The clash of steel and guard echoed across the stone ring. Ludger braced again as his opponent’s dulled sword slammed against his forearm guard with a weight that made his arms shudder. The boy’s strikes weren’t wild or clumsy—they were sharp, deliberate, and relentless.

Ludger’s eyes narrowed. The kid wasn’t burning himself out, either. His breath stayed steady, his movements measured. Each heavy swing came down with the same force as the last, like a hammer pounding rhythmically at an anvil.

So that’s his role, Ludger thought, teeth clenched as he absorbed another blow. Keep me busy. Wear me down. No fancy tricks, no wasted effort—just pressure. Enough to lock me here while Viola goes wild on her grudge match.

The boy’s gaze confirmed it. Focused, unwavering, cold. He didn’t spare a single glance at Viola or her duel. His only task was to shut Ludger down.

Their weapons rang again—clang, clang!—the force behind each strike forcing Ludger to give ground, one careful step at a time. He gritted his teeth, smirking despite himself. Not bad. He’s disciplined. Doesn’t chase, doesn’t overextend. Just keeps hammering until I crack.

Another blow rained down. Ludger twisted, deflecting with his shin guard, the impact jolting up his leg. He’s strong enough that blocking everything forever isn’t an option. I’ll need to break his rhythm… or I’ll be the one dragged under first.

The crowd roared as Viola’s duel sparked across the ring, but Ludger tuned it out. His opponent wasn’t letting him breathe—and he couldn’t afford to blink.

This wasn’t just a test of strength. This was endurance versus calculation.

And Ludger was already piecing together how to turn the tide.

Across the ring, Viola and her opponent clashed with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm.

Her blade burned with mana, each swing wide and furious, her eyes serious. But her opponent—taller, broad-shouldered, his crooked nose twisting into a sneer—met her head-on. His dulled sword hummed with Weapon Enhancing as well, every parry sharp and disciplined, every counter a flash of steel that forced Viola to give ground.

The crowd leaned forward, the tension thick in the air.

Viola snarled, lunging in with an overhead strike that cracked against his guard. Sparks flew, mana clashing with mana, and for a moment it was pure stalemate—her raw firepower straining against his solid defense.

The boy’s lips curled into a mocking smirk. “What’s wrong, Torvares? Thought you were stronger than this.”

Her teeth ground together. The heat in her blade flared brighter, but her strikes grew wilder, heavier. She wanted to prove herself—to crush him as she had years ago.

But he wasn’t the same boy anymore.

His counters came faster, sharper. A precise thrust grazed her side, the impact forcing her back a step. Viola’s smirk faltered for just a heartbeat.

Ludger caught the flicker out of the corner of his eye, even as his own opponent pressed down on him with another heavy strike. She’s losing focus. Letting him bait her. Damn it, if she pushes too hard, she’ll burn herself out before she even cracks his guard.

The crowd roared as another clash of sparks rang through the arena, Viola’s fire against her rival’s steel.

This wasn’t just a duel of strength. It was pride against discipline.

And it was far from decided.

Ludger’s eyes narrowed on the blade. He had already chosen his move: take the weapon, break the rhythm, end the fight before it dragged on.

When the opponent lunged, Ludger’s armguard absorbed the impact with a dull thrum. He shoved through the bind, fingers darting for the hilt, every motion precise and deliberate. The plan was simple—trap the steel, snap it clean, and leave the boy disarmed.

But the boy caught something in Ludger’s gaze. Not the wild glare of a child fighting too hard, but the sharp, cold flicker of intent—calculated and merciless. His instincts screamed, and he stepped back just as Ludger’s hand closed.

The blade slipped away, escaping the trap by a hair.

“Smart,” Ludger said, voice flat, almost polite. His opponent said nothing, but his stance had shifted—tighter, warier. He had seen the glint and understood: this wasn’t just a child in front of him anymore.

Ludger tilted his head, weighing the board. What now? If Viola finished her match quickly, he’d have breathing room. But one glance told him otherwise—her duel was a storm, blow for blow, neither side breaking. She wasn’t about to land the upper hand anytime soon.

That left him stuck. He needed a plan before the nobles saw through the cracks.

His opponent didn’t give him the luxury. The boy burst forward, blade whistling in a wide arc. Ludger raised his armguard, steel shuddering against silver. Another swing came instantly after, forcing another block, sparks leaping from the clash.

He tried to retreat, to buy even a step of distance, but the boy hounded him like a shadow. Every backward shift closed with a forward press, the heavy strikes slamming into his guard again and again, a wall of force that refused to let him think.

Ludger grit his teeth, arm burning from the repeated impacts. If he wanted space, he’d have to carve it out himself.

Ludger’s arms throbbed from the constant blocks. Every clash rattled down to his bones, and the more he tried to play it safe, the tighter the vice closed. Viola’s fight was still locked in its stalemate, and the nobles in the stands weren’t blind—they could see him stuck, pressed back like a cornered child.

