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[TSS] Chapter 73 - End of the Match
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 04:54:23 +0000 UTCLuke fixed his gaze on Michael, whose face had twisted into a sneering smile. The way he held his sword was almost lazy, as if toying with him. Yet, despite the taunt, Luke felt no anger—only a calm, focused mind, though urgency lurked beneath the surface.
He had missed the perfect opportunity to counter after the very first move, his inexperience costing him. The shock of his own movements had left him frozen, unable to capitalize.
'I should have picked the spear… or at least spent the day practicing with the sword,' Luke thought, chastising himself.
Arrogance? Pride? Whatever the reason, he had placed himself in this position, and now he had to deal with the consequences.
Michael struck again, a slash from a tricky angle. In an instant, Luke raised his arm, parrying with precision before launching a lightning-fast riposte toward Michael’s chest. Yet, his opponent simply stepped back, evading the strike with ease.
The two began circling each other, slow and deliberate, waiting for the next opening. Michael’s feints were wicked, forcing Luke to flinch on occasion. Each time he did, Michael would move in, striking with calculated aggression.
Like this, Luke was gradually worn down. Glancing blows landed on his arms and legs, nothing severe, but each cut drained away his already pitiful stamina.
Each clash of their swords was met with the deafening roar of over two hundred spectators. Michael seemed to thrive off the energy, reveling in his moment under the spotlight.
'This is not good,' Luke assessed, a creeping despair taking root.
His body screamed in protest—his arm burned, his legs felt sluggish.
He had underestimated his opponent. Though he had seen battle before, had fought on the frontlines, and had even been responsible for the deaths of thousands, that experience meant little in this duel.
Michael, barely in his twenties, had likely trained with a sword since childhood. His body and mind worked in tandem, each movement honed by years of discipline. His attacks were sharp, unpredictable, and effortlessly fluid.
Luke was the opposite. While he possessed the proficiency granted by the system, his body lagged behind his knowledge. His muscles lacked the instinctive refinement that only came from years of practice. If he had a month—no, even a week of dedicated training—this match wouldn’t have even been close.
Yet here he was, standing on the precipice of defeat.
Michael’s sword came at him again, this time aimed straight for his heart. Luke moved to parry, but he was a fraction too late. The tip of the blade sliced through his robes, drawing blood.
The crowd erupted in another cheer.
Michael lifted his sword and examined the crimson dripping from its tip. A cruel smirk tugged at his lips. “It seems you’ve reached your limit, Luke Drakon… What a shame. I was just starting to enjoy myself.” He let out a harsh cackle.
Luke lowered his sword, its tip resting on the ground.
Michael arched a brow. “What’s this?” he exclaimed. “You’re giving up? And here I thought you’d be the type to fight to the bitter end.” He laughed heartily, and the crowd followed suit.
“Alright, alright. I’m a reasonable man…” Michael spread his arms in mock generosity. “Prostrate yourself before me, and I promise to make your death as painless as possible.” His tone was magnanimous, yet the taunting smile remained.
Luke ignored him and took a deep breath.
He decided that he could no longer hold back—he needed to rely on every advantage he had, or this would be the end. With some reluctance, he activated two of his skills that he’d been avoiding.
[Steady Heart has been activated.]
[Domineering Air has been activated.]
Luke’s entire demeanor changed.
In an instant, his frantic heart calmed, and a cold ruthlessness washed over him, draining the world of color. The roar of the crowd faded into silence—only Michael remained.
His emotions dulled. When he considered his predicament, his options appeared distant, calculated, as though they had nothing to do with him personally.
His gaze lifted, meeting Michael’s eyes. The man flinched. His mouth moved, but Luke heard nothing.
Without hesitation, Luke tightened his grip on his sword. His uncertainty vanished, replaced by an unyielding resolve.
He moved forward with a grace he had never known. Each step was deliberate, confident—so much so that even Michael hesitated. The noble finally struck, his blade aiming for Luke’s right shoulder.
Luke tilted his body to the left, allowing the blade to pass harmlessly by. Raising his own sword, he slashed toward Michael’s outstretched forearm, intent on cleaving through it.
But Michael’s reflexes were sharp. He pulled back just in time and met Luke’s blade with his own. Sparks flew as steel clashed, but Michael had overextended—he stumbled back from the impact.
Not missing the opening, Luke flourished his sword and struck at Michael’s exposed ribs. His blade crashed against his opponent’s side, tearing through fabric.
Yet, no blood was drawn.
Luke felt a brief flicker of surprise, quickly muted. Michael had worn thick leather beneath his robes, likely as protection against such slashes.
It was borderline cheating—disgraceful, even—but there was nothing to be done.
'If I cannot cut your body, then I shall relieve your head from your neck,' he thought dispassionately.
Michael staggered, clutching his side. Even with the leather padding, the force of the blow had to have stung. His mouth moved again, but Luke remained deaf to it, his focus absolute.
Perhaps out of anger or embarrassment, Michael flew into a frenzy. His attacks became fast, lethal, always aimed at vital spots. Any one of them could have ended Luke had he faltered.
But Luke did not falter.
He endured the storm, his mind calculating the best moment to strike, even as his sword arm grew numb under the relentless assault.
After what felt like an eternity, Michael's eyes flickered with determination before he swung wide from the left. His earlier speed had waned, his movements sluggish with fatigue. Luke made his decision in an instant.
He ignored the incoming strike, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword with both hands. With a quick shuffle forward, he closed the gap between them and drove his blade straight toward Michael’s exposed throat.
