Chapter 74
Alva, towering over Emma, stood armed and ready. Foreigners were often taller, giving them a significant advantage. "Defeat her, Alva! Finish her off!"
Emma donned her mask. Alva launched the attack, relentlessly targeting Emma's legs. The fencing rules dictated that a touch to the designated areas would instantly register on the scoreboard. Despite Alva's powerful assault, Emma defended steadily, though seemingly losing ground. Closer inspection, however, revealed a calculated defense. Emma held her silver sword firmly, its slight tremor betraying her readiness to exploit Alva's weaknesses. Alva, an expert herself, instantly recognized her opponent's experience.
Suddenly, Alva stopped, a grin hidden behind her mask. "Since you're experienced, I won't give you any chances! You'll feel what defeat tastes like!" She abandoned her aggressive style, adopting a more evasive, unsettling gait designed to distract Emma. Emma recognized the tactic; a touch to her protective suit meant defeat, so panic was unacceptable.
"It's a good match. Alva has met her equal," observed Vark College's fencing coach, impressed by Emma's skill. He wondered about her name, hoping to recruit her for the varsity team. The physical education teacher, slightly surprised, replied, "Oh! Her name is Emma Wilson. She consistently excels in physical education and cultural studies."
"Has she had fencing lessons before?"
"I'm not sure. It's possible..." But Emma had grown up in the countryside; how could she have learned such an expensive sport? The teachers continued their conversation as Class 2's students began their taunts. "Emma, attack if you can! Aren't you usually amazing? Why are you hiding like a tortoise?" "Look, her sword's trembling! She's probably scared!" "If Alva weren't showing mercy, she'd be rolling on the floor!" "Alva, defeat her!" Their ignorance of fencing was evident; they mistook Emma's defensive maneuvers for fear. The fencing coach shook his head; their lack of attention in class was typical. Class 1, while believing Emma might lose, offered encouraging words: "Emma! Be strong! Don't be afraid!" "Even if you lose, you're still our class's pride!" "Emma, you're doing great! We're all supporting you!" They knew that lasting this long against a professional was impressive; a little mockery from Class 2 was a small price to pay.
Unseen behind her mask, Alva's face was slick with sweat. She had indeed gone easy on Emma initially, but Emma's unwavering composure was unsettling. No matter how Alva shifted her stance, Emma remained poised. Even the slightest movement from Emma inexplicably panicked Alva, a highly unusual reaction for a professionally trained fencer. In such competitions, the first to lose composure usually lost the match.
Emma, suddenly focused, exerted force in her legs, lunging forward. Alva retreated, but Emma moved like a phantom, her attacks growing fiercer and more agile. Alva parried, but Emma's blade countered ruthlessly, piercing Alva's chest. The red light flashed, signaling Emma's victory in the first round.
Class 2 was stunned. Emma's classmates erupted in cheers. "Emma Wilson! Emma Wilson has won!" "Emma Wilson! Long live Emma Wilson!" "Awesome!" "Impossible! She must have gotten lucky!" "But there are still two rounds left!" "Alva, defeat her!"
Class 2 remained unconvinced, but Alva lost the next two rounds as well. The early aggression of the first round gave way to a desperate defense; Alva had no chance. Emma's sword, a nimble snake, darted unpredictably, catching Alva off guard repeatedly. Alva was helpless.
Just as the final red light was about to illuminate, Alva lunged forward. "You think it's over because you defeated me? Emma Wilson, you've been tricked from the moment you entered the arena!"
Alva smirked as her seemingly normal sword met Emma's. She attempted to stab Emma with the broken tip. Modern fencing swords, designed for safety, were slender and flexible; but the broken tip was a lethal weapon.
Emma reacted instantly, discovering her protective suit had been tampered with. "This is dangerous!" The fencing coach, noticing the broken sword, immediately halted the competition. "Alva, your sword is broken! Stop!" But it was too late. Alva lunged, the broken sword aimed at Emma's chest. The competition was a ruse; an assassination attempt.
Emma, gritting her teeth, blocked the blade, the sharp metal piercing her glove, drawing blood.