Enough.

He exhaled once, sharp through his teeth, and straightened under the next heavy swing. The armguard caught it clean, the rune-lined steel humming as if relieved he’d finally stopped pretending.

The boy across from him froze for half a beat, eyes narrowing. He saw it too—the flicker gone from Ludger’s stance, replaced by something harder.

He didn’t aim for the weapon this time. He crashed forward, armguards leading, fists snapping like pistons. One-two-three, each punch a hammer that clanged off steel and muscle. The boy staggered under the sudden assault, his clean footwork collapsing under raw pressure.

Another punch drove into his guard, another rattled his ribs, a third cracked against his jaw. Ludger’s fists blurred into a barrage, every strike forcing the boy back, step by step. The crowd roared at the shift—the small Torvares child turning into a storm of fists, relentless, merciless.

The boy tried to counter with a desperate swing, but Ludger slipped inside and buried a hook into his stomach. Air exploded out of him. His knees buckled.

Ludger pulled back, fist cocked for one more strike—then froze, armguard gleaming an inch from the boy’s face. The point had been made.

“Yield,” Ludger said, voice calm but heavy with certainty.

The boy’s jaw clenched. Even on his knees, with Ludger’s armguard nearly pressed to his face, he refused to speak the word. His eyes burned with pride—and then his aura surged.

A ripple of heat snapped around his frame, muscles flexing harder, veins rising as his body lit with the raw thrum of Overdrive. The crowd gasped.

“Tch,” Ludger muttered. “So that’s how it is.”

But while the boy poured himself into raw power, Ludger’s decision was already made. He wasn’t just a child playing at strength—he was someone who’d lived this, who knew what Overdrive was for. Not to posture. Not to burn yourself out in a shouting match. To take the moment you needed, then end it.

His body snapped forward like a drawn bow released. His small frame became a bullet of force, slamming square into the boy’s torso. The impact cracked like a drum, driving the older kid back in a blind stumble. Step after step tore through the sand until the edge of the ring loomed under his heel.

The crowd roared, half in disbelief, half in awe.

But desperation is a weapon too. Before gravity claimed him, the boy swung wild—a brutal overhead cut with every ounce of Overdrive behind it.

Steel bit into Ludger’s right shoulder. Pain flared white-hot, splitting through his ribs like lightning. His knees buckled, but his momentum never slowed. His shove carried through, and with a final staggered cry, the boy toppled over the edge of the ring, crashing into the sand outside.

The referee’s call was lost beneath the explosion of noise. Nobles and commoners alike roared as one—Torvares! Torvares!

Ludger stood at the edge, chest heaving, shoulder screaming fire, his shoulder purple thanks to the broken bones. He didn’t lift his hand in victory. He just turned, face flat, eyes searching for Viola.

Because this wasn’t done yet.

Ludger pressed a hand to his shoulder, feeling the warm trickle beneath the armguard. The crowd’s roar dulled into a background thrum as he turned, scanning the ring.

Viola stood ten paces from her opponent, chest heaving, shoulders slick with sweat. Her blade hung low, but her eyes were sharp, locked on the boy in front of her. He looked tired too—his footwork had slowed, his swings losing polish—but there was no denying the balance tipped his way. Every exchange left Viola fighting uphill.

The boy risked a glance over his shoulder. His eyes landed on Ludger. A click of the tongue carried across the sand. He’d seen Ludger’s push, seen his partner fall.

But then he noticed the wound through Ludger’s shoulder, the way he leaned just slightly to keep pressure off it. The tension in his face eased. A wounded child, nothing more.

Good, his expression said. Just finish her, and the scales reset.

He rolled his shoulders, grip tightening on his sword. His breathing steadied. Viola raised her blade again, lips curling into something between a grin and a snarl.

Ludger stayed at the edge, jaw clenched. She was close to reaching him, close to breaking through. But right now, the boy had the upper hand.

And if Viola slipped, even once…

Viola’s gaze flicked once toward the edge of the ring. Ludger stood there, shoulder limping, his face as blank as stone. She frowned. Why wasn’t he healing himself? He had the means—she’d seen him close cuts and bruises without a whisper.

Then it clicked. He didn’t want the nobles to see. A child pulling off combat healing in the middle of a tournament would turn heads he didn’t want on him.

Her chest tightened, then steadied. If he could fight on with that wound, then she had no excuse. The ache in her arms, the pounding in her lungs—all of it could wait. She could be healed soon enough. But only if she won.

She took a slow breath, pulled the fire in her veins back into a single, focused line, and cooled her head.

Her rival’s eyes narrowed as she straightened, Overdrive flooding her limbs once more. Weapon Enhancing lit her blade with a vicious shimmer.