Time seemed to slow as they converged. Luke caught the sheer terror in Michael’s eyes—an expression of someone who had finally glimpsed his own mortality. That fear remained frozen on his face as Luke’s sword pierced flesh, the blade sinking deep into his neck.
Michael’s weapon found its mark, slashing high across Luke’s left shoulder. Though weakened, the blow still bit into him, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his body.
Michael staggered back, his hands clawing desperately at the gaping wound in his throat. He gasped for air, choking on blood, but it was futile. His legs buckled, and within moments, he collapsed onto the arena floor, struggling weakly before drawing his final, gurgling breath.
A sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over Luke, nearly toppling him. He deactivated both Domineering Air and Steady Heart, his breathing ragged as he dropped to one knee, using his sword for support.
As color returned to his vision, he braced himself for an uproar from the crowd—but the arena was eerily silent. A sea of stunned faces stared back at him.
Then, the sound of deliberate footfalls echoed through the hushed space. Riann Boyd, the Master of Arms, strode onto the platform with measured steps.
“The winner of the match… is Luke Drakon.” His deep voice carried across the arena, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Only then did the spectators stir, whispers rippling through the crowd. But no one cheered.
“NICE ONE, LUKE!”
“Beautiful counter, young master!”
Luke turned toward the familiar voices. Kayson, Sebastian, and Victoria stood at a distance, waving in support. Warmth flickered in his chest, and despite his exhaustion, he managed a small smile in return.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Riann unsheathed his longsword in a swift motion, bringing it down with a decisive stroke. Luke barely had time to register what had happened before Riann bent down, grasped Michael’s severed head by the topknot, and turned to him.
“The King wishes to see you. Now.” His tone left no room for argument.
Still on one knee, Luke let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. His body was battered, blood seeping from multiple wounds—though none as severe as the one on his left shoulder.
“Master Boyd, might I have my wounds tended to first?” he asked, keeping his tone measured. It was hardly an unreasonable request.
“You can be patched up at the palace. Time is of the essence. Keeping His Majesty waiting is not an option,” Riann replied, his voice cold and impassive.
Luke exhaled slowly, resigning himself to the order. With a shaky effort, he pushed himself upright, using his sword as leverage. Without Steady Heart dulling his pain, the full weight of his exhaustion bore down on him.
Before Luke could even voice a complaint, Riann was already in front of him. Without a word, the large man hefted him over his shoulder and turned toward the stairs.
Luke felt like a helpless child, his face burning with embarrassment. Being fireman-carried in front of over two hundred people was beyond mortifying, yet there was nothing he could do.
Glancing toward Sebastian and Kayson, he saw them tense, looking as if they were ready to rush forward and intervene. Panic flared in his chest—starting a fight with the Master of Arms of Ralis City would be disastrous. Quickly, he raised a hand to signal that he was fine.
Thankfully, they got the message and stayed put.
And so, Luke endured the humiliation of being carried all the way to the palace atop Riann Boyd’s broad shoulder. Every step of the journey was torture, not from pain, but from the countless stares drilling into him.
However, the moment their eyes landed on the severed head Riann carried in his other hand, their expressions changed.
By the time they reached the palace, the same one Luke and the others had visited to meet the Left Minister, he had resigned himself to his fate. However, instead of heading to the reception hall, Riann took him directly to the infirmary, unceremoniously setting him down at the threshold.
"See that this man’s wounds are tended to. I will be back soon to collect him," Riann ordered a nearby servant.
“Y-Yes, Master Boyd,” the servant stammered, straightening immediately.
Luke let out a long breath of relief, finally back on his feet. That’s the last time I ever want to be carried like that in public. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, the full weight of what had happened sank in. He had been reckless—far more than he realized in the heat of battle.
“Sir, please come this way. The doctor will tend to your wounds,” the servant said respectfully.
Luke nodded and followed, though his steps were still shaky. As he entered the infirmary, the scent of herbs filled his nostrils, refreshing and sharp. Just a whiff made him feel more awake, a stark contrast to the battlefield infirmaries he had grown used to—the stench of blood and death.
He certainly wasn’t complaining.
The doctor, an older man with a neatly trimmed white goatee, greeted him with a knowing look before getting to work. His hands were practiced and efficient, assessing Luke’s wounds with a professional eye. He cleaned each injury with precision, then stitched up the deeper gashes, including the nasty wound on Luke’s shoulder. The entire process took no more than fifteen minutes.
Luke let out a quiet sigh of relief as the last stitch was tied off. "Thank you, Doctor," he said, offering a small bow of appreciation.
"It's no trouble," the doctor replied, waving him off. He eyed Luke’s wounds with mild curiosity. "Did you just return from a sparring session?"
Luke shook his head, his lips curving into a wry smile. "It was a single combat challenge at the Royal Academy. As you can see, I won."
The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. You must be quite skilled to attend the Royal Academy. Who was your unfortunate opponent?"
"Michael Ring," Luke said casually, rolling his shoulder to test the stitches. "He challenged me—even though it was my first day."
The doctor froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Michael Ring?! You mean Marquess Ring’s son?"
Before Luke could answer, a deep voice called from the doorway. "Is it done?"
Luke exhaled, rising to his feet. He patted the doctor on the shoulder. "Thanks for the stitches, but I’ve got a meeting with His Majesty."
With that, he strode toward the door, leaving the stunned doctor behind.
