“I believe Wolf is worried he would drag us down because of his lack of Class,” Ilya said, her eyes fixed on the arena.

I cursed myself. I had been too busy earning the Prince's trust, coming up with countermeasures against Kellaren, and trying to decrypt the mysterious rune that I had overlooked the kid’s mental state. After the first round, the orphanage’s morale was at an all-time high, so I assumed the kids were doing just right. I realized my mistake too late. Firana and Zaon were easy to read, even if I wasn’t trying, but Wolf was different. His stoic personality made him naturally harder to read.

Then, I remember a conversation we had a few days ago. Wolf told me he felt less and less like an orc and more like a human, to the point that he was starting to doubt if he wanted to return to the tribes. Wolf suspected his father had left the tribes to travel the continent, and he felt the same curiosity. I didn’t want to overstep my authority as his caretaker, so I didn’t confirm his suspicion. That was Dassyra’s call.

I glanced across the pavilion. Wolf stood before the weapon rack as the Fortifiers applied the barriers. Nothing in his demeanor made me think he was insecure about his skills. However, I believed Ilya’s assessment. She was keen and cared about the orphanage the most, second only to Elincia.

“What should we do?” Zaon asked.

“Nothing. Wolf knows we respect his resolution to stay true to the orc tradition. Whether he decides to get a Class or stick to his choice, it’s his call,” I replied, patting his back. “You can always cheer him on, though.”

Ilya gave me a mischievous look before cupping her hands around her mouth.

“Show them what a big snot can do!” Ilya yelled.

“We love you even if you look like a toad!” Firana joined.

Zaon looked around, trying to figure out what to add.

“Green is an okay color, I guess!” he finally said.

Wolf grinned and rolled his eyes. Even the Master of Ceremonies seemed to second-guess what he was hearing because he stuttered as he announced the combatants. Wolf and Jorvyn Herran stood in the center of the arena. Wolf wielded a broad longsword, while Jorvyn had dual axes. It was a strange choice of weapon, considering the sword was the dueling weapon for excellence among nobles.

Jorvyn Herran raised an axe and saluted the VIP box. The crowd was getting excited.

“The rules are simple. The first combatant who breaks its opponent’s barriers wins the round. There will be no breaks. If you want to give up at any moment of the fight, raise your hand,” the Master of Ceremonies said. “On guard!”

Wolf separated his foot and adopted the pflug guard. Jorvyn jumped in place, seemingly unconcerned by Wolf’s sword pointing at his face. I wondered what his combat plan was.

“Fight!” The Master of Ceremonies yelled over the roar of the crowd.

Jorvyn disengaged as soon as the Master of Ceremonies gave the start, and Wolf decided on a safe approach, taking small steps forward. However, Jorvyn kept the distance, always three meters away from the tip of the sword. The spectators started to show their discontent.

“The crowd is here for a fight, not whatever you are doing,” Wolf pointed out, advancing slowly. Despite his words, he refused to press the attack.

“Do I look like I care? I’m the son of a Duke, not a circus clown,” Jorvyn calmly replied.

Whistling fell from the stands.

“Let me guess. You’re going to tell me the sad story about your life among twenty siblings?” Wolf taunted to no effect.

Jorvyn Herran kept the distance as Wolf drew circles around him.

“More like fifty, actually. None of us legitimate, so you can guess the competition is fierce,” Jorvyn replied nonchalantly. “Look, Wolf. I might be a Berserker, but I know this tournament is nothing but a twisted way of making politics. One House gains prestige, the other loses it. A pretender rises, the other falls from grace.”

Wolf attempted a feint, but Jorvyn parried with his axes and stepped away.

“I don’t have problems arranging a tea date to talk about Herran heirdom later, but we should be fighting now,” Wolf pointed out.

Jorvyn grinned while the crowd heckled. “You have a sharp tongue for a commoner, but tea time will not be necessary. You have something I want, so I propose a transaction. Ten points in my favor, a flawless match. You just have to raise your hand and surrender, and in exchange, I will pay you ten pieces of gold for each point forfeited.”

Wolf stopped pressing the attack and lowered his sword.

“A hundred pieces of gold is enough for a household to survive for a long time. I’m not completely ignorant of the hardships of life at the border,” Jorvyn said.

Wolf tried to surprise Jorvyn with a sudden lunge, but Jorvyn dodged.

