The World Is Mine For The Taking-Chapter 88 - The Sword Festival, Part 2 (7)

After a while, it was my turn. This wasn't exactly a surprise, but my opponent this round turned out to be Zeruel. I had thought there might be a slim chance I wouldn't have to face her, but honestly, the odds of that were almost nonexistent. So, yeah, this wasn't surprising at all.

The referee started reciting the rules again, his tone as dull as ever. He even yawned halfway through, his disinterest on full display. The spectators weren't any better. They yawned, muttered, and shifted in their seats, their faces showing just how little they cared. They knew us too well. Our fights had a reputation already—quick, brutal, and over before anyone had time to get invested. The crowd hated it, booing us every time for not putting on a good show. Honestly, it made me wonder why the hell they even bothered to show up. Entertainment was all they craved, but couldn't they find something else to amuse themselves with? Whatever.

Zeruel's eyes locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding. That intense, focused gaze told me everything I needed to know—she wasn't holding back. She wasn't treating this like just another spar. By now, she must've realized the truth: I wasn't the weakling she or anyone else thought they knew. I wasn't that pathetic, skillless loser who used to drag his feet at the bottom of the bronze class. I wasn't the skillless loser from the bronze class, the bottom of the barrel in every sense of the word.

We had a lot of history, her and I.

Back in our first year, I had confessed to her. I laid it all out, every bit of it, only for her to reject me in the most humiliating way possible. She didn't just turn me down; she ripped into me in front of everyone, her words sharp enough to leave scars. But later, I came to understand why she did it the way she did. She didn't mean to destroy me like that. The timing was just horrible. That was the same day her mother collapsed, slipping into a coma she'd never wake from. Knowing that now, I couldn't help but wonder—if circumstances had been different, would she still have said those things? Would she still have torn me down like that?

I guess I'll never know.

The referee finally finished his half-assed rundown of the rules, yawning one last time before raising his hand.

"Are both of you ready? Start, then."

With a disinterested wave, he brought his hand down, signaling the match to begin.

Without hesitation, Zeruel and I lunged at each other, our movements a blur of speed. The sharp clang of our swords colliding sent a jolt through my arms, the sound ringing loud and clear in the arena. Her strike carried an incredible force, one that actually pushed me back a step. It wasn't just for show—she meant business. Her weapon, though, was nothing special. It was one of those cheap, mass-produced blades you could find anywhere. It was nothing compared to the Cursed Sword in my grip, its ominous black steel humming faintly in my hand.

We pulled back, only to clash again. Steel struck steel in a flurry of motion, the sparks flying as our blades met with brutal precision. Again and again, we struck, our movements fast and relentless. The air filled with the metallic screech of swords, the sound slicing through the once-quiet arena.

The spectators, who had been yawning and muttering just moments ago, suddenly came alive. Their bored expressions twisted into wide-eyed astonishment, and then, as if a switch had been flipped, the arena erupted into chaos. Cheers, screams, and shouts of excitement echoed around us. They had wanted entertainment, and now, we were giving them exactly what they'd been waiting for.

Even as the force of each blow threatened to overwhelm me, I didn't hold back. Neither did she. There was no room for hesitation. We kept swinging, over and over, pushing each other to the limits, refusing to give an inch.

Our strikes came fast and brutal, the sheer impact of our blows reverberating through the air like thunder. Each clash sent vibrations down my arms, but I refused to pull away.

Zeruel finally pulled back, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt like it could pierce through armor. They narrowed into sharp slits, predatory and cold, like a hawk sizing up its prey.

I tightened my grip on my sword and readied myself.

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"Why are you not using your full strength?" Zeruel's voice rang out, cutting through the charged air like the sharp edge of her blade. For the first time since the fight began, she spoke, and the weight of her words hit like a hammer. "Why are you holding back?"

"What?"

Her question blindsided me, throwing my focus off-kilter. Stupidly, I let my guard slip—a mistake no fighter should ever make mid-battle. But her words hit me so hard, it was like my body moved before my brain could catch up.

"Don't pretend you're confused. You know exactly what I'm talking about." She raised her sword, the tip hovering inches from me, steady and unwavering, her tone laced with challenge.

"What makes you think I'm holding back?" I asked.

"I've noticed it since the Joint Training," she said, her gaze locked onto me like a vice. "The way you grip your sword, the way you swing—it's like you're intentionally matching my strength. I didn't say anything back then, but now, clashing swords with you again, it's obvious. You're deliberately restraining yourself."

Her words settled like a stone in my gut. Was I really doing that? Yeah, I guess I was. Not consciously, but it made sense. If I went all out on an opponent who couldn't take the full brunt of my attacks, even with a sword or shield in hand, I'd probably shatter their bones—or worse.

"What the hell is going on? Stop standing around and fight already!" a spectator's voice boomed, cutting through the tension like a poorly-timed joke.

"This fight was just getting good! Don't ruin it with all this talking!"

"Move your damn swords!"

The crowd, who had been on the edge of their seats moments ago, was now throwing a tantrum over the sudden lull. But neither of us paid them any mind. We were too locked into each other, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a blade.

"If I go all out, will you do the same?" I asked her.

"I've been going all out since the start of this fight," she shot back, cocking her head slightly. Her voice was firm, but there was a flicker of doubt in her tone.

"I don't think so."

Because I knew she wasn't going all out. Not yet. Her Blessed Sword ability was still untouched. That wasn't just some fancy skill; it was a game-changer. It didn't just amplify her swordsmanship—it let her channel elemental magic into her blade. Fire, wind, earth, water—her sword could become a storm of destruction, each element bending to her will like it belonged there. She could make her sword dance with all of them like it was some enchanted wand.

But I understood why she was holding back. The tournament rules were crystal clear: no abilities, no magic, just pure skill with the sword. If she used her ability, she'd be disqualified on the spot.

"If you want me to stop holding back, then you'll have to do the same," I said, my voice firm as steel. "Use your Blessed Sword on me. I'm not forcing you—unless winning is all you care about."

Her eyes didn't waver, the seriousness in her gaze tightening like a noose. It was honestly impressive—her composure, her resolve. I hadn't expected her to hold such intensity, but when someone's truly serious, it's like they become an entirely different person.

She closed her eyes, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. When they reopened, something in them had shifted.

"Fine," she said, her tone low. "I won't hold back, then."

The moment she finished speaking, her blade ignited. Flames roared to life, wrapping around the sword in a blaze so intense it seemed to devour the very air around it. The heat rolled off in waves, scorching and oppressive, and the fiery glow cast wild shadows across her face.

"W-Woah!"

"I-Is that even allowed?"

"I don't know…"

The crowd's murmurs erupted into a chaotic hum as their eyes fixed on the flames licking up Zeruel's sword. The fiery aura wasn't just mesmerizing—it was terrifying.

The referee, visibly panicked, stumbled forward and waved their arms frantically. "H-Hey! No abilities allowed! If you fight with that, you're disqualified!"

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Zeruel didn't even blink. Her gaze stayed locked on me, her focus unshakable, as if the referee's protests were nothing more than whispers in the wind.

Now this… this was more like it. My pulse quickened, adrenaline surging through me like a live wire. I hadn't expected to go all out in this tournament. Hell, I'd been ready to coast through with just enough effort to secure a win. But now? There was no holding back. Not anymore.

The air between us burned with tension as we both crouched into our stances, muscles coiled and ready to spring.

In a flash, we moved.

Our swords collided with a deafening clang, the force sending a shockwave rippling outward. Her flaming blade scorched the air, the heat brushing against my skin as if daring me to flinch. Sparks flew from the impact, lighting up the arena like a violent storm of fire and steel.