For Our Cherished One

The second day of the tournament dawned bright and crisp, sunlight spilling over the castle grounds like molten gold. A hum of energy filled the air, carried by the excited chatter of the crowd. Today, the spotlight was on a match that had been the talk of the town since the brackets were announced.

Ellen, the Unfathomable, versus Magoth Harlund.

Even from behind the stands, I could hear my name passed between eager lips, murmured with curiosity and anticipation. I felt their eyes, their expectations pressing down like a weight I couldn't shake.

The excitement wasn't mutual.

I flexed my hands at my sides, trying to steady the tremor creeping into my fingers. I knew the story well—the protagonist's plot armor would shield me. Fate practically had my name stitched into victory. But logic did little to quiet the unease coiling in my stomach.

I wasn't a warrior by nature. Back home, the closest I'd come to combat was the occasional high school scuffle, hardly anything worth bragging about. Those fleeting encounters did nothing to prepare me for this—for a real fight, on a stage where the slightest hesitation could mean a swift end.

A year of relentless training had molded me into something resembling a swordsman. I bore the aches and bruises as proof of my effort. Still, standing at the edge of the arena, I couldn't help but wonder if it had been enough.

What if I slipped up? What if Magoth Harlund outmatched me in every way?

A sharp voice pierced through my thoughts, cutting them clean like a blade through silk.

"Next match! Ellen, the Unfathomable, versus Magoth Harlund!"

The crowd erupted, their cheers bouncing off the stone walls and rattling in my chest. I swallowed hard, feeling my heart thrum uncomfortably in my throat.

"Ellen." A calm voice spoke behind me. The tournament official, his eyes warm but unreadable, gestured toward the arena with a slight nod. "You're up."

I forced a breath and stepped forward, each movement heavier than the last. The platform loomed ahead, wide and unforgiving.

Magoth Harlund was already there, waiting.

His figure cut an imposing silhouette against the morning sun. The man was tall, with the broad, steady stance of someone accustomed to the battlefield. His sword rested easily against his shoulder, but his posture lacked the arrogance I expected. He didn't sneer, didn't try to intimidate.

Instead, Magoth watched me with quiet intensity, his gaze steady but absent of malice.

As I took my place opposite him, the crowd hushed slightly, leaning forward in their seats. Magoth inclined his head in a polite, almost respectful gesture.

"Let's see if the title fits," he said evenly, his voice carrying a weight that didn't feel condescending. More curious than anything.

I gripped my sword tighter, finding some solace in the coarse leather of the hilt.

The official raised his hand, signaling the start.

I exhaled slowly, grounding myself in the present.

No turning back now.

Magoth moved first.

His broad sword arced toward me in a sweeping strike, and I jumped sideways on instinct. The blade crashed into the spot where I'd stood just moments before, sparks flying off the stone platform.

"Damn it," I hissed.

It wasn't my skill that saved me, but the animalistic reflexes embedded into this body—the protagonist's gift.

Magoth pressed the assault, his blade a relentless blur. I countered, steel meeting steel in a rhythm that felt more natural than it should have. My muscles flowed as if they remembered movements I didn't. I twisted, narrowly escaping the edge of his blade, and slipped behind him like a shadow.

I lashed out with a swift kick, but Magoth's hand clamped around my ankle. His grip was ironclad. I spun, using the momentum to wrench myself free and retreat a few paces.

Our gazes locked for a heartbeat. No words, just the understanding that the match was far from over.

Magoth stepped forward, his strikes measured and deliberate. He fought without hesitation, his technique honed and precise. Every slash, thrust, and parry spoke of experience and control.

I matched him, my blade singing through the air with equal decisiveness. Each attack he made, I countered. Each time I struck, he met me halfway.

Our battle flowed like a deadly dance, neither of us gaining the upper hand. The crowd watched in rapt silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

I feinted left, pivoting hard to the right, and aimed for his exposed flank. Magoth anticipated it, his sword intercepting mine with a sharp clang that reverberated in my arms.

Then as I adjusted, he mirrored the shift seamlessly. Our barrage of attacks blurred together, each strike answered by the other in perfect rhythm. The spectators were left speechless, their eyes darting to keep up.

On the sidelines, Fulgur leaned forward in his seat, barely able to contain his excitement, while Willhelm's brows furrowed in concern, though awe flickered beneath the worry.

My roommates stood frozen, jaws slightly slack.

Until now, none of them had truly grasped the extent of my abilities. They knew of the potential—but to see it in action was something else entirely.

Sweat traced a path down my temple as Magoth smiled faintly, his respect growing with every clash.

"You're holding back," he noted between strikes, eyes narrowing slightly.

I grinned, tightening my grip on the hilt. "So are you."

We stepped back in unison, panting slightly but unwilling to relent. The duel was far from over.