Chapter 5: The Tournament of Sisterhood

Every year, right after the harvest, the Marquisate of Fort Diamond soothes weary souls with a very special tournament: the Sorority. Traditionally, the seasoned knightesses of the city of Rush return to their homeland to put on a grand spectacle. But this year, the apprentice knightesses are making just as much noise.

Indeed, news from the training camp spreads quickly through the city:

the youngest daughter of House De Rush shines from her very first bouts, and the elder—long kept in the shadows—has finally awakened.

This morning, nobles and commoners alike crowd into the tournament grounds, decorated in black and crimson drapery.

Yes, the tournament takes place in a tiltyard, an arena marked out by ornate barriers. Lavishly adorned stands welcome the nobility and prestigious guests, while a mixed crowd—bourgeois to peasants—gathers around to witness the show. A raised pavilion is reserved for the judges and the heralds in flamboyant attire who announce the fighters.

After the solemn speeches from high-ranking officials, including the Marquise Diamond herself,

the tournament finally begins.

The rules are simple, yet unforgiving:

No fatal blows are allowed.

Victory by forfeit or knockout.

An electric silence fills the tiltyard, suspended in the breath before the first clash.

Two figures step forward under the cheers of the crowd.

Amaury, nine years old, daughter of Countess De Valois, versus Eleonore, ten years old, daughter of Baroness De Rochefort. Two fire elements. Two fiery tempers. Their duel is swift, explosive, almost like a dance. Sparks fly, footsteps slide and feint.

Rias, seated between his two fathers, watches in silence, his notebook always within reach. He doesn't watch to cheer. He watches to understand. That is how he admires combat.

In the end, Amaury yields, her flames snuffed out by Eleonore's ruthless precision.

Then comes a more brutal, grounded clash.

Florente, thirteen, daughter of Viscountess De Dreux, faces Isidore, eleven, daughter of Countess De Sauveterre. This time, it's earth versus water. The clash is heavier, more physical. You can feel the tension in their muscles, the search for footing, the war of attrition. The two girls wield their bodies like siege engines.

But water, too fluid, eventually gives way beneath the implacable weight of the earth.

Isidore falls to her knees.

Victory to Florente.

And then… the match everyone had been waiting for, right after Anna and Elisabeth's duel.

Metanie, thirteen years old, daughter of Baroness De Retz, versus Barbara, almost fourteen, daughter of Baroness De Nesle. They are no longer children. They are veterans among those little girls. Every year, they fight for glory and share the gold medals. Their families, rivals for generations, have fed this hatred with blood and sweat. One wields fire, the other, earth. For one, it's a precise, controlled burn. For the other, an unshakable solidity, the earth.

Their attacks crack like whips in the air. They move with savage grace—dodging, countering, striking back—never losing rhythm. They know when to breathe, when to chant, when to hit.

Even the seasoned knightesses in the stands exchange uneasy glances.

— "Is this tournament a joke or a military demonstration?" throws one officer with a nervous laugh.

— "These children are prodigies…" murmurs another, more composed voice.

But even prodigies have limits.

Their breathing shortens.

Their magnas wane.

And in a final charge, Metanie collapses, brought down by pure exhaustion.

K.O. Barbara is victorious.

After a few swiftly handled duels, the long-awaited moment finally arrives.

The atmosphere suddenly grows heavier — you can feel hearts pounding harder in the stands.

For Anna, this is her third time participating in the tournament. So far, a bronze medal has been her best result — nothing more. Unlike Elisabeth, who has the top performance at training camp, Anna must win today if she wants a shot at gold. She holds no illusions, but she promises herself she'll give it everything she's got.

On her side, Elisabeth straps on her light armor of reinforced leather, slides her iron sword into her belt — slightly heavier than the wooden practice blade she's used to, probably to test her endurance.

She's the first to step into the arena. Her blazing gaze sweeps across the grounds, and already, the crowd is cheering.

She raises her fist with a fierce grin: she's here to win.

"Elisabeth Fort De Rush, eight years old, flame magic!"

In the imperial stands, Marquise Fort Diamond II lifts her chin slightly. Her impassive eyes follow the youngest of the De Rush family. She does not smile; she knows that today, the family speaks through the blood of its children.

Indeed, the matter of inheritance is one she knows all too well — and it hasn't always ended well.

This duel may be more than just a spectacle.

A moment later, Anna steps into the arena in turn. Her nervousness is palpable: her fingers brush the hilt of her sword, and her breath is short. Facing Elisabeth, the untamable sister, feels almost nightmarish. But she is here, standing tall, ready to fight.

"Anna Fort De Rush, ten years old, wind magic!"