He answered in kind, muscles surging, steel glowing faintly with his own enhancement.

They clashed.

The ring rang with the sound of steel hammering steel, sparks skittering into the sand. Their footwork carved lines into the arena, each step scraping grooves in the dirt. Back and forth they went—her speed against his control, her ferocity against his patience.

For a moment, it was balance. Perfect, brutal symmetry. Neither blade giving ground.

But as the crowd roared, it became obvious who was burning faster. Viola’s breath came sharp and ragged; her shoulders trembled between strikes. Her opponent, though marked with sweat and strain, still carried that sliver of steadiness—enough to make every exchange a risk.

Viola grit her teeth, refusing to yield an inch, even as her vision edged with white.

The duel stretched into a grind of steel and grit. Viola’s arms ached, her legs screamed, and her lungs pulled at the air like bellows ready to snap. Every swing of her sword was a gamble against her rival’s tighter, more disciplined form. He was bleeding, sweating, just as battered as her, but still—there was that edge, that steadiness she couldn’t quite break.

The crowd felt it too. The nobles leaned forward, whispering sharp little judgments. The commoners shouted her name in ragged bursts, trying to will her legs to keep moving.

And then she faltered. Just half a beat, one misstep—her foot dragged through the sand, slowing her pivot by a hair.

Her opponent’s eyes lit up. He didn’t hesitate. He shifted his weight and swung wide, a brutal arc aimed at her ribs. A clean shot. A breaking shot. The kind of hit designed not just to win, but to cripple pride.

The air whistled as the blade came down.

Viola didn’t dodge.

She threw her left arm across her side, bare forearm meeting steel with a sharp crack. Pain exploded through her bones, a lightning bolt tearing up to her shoulder. She staggered, teeth clenched, face twisting—then the twist became a grin. Wide. Wild. Unshakable.

The boy’s eyes went wide. Surprise robbed him of his follow-up.

And that heartbeat was all she needed.

Her right arm snapped forward, Overdrive flaring down her muscles, Weapon Enhancing screaming along her blade until it glowed with raw force. She swung in a vicious horizontal arc, no flourish, no hesitation.

Steel slammed against skull.

The sound was brutal—blunt, final. The edge of her sword caught him clean on the temple. His head snapped sideways; his legs folded. He hit the floor in a heap, eyes rolling white, weapon slipping uselessly from his fingers.

Silence fell for a single stunned breath.

Then the stands erupted. Cheers, shouts, the roar of names—Torvares! Viola! Ludger! The noise shook the arena walls. Nobles clapped reluctantly or frowned behind fans, while the commoners chanted with unrestrained fervor.

Viola stood over her fallen opponent, chest heaving, sweat dripping into her eyes, her left arm hanging limp at her side. Blood smeared her forearm, but her grin stayed sharp as ever. She raised her blade high with her good arm, claiming the victory without a single word.

From the edge of the ring, Ludger watched her, shoulder limping, lips pressed into a thin line. Despite the pain in his own body, a corner of his mouth lifted. She’d done it—against the odds, against discipline and control, she’d taken the fight and carved her name into the crowd’s memory.

The roar of the crowd was still crashing through the arena when Viola’s legs finally gave out. She staggered once, her chest heaving, then tipped backward into the ground with a heavy thud. The grin was still on her face, but her body had nothing left to give.

Ludger’s boots crunched across the ring. His shoulder burned with every step, blood soaking into his sleeve, but he crouched beside her all the same. Viola tilted her head toward him, hair plastered to her sweaty forehead, and let out a hoarse laugh.

“…Hey, little brother,” she muttered, voice scratchy from exhaustion. “Carry me. I can’t… move a muscle.”

Ludger looked down at her, deadpan. “Yeah. Sure. Let me just throw my shredded shoulder out completely. Great idea.”

Her grin widened despite the pain. “Don’t be stingy. Be a good brother for once.”

He sighed, shook his head, and grabbed her arm. Then, instead of lifting her, he turned and started dragging her along the ground toward the waiting room, her body leaving a long trail behind them.

The audience caught on instantly. A ripple of laughter rolled through the stands, breaking up the noble murmurs with genuine amusement. Even some of the stiff-backed aristocrats cracked smiles at the ridiculous sight: the fierce, fiery Torvares girl who had just floored her rival, being hauled across the ring like a sack of potatoes by her little brother.

Viola groaned, half protesting, half laughing herself. “I didn’t mean like this!”

“You asked me to carry you,” Ludger said, his tone bone-dry. “This counts.”

The laughter in the stands grew louder, chants of Torvares now mixed with chuckles and applause. To the crowd, it was a victory followed by comedy—a moment that made the siblings feel larger than life, but still human.

And to Ludger, it was perfect: Viola got her glory, he kept the spotlight off his own wound, and the nobles walked away remembering their names.

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