The Referee
Valle of Cresna’s existence invited two questions: why followed closely by how. Even I had trouble finding the answer to those questions at first, but now things appeared clearer. An enigma, that man.
He was not, as you might initially think, a confident or brave person. Why, then, did he act in such a way? To sum up an entire man in one word is an act of sheer folly, yet my divine role did not cure me of my romantic foolishness. Thus, allow me to ascribe the man a simple term: pragmatic.
Alone, he often doubted his prowess, and wondered if he would be able to put on the shows he thought his audience deserved. His lack of hesitation didn’t come from certainty in his success, but rather from the simple belief that whether he would succeed or not he would not change his actions.
Once, in his youth, his confidence faltered.
When he lost to Estella the World Champion—then Estella of Razil or Estella of Cresna—he felt his world crumble before him. Dreams of bringing his beloved city to the top of the world, of one day winning the world title, all gone with a single move. His despair furthered when she abandoned the city and returned to her homeland, leaving Cresna without its most powerful warrior.
“How,” young Valle had asked himself, “can Cresna ever rise after this? How can people forget that our Champion is not the strongest fencer to ever come out of the city? How can I not be ashamed of myself for bearing the title?”
The answer had been simple.
The Champion of Cresna would have to do the impossible. Win matches that should not be won, best those who should not be bested, make the audience hold their breath—Valle knew that this was the only way that the small city of Cresna could attain such powers. Moreover, putting on shows like that in his duels was the only way he could bring himself to enjoy them.
If he was to fail, then he would fail. If he couldn’t do things his way, then he couldn’t.
But the man merely saw no reason to hesitate.
He saw a road that led him to his goals and walked down it without a second thought.
And thus, though the wounds the Executioner had given him were hardly something to shrug off, Valle not once doubted his approach in the fight. Still, he had to allow those wounds to be delivered to him.
“You think your foolishness makes you brave?” asked the Executioner. “You near death, Valle of Cresna.”
“Aye—yet, my lord, nearer to glory still.” Valle moved forward. There was a mad determination in each step he took—this was not a preparation for an attack, it was like a man walking toward a lion, undeterred by the laws of nature. “An injured man with lower stats than the Sun Wolf, besting him in combat? Why, that would be the birth of a legend!”
“You mad creature, don’t speak nonsense—”
“Ah, forgive me, my lord! I misspeak. Truly, it would hardly be a legend, when Carr has already done the same, is that not true?”
Fury took over and the Executioner lifted his blade in anger. His front foot left the ground, but was forced downward immediately as realization dawned on him. “Valle of Cresna,” the Executioner started slowly. “Those wounds…have you…are you mad?” he asked. It was less of a shout and more of a censure. “You—you took those hits to simulate the conditions the Swordsman of Zero fought in?”
A reaction came across the piste. It was a melodic sound, a laugh of quiet amusement, like an artist that takes pleasure at an enthusiast’s sudden discovery. “Simulate? Nay, my lord.” Valle touched both of his bloodied shoulders with the flat of his sword, then used his trembling back hand to touch at his torso, injuries from his duel against Johan reopening. “I am far more injured than Carr was. That I stand with a clearer mind and firmer grip than him says only one thing—I am the better fencer.”
“To risk death over a petty title,” the Executioner said, disgust dripping from his voice, “is an action worthy of the death you’ve prepared yourself for. It is most fortunate my sister is not here to witness this. Do you really think, you foolish lunatic, that even injured you are capable of beating me when your stats are lower than mine to begin with?”
“I do, my lord.”
“You do not believe so,” Valder spat out. “A man of the stage, they call you. Valle of Cresna—the man who duels as if he was an actor in a play! Actors are professional liars. You find yourself in ill-company.”
“My company might be ill, but what else can a fencer do about the opponent who stands across them?”
“How committed,” the Executioner whispered, “are you to putting on a show? And for what reason?”
The Executioner now understood that the duel had only gone well before because of the Cresnian’s strange habits, but he was not concerned. The man was many things, but he was also intelligent—and this is what gave Carr such trouble the first time they duelled. Shock did not touch him; the Sun Wolf was a cold creature to a fault, but his short time as Portna’s king during his rebellion had taught him to keep his emotions in check.
