Laurent’s chest split open, and blood splattered out.
But it wasn’t just Laurent who was wounded.
Hasan, too, staggered backward, blood dripping from his arm.
“As expected of Laurent,” Yuri said curtly.
Laurent’s swordsmanship was precise and unwavering.
He never acted rashly; instead, he wisely carried out what needed to be done in any given situation.
This time was no different.
Realizing he couldn’t dodge Hasan’s attack, Laurent didn’t hesitate to abandon defense and swung his sword head-on.
His target was Hasan’s arm—just within reach of his blade.
In a split second, he made all these calculations and moved his body accordingly.
“Is the wound serious?” Yuri asked.
“Not deep. Hasan’s the real problem—his arm’s going to be awkward to use now.”
Laurent and Hasan locked eyes, standing off for a moment.
Laurent stepped back, then tore off his blood-soaked shirt with a casual flick of his hand, tossing it offstage as if it were a nuisance.
His chiseled torso was revealed like a sculpture.
A gasp rippled through the audience. Laurent was especially popular among the women, and the reaction swept through the entire arena.
Jared muttered under his breath, “Such a gentle face, but those muscles say otherwise…”
He wasn’t bulky, but every muscle was sharply defined.
As Laurent raised his sword, the muscles on his back rippled like waves.
Watching this, Yuri said, “Hasan’s lost.”
“Huh?”
“Even if Laurent somehow loses the match, it’s still Hasan who’s defeated.”
“I see…”
Hasan, clutching his wounded arm, crouched low and glared at Laurent. The contrast between his hunched posture and Laurent’s confident, shirtless stance was striking.
Somehow, Hasan looked pitiful.
Suddenly, Yuri began clapping. The unexpected gesture drew all eyes.
“I’m rooting for Laurent, but at this moment, I want to applaud Hasan.”
“What…?”
Jared silently followed Yuri’s lead, and soon the applause spread—not just around them, but throughout the entire audience.
Who hasn’t found themselves in Hasan’s position at least once in their life?
It was a kind of camaraderie among fighters.
The battle resumed. Hasan, injured in the arm holding his sword, could no longer move properly and kept retreating.
Laurent pressed forward relentlessly.
Gradually, more wounds appeared on Hasan’s body.
Yuri asked Jose, “Does he still have a secret move?”
“Yes,” Jose nodded.
“Hasan is waiting for his chance. The match will be decided soon.”
Hasan curled his body, conserving his energy.
His opponent seemed larger and larger as the match went on.
“He’s strong…”
Hasan muttered.
Laurent wasn’t exceptionally powerful or fast, nor did he wield mana in flashy ways.
He simply swung his sword steadily and reliably.
But with every exchange, the inevitable happened—small losses accumulated into a huge gap.
Hasan smiled bitterly inside.
It was hard to expect a comeback against an opponent like this. Laurent didn’t let his guard down or overextend himself; like a snake slowly tightening its grip, he was steadily leading Hasan toward defeat.
“An annoying guy to face.”
Hasan lifted his eyes.
Laurent was closing in, sword pointed like a death sentence.
Of course, Hasan still had his secret move unused.
But that fact offered little comfort. Facing Laurent’s blade made him feel like a clumsy swordsman trying to bluff his way through to cover his lack of skill.
“Damn it.”
Everyone from Briol was like this.
He glanced sideways at the audience.
He’d thought only the three princes who hadn’t even entered the tournament were like this, but Laurent, though different in type, was just as infuriating.
Then, suddenly, Laurent spoke.
“Before the match started, you said something to me.”
“What?”
“That you could beat the third prince.”
Hasan had tried to shake Laurent by provoking him on stage. Most of it was about Laurent himself, with only a passing mention of the third prince.
But it seemed Laurent cared more about that one comment.
“So, what? Can you still say that now?”
Laurent smirked.
His eyes were full of confidence in his victory.
No need to ask further; the meaning was clear: “I can’t even beat him, so how dare you mention the third prince?”
“Damn…”
Still unlucky.
Hasan stepped forward, swinging his sword despite the pain in his arm. Though it didn’t move as he wished, he managed to exchange blows.
If this continued, he would lose.
He had only one chance left.
To prepare for it, he began carefully setting the stage again.
Like a desperate man refusing to admit defeat, he exaggerated his movements and wasted energy swinging his sword.
“Hey, do you think you’ve won already?”
Gritting his teeth, Hasan slashed at Laurent’s thigh. It left only a shallow scratch.
“Your master’s a coward who didn’t enter the tournament for fear of being exposed.”
He tried to provoke Laurent, sensing he was more sensitive about the third prince than himself.
“Isn’t it true that your success in the Alliance army was all your doing? That reckless third prince wouldn’t have managed it.”
Laurent’s eyes darkened sharply.
Some people aren’t baited by provocation; instead, they crush their opponents with cold precision.
Laurent seemed to be one of them.
Hasan smiled bitterly and spat out the blood in his mouth.
“Laurent. Kid. Come here.”
He flicked his finger. Laurent approached—not because of the provocation, but because he had been steadily closing in all along.
Hasan summoned his mana method.
A pale blue aura shimmered over his sword.
The moment Laurent crossed the invisible line Hasan had drawn in his mind, Hasan swung his sword like lightning.
The sword’s energy slipped past his own blade and struck Laurent.
Laurent raised his sword to block.
Hasan immediately charged.
Mana coursed along the veins in his body, swirling around his right shoulder.
His arm burned hot.
