n

n

nKrow tilted his head toward Tharjan behind him.

"Why does he look like that?

"

nTharjan's lips curled upward, gleeful.

"The last opponent was the favorite to win the tournament.

"

nAh, shkav.

nHe'd been hoping the next opponents would keep on thinking he had the skills of a village butcher.

nHis lips firmed as he walked up to the platform.

nGood things came to an end.

n

"So,

" Dabalt spat.

"I don't know what tricks you pulled, butcher! But they won't work on me..

"

nHah, figured.

nIf Dabalt was going to be vigilant, he'd just change tactics and stop being so cautious.

n

"Begin!

"

nKrow charged headlong like he'd never done in his last matches, hoping to catch the other by surprise.

nDabalt's eyes widened, but he had some skill.

nHe dodged, leaped back to put space between them, then dropped into a formal stance to parry Krow's continuing attack, redirecting the falchion to the side and thrusting into Krow's guard.

nKrow jerked back to avoid that thrust, separated.

nThe other was definitely trained. Krow couldn't brute force this, his initial momentum broken already.

nThey circled, tested.

nDabalt lunged, in a flash closing the distance.

nKrow stepped back, knocked the blade away using his offhand gauntlet. He stepped into the opening, was quickly blocked.

nThey separated again.

nKrow feinted, danced away, feinted again.

nThe point of Morumain's whirling acrobatic style was finding weaknesses and exploiting them.

nKrow didn't have the incisive eyes of someone who had fought in countless battles.

nHe was a fighter only by circumstance.

nBut he could approximate an opening based on the basics and his experiences were often to the death.

nWith a sword in his hand again, he was more concerned with not instinctively going for killing blows.

nHe feinted again, flitted away.

nDabalt grunted as his sword struck through air once more.

n

"Stop running away,

" seethed his opponent, lunged again, slicing through Krow's shirt. Blood welled from the scratch.

nHit and run style, Krow recalled, was always so irritating.

nDabalt smirked at the drop of red falling off his blade.

"I got first blood.

"

n

"If you were a woman, that would be significant. Usually they get it younger though.

"

nThe other answered with a snarl and another swift charge.

nKrow caught the other's attack, used his momentum to flip him over.

nHe stepped back from the wild wide slash.

nDabalt scrambled up, flushed and glaring.

"Tricks! Tricks and cowardice.

"

nIf the progression on non-player blade skills followed the same progression as a player, and there was little reason to think otherwise, Krow definitely couldn't fight head-on.

n

"Do you think so?

" He asked as confused and innocent as he could.

nConscious of being mocked, Dabalt attacked.

nKrow evaded, slid under his blade, feinted, then attacked only to be blocked.

nDraculkar were known to have sometimes unnatural speed and, even at amateur level, the crowd was treated to a duel that proved it.

nThat speed had downsides though. Krow could see the sheen of sweat over Dabalt's features already.

nKrow was not unaffected either, but not as much as the other.

nFinally.

nHe could see the advantage that putting most of his points on VIT gave him.

nIt was just too bad for his opponent that they were both draculkar. Against any draculkar of his level, Krow would be slower but his endurance would surpass theirs by far.

nHe'd burned energy by not giving his all in earlier fights, and the recent fight against that almost-berserked mafmet. But Krow had an HP-recovery item that was difficult to acquire at low levels.

nIt helped a lot.

nDabalt grew angrier as Krow flipped and whirled around him, dodging again and again, and yet barely attacking. His swings went wider than necessary, movements fueled by increasing aggression.

nEarlier, he'd actually been a pretty strategic fighter. There was little of tactics in his movements now, none of the thoughtful approach of before.

nHe lunged, overcompensated.

nKrow darted in, knocked the swordhand away, leaving the opponent open.

n

"Butcher!

" roared the crowd.

"Butcher! Butcher!

"

nWhat, really?

nWas that his nickname now?!

nStartled, he couldn't avoid the fist that crashed onto his face.

nHe dropped.

nThe crowd howled.

n

"Second blood to me, still,

" growled Dabalt. He raised his sword above his head.

nKrow kicked him in the knee, rolled away as Dabalt joined his yowl to the crowd.

nHe scrambled up.

nUgh.

nHe usually didn't need the speed, what with being a Sharpshooter and keeping distance in mind always.

nBut shkav, he'd forgotten how immediate close combat fights were.

nEven if he were less skilled than Dabalt, if he had put all his points in DEX, he'd win.

nThat was not the case.

nKrow dodged and whirled, darting in for quick strikes and dancing away again. Shaving away at a draculkar's endurance should not take this long, weeping graves.

nHow much had the guy trained? Was he secretly training as an elite in the army?!

nThen the blade that whistled past Krow's ear trembled.

nKrow drove his gauntleted fist into the other's elbow. The sword fell.

n

"Butcher!

"

nThey stared at each other, the point of Krow's falchion at Dabalt's gut. There was a long moment that Krow thought Dabalt was going to use his fists to prolong the fight, those burning eyes held that much rage.

nBut then Dabalt stepped away, turned, and stomped away.

nHe didn't even pick up the sword.

nKrow lowered the falchion.

n

"Winner! Number 157 of Avaldaaaan!

"

nYou've won a single combat challenge against a Lvl 14 fighter!

nTsk.

nHe turned to leave.

n

"Number 157 of Avaldan wiiins the tournament!

"

n…what.

nThe referee was kind enough to repeat, to Krow's disbelieving ears:

n

"Number 157, my ladies, my gentlemen! Avaldan the blacksmith takes the tournament!

"

n…that wasn't right.

nThere was at least one more fight before the final bout.

nHe'd counted.

nNo way.

nHe'd been planning to lose gracefully after the fight with Dabalt. He was actually surprised they managed to make it to the final leg of the tournament.

nAfter the mafmet player, he knew there was no way this tournament could be won by a non-player.

nAgainst a player, he'd definitely lose in a swordfight.

nSomething had happened.

nHe was about to descend from the platform when the referee-announcer cried.

"But wait, there's more!

"

nA draculkar whispered to the referee, who grandly swept his arm in a wide arc.

"A champion has risen among the people, to challenge the winner! Randomly chosen from the masses, a last match of honor and might! Will you watch?

"

nThe audience, bloodthirsty and their stoked fires likely also suddenly clogged by the abrupt ending, bellowed enthusiastic agreement.

n

"Number 157 of Cerkanst! An honorable challenge has risen. As the honored winner of this tournament, will you meet this challenger?!

"

nWeeping graves.

nWhere in that speech was he given leeway to disagree??!

nSomething had definitely happened.

nHe could only nod shortly.

nThe referee smiled at the crowd.

"My ladies, my gentlemen! Let us welcome the challenger! Our very own, Kelfort Levrade !

"

nThe named individual strode up the platform, buff and smiling under a helmet that hid his eyes, raised his hands to the crowd.

nHe was armored well, the sword at his hip carried familiarly.

nThere was an unmistakable air around him.

nA player.

nKrow could hear the confusion between the cheers.

nRandom? Yeah, right.

n