Valle’s immediate response was a soft sound, deep and hardly audible, a laughter of genuine appreciation. “The Champion of Cresna’s duel must be EN-TER-TAINING!” Valle declared. “My duty is to give my people nothing but victory.”
“Yet you lost to the Swordsman of Zero.”
“And thus I pay my debt with interest!” Valle fell into an en garde stance. Intentional or not, his injuries had been real—and his wounds from Johan’s Godslayer had once again started to reopen. Yet, he grinned through the blood. “Two vows I made: never to again lose, and to never again let anyone witness a miserable duel from me.”
“I see.” The Executioner’s voice was low, but not mocking. “Then you shall fail twice today, Valle of Cresna.”
Here the Executioner changed his stance.
He did not understand fencing—the man hardly had an instructor. But he understood cause and effect, and had learned from his failings. His brief duel against Duartes-Carr had shown that he was adept at understanding the situation and adapting to it. This was no different.
It is generally common knowledge that a rapier will be a longsword, but this is only if you assume they are used as most modern fencers would use them. Rapiers have a reach advantage, which most know, but did you know that they are not necessarily weaker than longswords either? Much thinner, true, but the weight is balanced near the wrist! This means that if you attempt to beat the second half of the blade, the one closest to the tip, the weak half,then your rapier-wielding opponent has ample opportunity to put his sword back in place. Moreover, the strong part of the rapier is surprisingly strong enough to attempt some parries against a longsword!
Of course, this was largely academic, as the stats difference between the two made parries against Valder most unadvisable. Still, the advantage of reach was undeniable, and the advantage of speed was also present. A one-handed thrust is simply faster than a two-handed cut, and the reason for this is simple: thrusts are done with your legs and cuts are done with your arms.
Does that sound odd?
Think of it this way: when thrusting a blade, you do not pull your arm back and extend it like a punch. Rather, you extend your arm forward, then throw your entire body forward in a lunge with your legs, the thin blade unmoving—this is both faster and more accurate than using a punching motion with your sword, though more expert swordsmen may blend the two and complete the extension during the leg movement for maximum speed.
Cutting, however, is a movement that comes from your arms—your shoulders, biceps, even wrist depending on the weapon. And this is simply too inefficient!
Thus, when modern fencers discuss the rapier versus longsword matchup, the advantage is usually discussed in terms of cuts versus thrusts. What they tend to ignore, however, is that longswords are also capable of thrusting.
Valder advanced, both hands on his sword hilt and thrusted forward—it was a low thrust. Instinctively, Valle knew not to try anything else and leaped backward, holding his sword forward in a defensive position.
I could survive a cutting attack, but a direct thrust with his stats would kill me. Valle considered the thought and absently made note of the pain he felt. Then again, with all my injuries, even a cutting attack is probably going to kill me.
Valle was all too aware that Valder would be fine with getting disqualified for murder. He didn’t truly care about the team match and was only there due to some sort of agreement that had occurred. That’s fine with me.
After retreating to a safe distance, Valle shouted, “Do your ears fail you, Sun Wolf? This is the third act. You will not dare to ruin the fine Cresnian theater I set up! Destiny itself bows to the leading man, the irreverent swordsman from Cresna, whose mischief is forgiven due to his charming smile and mighty accomplishments!”
“Nothing,” Valder barked, “will make me forgive you. I thought you were a better man, Cretin of Cresna. I thought we were similar—that you loved Cresna as I loved Portna. Yet you threw it all away, and for what? For some treasonous lunatics you just met? The moment you bared your fangs against Johan, you threw away everything you worked for! The Terra Inglesa is in danger because of you! If not for your actions I—I wouldn’t have to stand on this forsaken piste right now!”
“Cresna will never be in danger,” Valle replied calmly, “so long as I stand. Thus, I am without sin, my lord!”
“Without sin? Every inch of your body is a sin!”
“Your bloodline has laid that accusation before me in the recent past, yes,” Valle said, bowing curtly.
When realization dawned on him, the Executioner slashed at him—as mentioned earlier, a cut wasn’t the most efficient attack, and thus Valle was able to easily avoid it, yet in his sudden anger he forgot himself.
