Chapter 108: Martin’s Ugly Win
Martin gripped the edges of the wooden bucket beside the arena gate, his knuckles white, and vomited until there was nothing left but dry, painful heaves.
He spat the sour taste from his mouth, wiped his lips with the back of his trembling hand, and looked up at Alex. "If I forfeit right now," Martin croaked, his voice cracking, "does it still count as attendance for Cassandra’s class?"
Alex leaned against the stone archway, his arms crossed over his uniform. His right hand remained wrapped in white bandages, a quiet reminder of what actual combat cost. "If you forfeit now," Alex said mildly, "Cassandra will drag you into the center of the ring herself and use you as a training dummy for the rest of the semester. So no, I wouldn’t recommend it."
"Right. Of course." Martin let out a hollow laugh as he stared toward the blinding sunlight of Tournament Arena Three. It was the second morning of the preliminaries. The stands were packed with cheering students, shouting merchants, and guild scouts who were absolutely not there to watch a wind mage with terrible confidence.
"You’re overthinking it," Hanks said, clapping Martin on the shoulder a little too hard. "Just remember the training. You don’t have to beat him. You just have to survive long enough for him to make a mistake."
"He’s a Knight," Martin said, his voice rising in panic. "His name is Pell. He’s the size of a wardrobe. Wardrobes do not make mistakes, Hanks. They just crush you."
"Martin," Alex said, his voice cutting through the panic. The calm, authoritative tone made Martin look up. "Watch his feet. Don’t look at the armor. Don’t look at the sword. Just the feet."
"Fighters to the center," the referee’s magically amplified voice boomed across the sand.
Martin swallowed hard. He adjusted the collar of his uniform, grabbed his standard wooden training staff, and walked out into the sunlight. It felt like walking to an execution.
Knight Pell was already waiting. The third-year student looked exactly like a wardrobe made of steel and muscle. He didn’t even bother drawing his training sword. He simply lowered his stance, his heavily armored boots grinding into the arena sand.
The bell rang.
Pell didn’t hesitate. He rushed forward, a mountain of iron accelerating with terrifying speed.
Martin panicked. He swung his staff upward, chanting his standard wind formula far too early. A massive gust of air exploded from his core, sweeping across the arena, but Pell was still three paces away. The wind merely rattled the Knight’s visor. Martin had wasted his biggest spell on empty air.
Pell laughed as he closed the final distance. He threw a wide, punishing backhand meant to swat Martin out of the ring in a single blow.
Instead of moving gracefully, Martin tripped over his own boots. He collapsed backward, falling flat on his back just as the heavy steel gauntlet whistled through the empty space where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier.
The crowd erupted into laughter. High in the stands, Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Get up, mage," Pell taunted, turning his heavy boots toward the fallen student.
From the ground, Martin scrambled backward. He was about to surrender, but his eyes locked onto the ground. Just as Alex had drilled into him for hours in the combat courtyard, he wasn’t looking at the armor. He was watching the dust moving around Pell’s boots.
Every time Pell shifted his weight, his heavy boots displaced the sand. Pell was preparing to lunge again, all his weight shifting onto his back heel.
Martin didn’t try to cast a massive gale. He didn’t try to throw Pell backward. He formed a sharp burst of air directly in front of the Knight and snapped it upward.
The wind caught the loose arena dust and blasted it straight through the narrow eye-slits of Pell’s visor.
Pell coughed, his head snapping back instinctively as the grit hit his eyes. His rhythm broke.
Now, Martin realized.
As Pell’s lead foot lifted to regain his balance, Martin released a second, concentrated sideways gust aimed directly at the Knight’s raised rear foot.
It was the exact ugly, practical technique that had shifted the charging golem in class. The wind didn’t need to be strong enough to lift a man; it only needed to move his foot three inches to the left while he was mid-stride.
Pell’s boot landed awkwardly. His ankle rolled. The massive Knight stumbled into the boundary, his momentum suddenly working against him. Pell flailed, his arms windmilling as he crashed hard onto his side, sliding through the sand and tumbling directly past the white chalk line. Martin kept applying short bursts to make sure he stayed down.
The arena fell completely silent.
The referee stared at Pell’s boots, which were clearly outside the ring. "Ring out! Victory to Martin!"
For a second, the crowd didn’t know how to react. Then laughter broke out again, this time mixed with scattered, genuine applause. It was the ugliest, clumsiest win of the tournament, but it was a win.
Martin lay on his back in the sand, panting as he stared up at the blue sky. He had survived.
When he finally dragged himself out of the arena and back to the gate, a few of his classmates were already crowding around Hanks.
"How did you even read that stance?" one of the first-year mages asked, looking at Martin with sudden, bewildered respect. "You didn’t even use a defensive barrier."
"I didn’t read his stance," Martin admitted, leaning on his staff and shooting a glance at Alex. "Alex forced me to watch feet for hours. I just did what I was told."
Alex nodded once, the smallest trace of a proud smirk on his face. Up in the stands, Cassandra’s voice was magically amplified over the chatter. "Survival and control matter more than style," she announced, using Martin’s ridiculous victory as a live lesson for the department.
Martin finally let out a real breath, the tension slowly leaving his shoulders. He was about to ask Hanks if they could go find actual food when his Trivia tablet buzzed inside his pocket.
He pulled it out, expecting a congratulatory message from the department chain. Instead, the screen displayed a single line of text from an anonymous sender.
You were not supposed to win that match.
Martin’s smile faded. He stared at the glowing letters, the cold feeling returning to his stomach and completely washing away the warmth of his victory.