The World Is Mine For The Taking-Chapter 1225 - 189 - The Semi-Finals Contenders (3)
"Now then," he said, rolling his shoulder slightly as he adjusted his grip, "let’s see if I can at least make your mug look at me seriously."
The way he said it already sounded like he knew the odds weren’t in his favor. It wasn’t confidence, but it also wasn’t despair. More like resignation mixed with stubbornness. He wasn’t expecting to win, and honestly, that was obvious—but he still stepped forward anyway. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t freeze up. He just decided to try.
And I could respect that.
At this point, it was clear he wasn’t fighting to win. He was fighting to be acknowledged. To be seen. To be taken seriously, even if only for a moment. Rather than throwing his sword down and calling it quits, he chose to swing it anyway, knowing full well how this was likely to end. That kind of mindset wasn’t common anymore.
Especially not in this world.
Sportsmanship—actual sportsmanship—was something I had long stopped expecting. This world had dulled my senses to a lot of things, things that would’ve shocked me once upon a time. Too much blood, too much cruelty, and too much needless excess. Even for me, it had crossed lines more times than I could count. So seeing someone act like this, standing his ground without bitterness or desperation, genuinely surprised me.
He started walking toward me, his broadsword dragging just slightly before he lifted it properly. I didn’t move an inch. No stance change. No shift in posture. I just stood there.
Then, without warning, he dashed forward.
Given the sheer size of his weapon, anyone watching would’ve assumed he’d be slow like making heavy steps, sluggish swings, and making predictable timing. But that assumption would’ve been wrong. He was fast. Not absurdly fast, but fast enough. Fast enough that the distance between us vanished in the blink of an eye.
His broadsword came down with force.
I didn’t flinch.
I reached out, grabbed the side of the blade mid-swing, and pushed it aside. Not with effort, not with strain—just enough force to redirect it. The sword slammed into the platform instead of me.
The impact cracked the ground.
The sound was sharp and heavy, echoing through the platform as stone split beneath the weight of the weapon. Dust scattered, small fragments jumping from the impact point. That alone told me how strong he really was. A strike like that wasn’t just for show.
He pulled the sword back immediately, adjusted his footing, and swung again.
This time, I stepped back, activating Levitation Magic. The wind caught me naturally, pulling me out of range like it was second nature. I didn’t even need to think about it. My body already knew what to do.
At this point, it was obvious to both of us.
He couldn’t touch me.
You could see it in his eyes. He understood that the fight was already decided. No matter how hard he swung, no matter how fast he moved, he wasn’t landing a hit. And yet—despite that realization—he didn’t stop.
He charged again.
This time, he jumped, lifting his body high before bringing the broadsword down in a brutal overhead swing. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t refined. It was raw intent, pure power, aimed at ending everything in a single strike. He looked like he genuinely intended to split me in half.
I activated Guardian.
The blade stopped inches from me, completely halted by the barrier. The impact rippled across it, energy dispersing harmlessly instead of tearing through my body.
Before he could react, I took the opening.
I kicked him square in the stomach.
"Guaaaaaaah...!?"
The sound he made wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t heroic. It was raw pain. The force sent him flying across the platform, his body skidding before slamming hard against the barrier that separated the fighters from the spectators. The barrier flared briefly on impact, absorbing the blow as it was meant to.
"Win!" the umpire shouted, pointing directly at me.
Just like that, round one was over.
I had won.
"Nah... this is impossible. Even for me," my opponent muttered, pushing himself up slightly before letting his body fall back again. "I give up."
He didn’t shout it. He didn’t rage. He simply said it as a matter of fact.
He knew there was no path forward for him here. No miracle and no last-second turnaround. So he chose to withdraw from the tournament entirely.
The spectators weren’t happy.
Booing erupted almost immediately. From their point of view, the fight had been boring. There was no back-and-forth and no dramatic exchange of blows. This was supposed to be a battle between the best on this platform, and all they got was a one-sided display. Disappointment was inevitable.
As he walked off the platform, surrounded by jeers and mocking voices, I spoke up.
"You are a challenge," I said.
He paused.
"To most people, at least. Not to me," I continued calmly. "But you’re strong. That much is undeniable. I respect that you still chose to fight me properly. You have the potential to grow even stronger. You were just unlucky."
I looked straight at him.
"The person you faced happened to be me."
For a moment, he just stared. Then he laughed softly.
"Cheeky bastard," he said with a grin. "Well... I hope we meet again someday."
There was no bitterness in his voice. No resentment. Just acceptance.
It was strange—no, amazing—how two people could understand each other so clearly after clashing swords just once.
Truly fascinating.
Now then... what was happening on the platform on the other side?
***
Veronica’s POV
My opponent was a female mage who looked like nothing more than a regular adventurer at first glance.
She clutched a massive staff with both hands, her grip tight enough that her knuckles were pale. Her entire body trembled as she stared at me, unable to hide her fear.
She was shaking. Badly.
"T-There’s no way I can beat her..." she muttered, her voice quivering. "She’s too strong. I can’t... I can’t do this. She crushed her opponents like pancakes. I’ll end up the same."
She was terrified—genuinely, deeply afraid.
And yet, I could tell she was skilled. Her mana flow was stable. Controlled. A mage with that level of proficiency was rare. Valuable. Someone like her would be an excellent addition to the Magic Knight Army.
She was still young, though. Inexperienced. There was room for growth—plenty of it. Unlike Shredica, who had long since plateaued unless subjected to extreme training, this girl still had potential waiting to be drawn out.
She was the kind of talent worth recommending straight into the academy as a first-year and placing immediately into Gold Class.
"Start!" the umpire announced, bringing his hand down sharply.
The moment the signal was given, I dashed forward. There was no reason to drag this out.
"Noooo! I give up, I give up, I give up, I give up, I give up, I give up, I give up, I give up, I give up!!!"
Her words spilled out in a panicked rush as she dropped into herself, curling up instinctively.
I stopped my sword an inch from her neck. She had already shriveled, bracing for a blow that never came.
"Fight forfeited! Winner!" the umpire declared, pointing at me.
The moment the decision was announced, her legs completely gave out. She collapsed onto the floor, breathing heavily, as if all the tension had drained out of her at once.
With that, the preliminaries were over.
I had advanced to the semi-finals.
