? Surrender? No, Prince Sion. This is how I win."

"Is that so? Fair enough. I see that I have not given you due respect. Allow me to redress my affront, Abel Remno, by defeating you with the best of my bladework."

Had Abel listened to Sion and changed his approach, he would surely have lost. No attack of his could hope to penetrate the intricate defense of Sion's masterful swordplay. No matter, he did not waver. He stayed in the same stance and prepared to unleash the attack that he felt most confident in. Shining from his eyes was not a resigned acceptance of defeat but a fierce hunger for victory. He maintained the same stance not out of desperation, but determination. It was a declaration. This would not be the same attack. He would swing harder, faster, and with even more power than before.

Sion acknowledged the wordless challenge. He now saw Abel not as a mere opponent but as a respected rival — one who had boldly bet all his chips on his only path to victory. It was only appropriate, then, for Sion to match this resolve. There would be no holding back. The two of them slowly approached one another, stopping just short of striking distance. It had started to pour, but despite the fat drops of rain slamming against their faces and bodies, neither of them blinked. Abel was in a state of intense concentration, focused entirely on unleashing his most powerful attack on Sion. It was, therefore, understandable for him to forget the context of this situation.

This was no battle, much less a duel to the death. It was a friendly match between students meant for fun and entertainment. Since it had started to rain, and there was certainly no need for competitors to risk illness or injury, naturally...

"That's it! Both competitors, swords down!"

The referee called for the match to end.

"Wha—?!"

Abel looked around half-dazed, unsure of what had just happened.

"As I expected. Well, I suppose that's that."

Sion sheathed his sword and shrugged. Apparently, he'd been fully aware of this possibility and was entirely unsurprised by the referee's decision.

"I have every intention of finishing this match... but the earliest chance will likely be this winter, during the next swordsmanship tournament," he said with a smile. "What do you say, Prince Abel? Do I have your word that we will cross swords again?"

Sion extended his hand.

"You bet we will."

And this time, Abel took it.

And so, the final match of the tournament ended with a firm handshake.

"Prince Abel!"

Mia ran over to Abel as soon as he came down from the arena. She looked up at her champion, who'd come within an inch of vanquishing her archnemesis, and bombarded him with praise and vicarious frustration.

"That was amazing! But oooh, you were so close! Just a little bit more, and— Hnnngh!"

"Huh? Oh, uh, thanks, Princess Mia," stammered a bewildered Abel. "But, um, if we'd kept going, I probably would have—"

"This must be a curse!" Completely oblivious to his reaction, she continued ranting. "It has to be. I bet someone wished for rain or something — some petty jerk out there who didn't want to see you win! You were so close! Hnnngh! Interfering with an honorable match like this... Unforgivable! It's playing dirty is what it is!"

...Let us quickly return to the previous timeline for a moment. For the record, after finishing her very lonely lunch, Mia spent the rest of her day holed up in her room alone feeling very sorry for herself. During that time, she happened to overhear that Sion was close to winning the tournament. So she sat and prayed with all her heart for rain to come, and when a sudden shower forced the tournament to conclude prematurely, she'd shouted in triumph.

In other words, she'd completely forgotten that the "petty jerk" who'd "played dirty" had been none other than herself.

Thus, the first swordsmanship tournament of the year was concluded early due to rain, and the two princes traded promises of a rematch. What they didn't know, however, was that their chance would come much sooner than they thought and under circumstances neither of them could have predicted. It would take place not within an arena but on a battlefield, both of them putting their lives on the line...

But that is a story for later.