“Phew…”
Though hidden beneath his clothes, a long tattoo ran from Hasan’s shoulder to his wrist—a magical tattoo.
There was no rule forbidding magic in the tournament. Since it was etched into his body, it was part of his ability.
“Die!”
Hasan shouted dramatically, swinging his sword.
His blade clashed with Laurent’s, sparks flying.
Without closing his eyes, Hasan pushed Laurent back, twisting his sword.
His blade slid down Laurent’s sword.
Laurent pulled his sword away without hesitation and dodged to the side.
Hasan pursued, swinging his sword.
Laurent tried to block with his sword raised in an unstable stance.
Their blades were about to meet.
Now.
Hasan used magic.
His shoulder burned fiercely.
His sword flickered, becoming translucent.
His blade passed right through Laurent’s sword.
In that split second, his sword could pass through solid objects.
Nothing could stop his strike now.
He hadn’t held back his strength—if this continued, Laurent might die from the blow.
But it didn’t matter.
Accidental deaths in the tournament were common.
That was the nature of fighting.
“Die.”
The moment Hasan’s sword plunged toward Laurent’s body, he looked into Laurent’s eyes.
They were calm.
That gaze hadn’t changed since he stepped onto the stage.
Laurent wasn’t flustered or reckless.
This time was no different.
Hasan sensed something was wrong.
Just before his sword landed, Laurent’s body slid sideways—as if someone had pulled him from behind.
In a barely visible gap, Laurent slipped past his blade like a ghost.
It was incomprehensible.
How could he anticipate and react in such a brief instant, moving like a phantom?
It was as if he had already read Hasan’s move.
With his decisive attack foiled, only one thing remained.
A cold touch grazed Hasan’s neck.
Laurent’s sword pierced his skin, drawing blood.
There was something almost emotional in the gesture.
Hasan said hollowly, “I lost.”
Not to the third prince of Briol, but to a subordinate trailing behind him.
Still, he didn’t feel too bad.
By now, he understood.
Laurent was several moves ahead of him.
As the sword was pulled from his neck, Hasan sank to the ground.
After using magic, he couldn’t move for a while.
Watching Laurent’s retreating back, he shook his head.
“Damn Briol bastards…”
Laurent had won.
The match ended so quickly that most people didn’t understand what had happened.
But those who caught the moment were amazed by Hasan’s strange technique and even more impressed by Laurent’s composed response.
“As the tournament champion, he’s more than worthy,” Jose murmured.
Yuri nodded.
“Exactly.”
Laurent faced his opponent with unshaken grace.
He wasn’t just a competitor; he looked like a champion accepting a challenge.
Hassan staggered off the stage, and the referee immediately stepped up to take control of the situation. He pulled Laurent to the center and had him turn, bowing to the audience as they circled around.
Then, using the artifact, the referee announced loudly:
“The winner of the tournament has been decided: Sir Laurent Flandre, from Briole!”
Cheers erupted from the crowd.
Laurent’s victory was accepted without resentment, even by the Empire’s supporters of Hassan, because he had proven himself not only in skill but also in character.
“He’s definitely earned the win.”
“He’s been impressive since he was a kid, and he’s only grown into it.”
“Can’t they just naturalize him into the Empire?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know how loyal he is to the Third Prince, right?”
“Briole really does produce some remarkable talent…”
Amid these conversations, the tournament was now approaching its final ceremony.
Laurent, as the champion, climbed the steps and stood before the Emperor.
Ivar wore a broad smile.
“All subjects present here, please pay your respects to His Majesty the Emperor.”
Not only Laurent but everyone in the stands bowed respectfully toward the Emperor.
After a moment of bowed heads, the referee suddenly straightened and declared:
“His Majesty the Emperor will personally crown the tournament champion with the laurel wreath. Please join me in congratulating him with a round of applause.”
Applause and cheers filled the arena.
The laurel wreath was placed atop Laurent’s head.
“And now…”
Ivar turned around, fumbling for something else.
At last, he lifted a medal that gleamed with golden light.
“As His Majesty promised, the winner will be awarded this medal. It may be used in any manner the bearer sees fit. The question is… what will Laurent do with it?”
The referee’s voice was thick with anticipation.
Ivar hung the medal around Laurent’s neck, then patted his shoulder and whispered something. Laurent bowed his head.
“Now, then…”
The stadium gradually fell silent.
There was no set protocol for what came next.
Laurent could have simply basked in the glory of his victory, medal around his neck.
But since the Emperor had made a public declaration before the tournament, everyone’s attention was fixed on what Laurent would do next.
Was the Empire’s treasure—the Princess’s betrothed—about to be decided right here?
Eyes naturally shifted from Laurent to the Princess.
Yekaterina sat there in her formal attire, radiating a brilliance that was almost blinding.
Her beauty was so captivating that once someone’s gaze landed on her, it was impossible to look away, and the entire arena fell silent for a moment.
Everyone pictured the scene: Laurent kneeling before her, offering the medal.
Then—
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the stadium, and the crowd momentarily scrambled, trying to locate the source.
“Huh?”
The audience’s eyes finally caught up to one figure.
Laurent was descending the stairs.
Everyone watched in stunned silence.
He crossed the arena floor and headed straight for the front row of the audience.
Then, dropping to one knee, he extended the medal toward someone.
Laurent’s voice rang out clearly:
“I, Sir Laurent, dedicate this tournament victory to Prince Shin.”
A heavy silence followed.
Yuri let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Ah, I told you not to give it to him…”