Chapter 112: Grand Northern Martial Tournament [7]
Swooosh—!
At that moment, A colorless aura surged around Gareth’s greatsword. Julies frownd and quickly put a distance between them.
The dueling arena was dead silent—until the air itself seemed to shudder.
A low, deep hum vibrated through the stone tiles as Gareth’s blade ignited with raw, colorless aura. Not red. Not blue. Not even gold. It was... neutral. Clear, yet dangerous—like condensed killing intent stripped of ornament.
Julies’s brows knit for the first time.
Not in fear.
In curiosity.
So that’s the kind of card you’ve been hiding.
Gareth turned slowly, the glow from his armor dimming slightly, as if yielding center stage to the blade in his hand. His eyes weren’t wild now. They were calm.
Focused.
"You almost had me," Gareth said, voice firm, his previous arrogance reined in.
Almost.
The colorless aura flared again, making the very ground beneath him crack. His earlier rage was now channeled into something colder—sharper. The presence of a true knight.
"You should’ve finished it when you had the chance," he continued, voice low. "But you didn’t. You wasted time trying to embarrass me."
Julies said nothing, but tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
This wasn’t just about humiliation anymore.
Gareth was treating him like an actual threat now.
It was... an upgrade.
"You’ve got precision, I’ll give you that," Gareth went on. "But let’s see if that precision can cut through this."
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Julies Evans POV:
It was getting dangerous now—undeniably so. Just like Gareth had said... I should’ve ended this a few moments ago.
But I didn’t.
...Though it’s not like I can’t finish him off now.
My gaze drifted toward Gareth’s greatsword.
A colorless aura shimmered around the blade. It pulsed and twisted like a mirage, wild and unbound, the pressure alone stirring the air and ruffling my hair. The weapon was every bit an extension of him—powerful, untamed.
Still, I didn’t flinch. I held my stance.
"What the—?!"
’I can see it clearly.’
Northern knights always had the same flaw.
Too much wind-up.
Too many big, predictable movements before every attack.
His blade came down in a violent arc, cutting through the air like it wanted to split the heavens in two. But I moved before it ever got close—two steps to the right, one step forward, waist dipped low.
The sword missed me by a hair.
"Why... why doesn’t it hit?!"
"I’m not a monster, Gareth," I replied, calmly brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. "If that’s your idea of dueling, you need to rethink everything."
Northern swordsmanship had evolved for one purpose: slaying monsters. Massive, durable beasts that required overwhelming power to bring down. Firepower over finesse.
But against a human—against someone like me?
That kind of brute force was useless.
"Then I guess it’s my turn now."
Gareth froze.
The realization hit him too late.
I’d already closed the distance.
I launched forward, feet digging into the dirt as I surged straight into his range. His wide-eyed expression—panic twisting his features—was all I needed to see.
—
Letting rage overtake reason was always a mistake.
Now Gareth was paying the price.
Hans—no, Julies—was already in his space. Too close. Uncomfortably close.
Still, Gareth didn’t panic.
He’d been raised for this. His white lion armor, passed down through generations, was forged to endure far worse.
All he had to do was take the blow, tank it, and then counterattack. That was the plan. That was the strength of a knight of the North.
So, when Julies reached for something, Gareth didn’t even blink.
Let him swing, Gareth thought. I’ll crush him right after.
But that confidence shattered a heartbeat later.
Swoosh—
Clank!
The instant Julies’ weapon touched the armor, something strange happened.
The clasp came undone.
A clean, precise slice—right at the joint.
Before Gareth could react, the plate across his chest split open, falling to the ground with a metallic clang.
"What...?!"
Shock rippled through his body.
But the biggest shock is yet to come.
The next moment, Gareth found Julies sword at his neck and the announcer ...paused, seemingly in disbelief.
Even the wind held its breath.
Gareth’s greatsword, humming with colorless aura, hung uselessly at his side. His armor—his ancestral pride—lay in pieces at his feet. A cold, precise blade now rested against his throat, glinting with a pale, mocking elegance.
Julies didn’t even look winded.
The announcer’s voice finally broke the silence, a touch hoarse—like someone just waking from a dream.
"Match... match over! The victor is Julies Evans of the Draken Duchy!"
The arena erupted.
But it wasn’t cheering—it was gasps, murmurs, questions flying like arrows.
"Who the hell is that guy?"
"Did you see that movement?!"
"Was he... holding back the whole time?"
"Even Gareth—he didn’t stand a chance..."
Julies slowly lowered his sword and stepped back. No smug grin. No victorious shout. Just calm steps—measured and composed.
Gareth staggered, eyes still wide, mind scrambling for an answer. He looked down at his chest, at the dismental armor... then at Julies.
...but Julies didn’t bother to look at him. He simply turned his back and walked away.
Not out of disrespect.
Out of indifference.
The fight was over. Nothing more needed to be said.
Each step he took echoed softly across the stunned arena floor, his boots brushing away broken bits of stone and pride alike. The crowd still hadn’t recovered. They were murmuring louder now—confused, shaken, electrified.
Julies Evans.
That name would not be forgotten anytime soon.
Gareth slowly dropped to one knee, hand braced on the ground, his chest rising and falling with disbelief. His sword—his pride—trembled in his grip, still humming with residual aura, now useless.
How...?
His mind clawed for logic, for excuses, for anything that could explain what had just happened.
Was it trickery? Some hidden magic? A cursed blade?
No.
It was skill.
Pure, surgical skill.
Julies didn’t defeat him with strength. He dismantled him with precision.
And somehow, that was even more humiliating.
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Thank you for the reading a Chapter. I hope you liked it.