“What I desire costs more than a hundred pieces of gold,” Wolf replied, advancing with a quick step and attacking with a flurry of thrusts.

Jorvyn defended, channeling mana into the axes and using their handles to block and parry Wolf’s strikes. After a minute of chasing, he managed to get away from Wolf’s reach. Jorvyn must have a level one mastery because his movement was fluid and precise yet not creative.

“And what is that you desire? I’m the son of a Duke. I think we can come to an agreement,” Jorvyn said.

“I want my friends to accomplish their dreams, and to achieve that, we need to win this round,” Wolf replied.

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Jorvyn Herran wasn’t pleased.

“Aren’t you a cocky green one? If you wanted to win, you should’ve accepted the blessings of the System,” he said, channeling burning-red mana into his arms and legs. “Your orcish blood alone will not save you.”

Wolf raised his sword. “I know, but Mister Clarke’s teachings might.”

Jorvyn Herran pressed the attack, pushing Wolf’s blade with one of his axes while trying to score a hit with the second. Wolf withdrew, taking advantage of the moments between hits to slip a sneaky thrust into Jorvyn’s chest. The Berserker didn’t shy away. Although his skills weren’t as refined as Zaon’s or Firana’s, his combat experience was greater than that of the Nara kids.

Jorvyn grinned with a savage glint in his eyes as he doubled the cadence of his blows. He swung his left axe in a wide arc, forcing Wolf to duck and step to the side. Wolf then raised his sword and countered with a quick lunge, but Jorvin’s axe was already there to lock the blade. No matter how much he pulled, he couldn’t recover the blade.

Jorvyn seized the moment and kicked Wolf in the chest, sending him to the ground. Then he raised his axes and roared at the crowd, rallying them, giving Wolf a moment to roll away and jump to his feet. The spectators cheered, clapped, and trampled down the sandstone steps.

“Show me your strength, orc!” Jorvyn yelled, his voice echoing over the roaring crowd.

Wolf doubted for an instant, and that was all Jorvyn needed to pass his defenses and connect a blow to the side of his body. Wolf stumbled. Then, Jorvyn threw a swing against his face. Wolf only barely managed to pull out of the range of the blade. Despite the heavy axe heads, Jorvyn’s attacks were fast. Wolf tried to counterattack but struck solid iron. No matter what combination Wolf tried to thread, Jorvyn blocked and turned the tides.

I frowned. Jorvyn wasn’t a trained fighter; his footwork was sloppy, and the position of his axes was nonsensical, yet he always was in the correct position to avoid Wolf’s attacks. It wasn’t Jorvyn’s technique that allowed him to corner Wolf, but pure instinct. A Passive, maybe?

Wolf looked like a fish out of water. He seemingly couldn’t go into the offensive despite being only a barrier down. It wasn’t a matter of lack of opportunities. Jorvyn’s form wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t take an expert to notice the openings in his defense. Wolf just wasn’t taking the risk.

If things continued that way, Wolf would slowly lose all his barriers without scoring a single point.

Wolf attempted a lazy oberhaw, and Jolocked locked the blade with his axes for the second time during the fight. Next, Jorvyn channeled more mana into his body and kicked Wolf’s stomach. The shockwave spread through the arena, and Wolf flew away like a ragdoll. Red sparks crackled around Jorvyn’s feet. I recognized the skill. [Savage Blow].

The crowd roared, and Wolf used his sword to stand up.

“Stick to the plan, idiot! We haven't trained eight hours a day for you to fight like this!” Ilya yelled from the sideline. “Stop whatever you are doing and stick to the plan!”

This time, we had prepared for the fights, using the Book of Classes and Risha’s experience in the army to develop a strategy for each matchup. Jorvyn was a Lv.2 Berserker. In round one, he revealed two Skills, [Savage Blow] and [Titanic Strength], and we believed he had one or two more tricks under his sleeve. Wolf had to use his natural strength to leverage Jorvyn’s body-enhancing skills, but he couldn’t do it if he kept fighting on the defense.

“You let a gnome boss you around?” Jorvyn grinned, his face covered in sweat.

“You wouldn’t get it,” Wolf replied, taking a deep breath and raising his guard.

Jorvyn channeled his power. His eyes flared with red mana, although the effect was barely noticeable under the weak winter sun. Then, Jorvyn darted forward, unleashing a whirlwind of strikes. This time, however, Wolf remained calm and blocked the barrage, clenching his teeth and straining his arms to sustain his defense.