The bells ring.

Three chimes.

The battle begins.

The attacks follow instantly.

Elisabeth opens with the family's special incantation:

"Final Verdict: the Dragon's Stealth Fury!"

All around the arena, a few high-level fighters can't believe their ears. This technique? It's nowhere near beginner level. The classic Dragon's Fury is well-known:

+ amplified physical abilities,

+ constant defensive barrier,

+ reinforced attacks.

It's a power that makes you nearly superhuman — but it drains a massive amount of magna. For an adult De Rush, with a more developed body and magna reserves, it's manageable. But Eli is still a child. If she uses this, she only has a few minutes before her magna is completely burned out.

The stealth version, on the other hand, sacrifices defense for pure speed, and drops the attack reinforcement to reduce consumption. The attacks are then only amplified by momentum and acceleration. But it's a grandmaster-level technique — more dangerous than the classic form.

Seeing a child perform this at just eight years old is nothing short of prodigious.

Eli then dashes at Anna with insane speed. Anna has no choice: she dodges. There's no time to cast spells. No time to think. Only to survive. And Anna's evasions are just as exceptional as Eli's spell.

The veteran knightesses murmur:

— "Is this really a novice match?"

— "How is she surviving Stealth Fury without using magic?"

But Anna can.

She moves constantly, following the footwork of Aikido. She waits for an opening.But everything is too fast. Too blurry. Too sharp.

In her seat, the Marquise is dazzled.

And in the stands, whispers rise:

— "How's she keeping up with that speed? All I see are red flashes."

— "I see. Even if the attacks aren't landing, she's at least stopping Anna from casting. Is this Anna new fighting style really that dangerous?" murmurs Diamond, fascinated by this extreme spectacle — performed… by children.

Rias, on the other hand, comments:

— "Wow, Eli is seriously strong. Just a few months watching Anna's duels and she already decoded her style. And she even figured out how to counter it. And Anna's surviving that speed, those reflexes, without using magic…"

And it's true.

But it's already a feat in itself that she held out for about ten minutes. Mental fatigue finally sets in. Anna begins to accumulate small injuries.

Her style relies on calculation. On anticipation. But now, it's too much information. Eli's attacks are too fast, too strong. She's wearing out.

The audience thinks it's over.

There's no way for Anna to cast a proper spell. Her defense won't last another five minutes.

— "I want to see Anna's attack… but at this rate, she's going to lose without casting a single spell."

Silence falls over the stands, watching the scene with sorrow, just waiting for the inevitable exhaustion.

But Rias and Anna know:

It's not over yet.

They made a promise. There's a technique they swore to keep secret. Rias could break that promise. But Anna is loyal. A promise is a promise. She would keep it, even if it meant dying in this confrontation. And Rias knows it. He knows she can be dumb sometimes —

So he stands up.

And yells:

— "You've still got one trick up your sleeve, right?!"

Everyone hears it. Everyone freezes.

Especially Eli.

Her instincts scream: End this fight now. But Anna knows exactly what Rias means.

When Eli charges head-on —

She finally releases it:

She says nothing.

But a violent whirlwind forms around her. It's her first spell without an incantation: The infamous unstable swirling orb she learned alongside Rias.

The blast pushes Eli back, suspending her in midair.

And those two or three seconds are enough to cast.

She says:

"Divine Judgment: The Griffon's Fury!"

Another chant Anna elaborate herself. The wind version of the Dragon's Fury. It's not as defensive, but faster, more devastating.

Eli defends by draining the last of her magna.

But it's over.

Anna and Eli stand motionless, breathless in the center of the arena.

One is lying on the ground, the other is still standing — barely.

It was so fast that the crowd doesn't know how to react…

But finally, they shout:

— "OUuuurahh…"

— "Did you just see that? That last attack was a wind version of the Dragon's Fury."

— "Breathtaking. So fast."

That's what normal people see from that final move.

But as the light slowly fades, leaving behind the warm breath of lingering magical dust — In the stands, a small group of women exchange glances. A restrained murmur vibrates through the ranks of the high officials, heavier than any cheer.

One of the Sages from the Faction of Knowledge has widened her eyes, hand clenched on her staff, her face drained of color. She too… she understood.

Up above, Marquise Diamond rises. The mother is moved by the spectacle. And a little afraid too. But she's proud of her children. So she steps down from her throne and goes to see Anna and Eli.

It's may be a women domination. And domination remains rudeness but she's still mother. And in every world. A mother is worry about her children.

Somewhere among the guests, an old woman says to the young girl beside her:

— "Make sure we have a meeting with the Marquise later."

— "Yes, madam."