"Victory doesn’t always look like winning."
***
The crowd was in hysterics now.
Even the Vermillion section, notorious for their cold composure, showed signs of amusement. Lady Elena Morgenthorne had her fan raised to cover the lower half of her face, but her ice-blue eyes sparkled with mirth. A few of her housemates whispered behind their hands. Clearly entertained despite themselves.
Only the Aurum section remained subdued. Leo von Valerius sat rigid in his seat. His golden hair caught the sunlight as he watched the proceedings with what looked suspiciously like mortification. His jaw worked silently, as if he were grinding his teeth.
Sorry, cousin. Sometimes honor requires sacrifice. Even dignity.
Vance’s next attack came harder. Driven by frustration and wounded pride. His blade slammed into mine with enough force to send vibrations up my arm. For the first time, I didn’t have to fake my stumble. The impact jolted through my wrist and elbow. Made my fingers tingle.
"There we go," he muttered. Advanced as I fought to regain my balance. "Finally showing some backbone—"
I tripped over my own feet again.
This time the fall was spectacular. I went down like a felled tree. Arms spread wide. My sword flew from my grasp to land point-first in the sand where it quivered like an arrow. The impact drove a genuine grunt from my lungs and sent up a cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the arena floor.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then Fen’s voice pierced the quiet:
"I CAN’T WATCH THIS ANYMORE. SOMEONE PUT HIM OUT OF HIS MISERY. PLEASE. I’M BEGGING YOU."
The crowd exploded into fresh laughter, but it had a different quality now. Less cruel. More absurd. They weren’t laughing at a weakling being humiliated. They were laughing at the most ridiculous fight in academy history. A spectacle so far removed from actual combat that it had transcended into pure theater.
Vance stood over me. His chest rose and fell as he struggled to control his breathing. His sword hung at his side. For the first time since entering the arena, he looked uncertain.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the hero of this story. The righteous noble putting an upstart in his place. Instead, he was trapped in a comedy where he couldn’t even manage to look competent against an opponent who fought like he’d learned swordplay from a particularly uncoordinated chicken.
===
I pushed myself up on one elbow. Blinked owlishly at Vance through the settling dust cloud. My sword lay an arm’s length away. Its blade caught the morning sun like a beacon of hope I couldn’t quite reach. Sand clung to my face. My hair. Every inch of exposed skin.
"Still conscious?" Vance’s voice carried a note of genuine surprise. "Most people would have stayed down after that display."
The crowd’s laughter had died to scattered chuckles and murmurs. Even Fen had fallen silent. Though I could feel her golden eyes boring into me from the stands. Her ears had perked forward. Her head tilted slightly. The posture of a hunter who’d spotted something unexpected.
I made another show of struggling to my feet. Swayed dangerously as I reached for my weapon. My fingers closed around the leather-wrapped hilt. Hauled myself upright with what I hoped looked like monumental effort. Let my knees buckle slightly before locking them.
"I promised my father I’d finish the match," I wheezed. Raised the sword in another abysmal guard. Deliberately kept my wrist limp and elbow too high. "House Leone keeps its word."
Vance’s expression shifted from amusement to something approaching respect. Not the kind reserved for equals. More like what you might feel for a particularly stubborn insect that refused to die when stepped on.
"Your father would be prouder if you yielded with dignity intact."
"Dignity?" I let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough. Doubled over slightly. "Look around, Thorne. That ship sailed about ten minutes ago."
He had a point, though.
This farce had gone on long enough. The crowd was growing restless. Professors were checking timepieces. And most importantly, Vance’s frustration had reached the perfect temperature. Hot enough to make mistakes. Not so hot that he’d lose all control.
Time for the final act.
I stumbled forward. My sword waved drunken patterns through the air. Vance sighed and stepped into a proper fighting stance. His blade rose to meet mine. Steel kissed steel in a brief exchange that ended with me staggering backward. My guard completely open. The impact vibrated painfully up my arm.
"Enough games, Leone." His voice had dropped to something cold and personal. Almost a growl. "Stand still and let me finish this properly."
I planted my feet and raised my sword one final time. The blade trembled in my grip. This tremor wasn’t entirely faked. My arms genuinely ached from the prolonged performance. Sweat stung my eyes despite the cool morning air.
Three weeks of preparation. And now everything came down to the next few seconds.
Vance approached with the confidence of someone who’d finally tired of playing with his food. His sword moved in a simple, elegant arc. A textbook cut designed to disarm rather than injure. The kind of move that would end the match cleanly and let him claim victory with minimal fuss.
Everything hinged on what came next.
Too early and I’d miss the mark. Too late and I’d take the hit somewhere that might actually cause permanent damage. My real self, the one hidden behind the pathetic mask, counted down silently. I tracked the angle of his blade. The rotation of his wrist. The shift of his weight.
Now.
I executed my final stumble. A perfectly choreographed piece of theater that sent me lurching directly into Vance’s attack. But instead of taking the blow on my sword or shoulder as he’d intended, I twisted my torso just enough to present my lower left ribs.
Exactly where I’d marked the X on my diagram during last night’s planning.
Vance’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening. His sword was already committed to its path. Moving too fast to redirect. He tried to pull the strike. Horror flashed across his face. But momentum and muscle memory conspired against him.
The pommel of his sword drove into my ribs like a battering ram.
The sound that followed wasn’t the clean ring of steel on steel. Wasn’t the dull thud of a training blow.
It was something wet. Organic. A sharp, splintering crack that echoed across the suddenly silent arena like a branch snapping in winter wind.
Pain exploded through my chest.
White-hot. Blinding. Every nerve ending in my torso screamed protest as broken bone shifted against broken bone. The arena tilted sideways. Sand rushed up to meet my face as my legs forgot how to hold weight.
Holy shit that hurts way more than I thought it would.
But through the red haze of agony, something else bloomed in my consciousness.
Cool blue light pulsed behind my eyelids. Text scrolled across my vision in neat, orderly lines.
[System Notification: Attack Detected from Vance Thorne]
[Skill: Power Strike (E) detected]
[Skill Plunder condition met]
[Commencing acquisition...]
The pain was a roaring ocean. Threatened to drag me under and drown what remained of my conscious mind.
But the System notification floated above it all. A life raft of calm certainty.
[Skill Acquired: Power Strike (E)]
Got you.