Suddenly, instead of continuing with the blocking, Wolf stepped back, and Jorvyn’s axes cut through the air, making him lose balance. Wolf then pressed the attack, hitting the back of Jorvyn’s head and jumping away before he could retaliate. Strength alone wasn’t enough without a skilled hand holding the weapon.

“Stick to the plan, stick to the plan,” Wolf muttered.

They exchanged quick blows; Wolf’s skill was enough to compensate for Jorvyn’s enhanced movement. There wasn’t a clear favorite. Jorvyn wasn’t skilled enough to land his [Savage Blows] consistently and quickly burned through his mana reserves. Berserkers weren’t known for their magic capabilities despite their skills passively burning mana. Wolf was lucky Jorvyn was only Lv.2; however, his stamina also faltered.

The crowd cheered as the barriers were whittled down.

Lord Herran yelled from the sideline, unhappy with Jorvyn barely getting the upper hand against a Classless half-orc. Jorvyn huffed as he retreated to regain his breath after a violent exchange of blows.

Each was five barriers down, but the Berserker still had skills he hadn’t shown.

“You are strong, I’ll give you that. If there weren't so many of us, I would recruit you for the Tower Guard,” Jorvyn said, channeling mana into his body. “But a Classless individual can’t win against a Berserker.”

Red sparks cracked as Jorvyn’s muscles bulged, and his eyes were covered in a red aura.

The crowd went crazy.

“Careful, Wolf!” I yelled, recognizing the skill. [Battle Trance] significantly increased the user’s strength, stamina, and pain resistance but burned a lot of mana. It wasn’t the kind of Skill a low-level user could sustain for long.

Wolf instinctively fell back, but Jorvyn crossed the distance in the blink of an eye. An untrained witness would’ve believed Jorvyn had Wind Fencer skills because his speed seemed to defy the laws of physics.

Jorvyn smacked Wolf’s blade away with his right axe, connecting a roundhouse kick at Wolf’s temple. The barrier shattered, and the crowd cheered, but Wolf didn’t falter. Just as we planned, he set aside any pretense of defense and pressed the attack.

Jorvyn jumped and kicked Wolf’s blade aside, sacrificing a barrier to unleash a whirl of attacks. Wolf parried with the back of his hand, spending a barrier himself to get an opening. Instead of swinging, he grabbed Jorvyn’s elbow and locked it under his arm, then, with a tug, he forced him to drop his axe.

With little room to maneuver, Jorvyn struck with his knee in an attempt to get away. Another barrier fell. Wolf gritted his teeth and elbowed Jorvyn’s head. Axe and sword fell to the ground. Wolf raised his fists and adopted the defensive stance of the orc’s combat art. The flow of the combat suddenly changed.

Jorvyn roared and charged, letting [Battle Trance] get a hold of his body. Wolf sidestepped and countered with a swift jab against the ribs, then another to his jaw. Jovyrn staggered, but despite the violence of the blows, he didn’t fall. The fight would be over if it weren't for [Battle Trance].

Growling, Jorvyn swung his fists in wide arcs, but Wolf deflected the blow and stepped inside his guard, then delivered a powerful uppercut against his chin. Jorvyn’s head violently snapped back. His knees bent as the red aura broke in a thousand shards of light. Like a puppet without strings, Jorvyn fell to the ground.

Wolf raised his arms and let out a deep roar. Despite the barriers, he had a nosebleed.

The stands erupted into cheers and applause, and I realized I had been holding my breath. Before I could react, Firana, Ilya, and Zaon entered the arena and surrounded Wolf. For an instant, I thought the half-orc population of Farcrest was going to invade the arena as their roars emerged through the loud sound of the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the fight is over! Jorvyn Herran can’t continue, so his barriers are forfeit,” The Master of Ceremonies announced as two aides entered the arena and applied healing magic on Jorvyn.

Elincia squeezed my arm as Wolf returned to the pavilion. The fight had been brutal. The Fortifier’s barrier stopped piercing and slashing weapons without a problem, but it seemed to have trouble with bludgeoning attacks. Wolf’s left eye was starting to swell.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, examining his face.

“Orcs have a hard noggin,” Wolf replied.

“I can see that,” I smiled, touching his shoulder.

Despite the relief on his face, I knew he had a lot to think about.