“I am a greedy man,” Valle said frankly. “And what of it? Should a man not obtain everything he desires?”
“You make no sense! Your desires do not align with your actions, do you even understand your own madness?”
“Madness is to open a door to your own room and be surprised that you haven’t been teleported to the ocean—it is to have a belief that does not directly lead to the next. My beliefs are solid, can you not see, my lord?”
“There is nothing that justifies your actions!”
“Oh but there is,” Valle replied, shifting his en garde slightly. “Today, bastard, I will give you the royal education you so clearly lack—allow me! I shall now teach you about the desires that created my Champion’s Road!”
Here, Valle stepped beyond the realm of what Carr had taught him.
Valle held his sword high up and dropped his sword in what is called a hanging guard. This is not an epee move, and thus Carr would never have used it—it is used in rapier combat, and was very useful against longswordsmen. The position was similar to a stop-hit: Valle held his sword high and to the outside, with his bell guard at around head height or slightly lower, while the tip of his blade was angled diagonal and downwards. Contrasting a stop-hit, however, this move wasn’t meant to hit the top of the opponent’s arm—it was more likely to be aimed at your opponent’s hip.
Its meaning was simple: to stop cutting attacks.
The Executioner had already abandoned those, however, so it hardly seemed like a productive use of his time to use the move like that.
Then, he shifted into a different position, a style of en garde unlike what Carr had used. Forsaking the hanging guard he had just used, he placed his weight on his back foot and pointed the tip of his sword low, nearly downward. It was similar to a taunt he had used against Max, in that by lowering his arm and hand he was exposing the top of his body a lot.
And then, to everyone’s surprise, he again shifted into the hanging guard before returning to Capo Ferro’s fifth guard.
“What is he doing?” Fedal cried out. “Why is he just shifting between positions like that?”
“Because the Executioner doesn’t know fencing,” Carr replied. “So he’s conditioning him.”
“Like he’s forcing him to behave a certain way?”
“Somewhat. He’s using Capo Ferro’s fifth rapier guard now. It’s more viable in rapier than in epee since it’s harder to hand snipe someone like that, rapiers are slower than—anyway, most importantly, this way he can get the sword under the Executioner’s and disengage continuously. The issue is that it’s really dangerous to approach a longsword from a lower position like that, because they can use a cutting attack against you.”
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Fedal nodded slowly, then widened his eyes in realization. “So the hanging guard he showed earlier—I remember you teaching him that at one point—was that a message?”
Carr smiled. “Damn, you are learning. And super fast too. Yeah, that’s the point. He’s trying to tell the Executioner ‘Don’t get any ideas. I can still fight off your cuts, so don’t try them.’”
“Shouldn’t the Executioner try anyway?” Fedal asked, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, if Valle is sending that message, doesn’t that mean he’s afraid of that possibility?”
“True,” Carr acknowledged. “But think about it—whether Valle is confident he could stop a cut or not, the Executioner is also not confident that he could finish the fight on those terms. He’s a careful guy, so he’s going to avoid going there.” Weird choice of words, I thought, as the Executioner had just allowed himself to be hit a decent amount of times in order to inflict damage on Valle, but I understood the Swordsman of Zero’s general argument. “Besides, do you trust Valle to not be putting on some weird bluffing bullshit here for style points and actually be really confident in defending against a cut?”
Fedal opened his mouth, thinking to reply ‘Of course!’ before stopping suddenly, considering the point and saying, “Actually, yeah, fair.”
The Executioner barked a laugh. “I will not be intimidated, Valle of Cresna!”
And he roared forward in a thrusting motion.
Not going to be intimidated, Valle thought, but you aren’t going for a cut still.
It was a mad dash and again his intent was clear—he planned on allowing Valle to score a hit on him, surviving it with his superior [HP] then delivering one final blow against him, either killing him or injuring him enough he couldn’t continue the fight. Even in a fight for points, the Executioner was fighting to the Death—even if he himself wasn’t aware of it. There was no killing intent in his actions, somehow. It was merely the only way the man knew how to fight.
Uncaring and unyielding.
At the first step he took, Valle shifted his guard once more. This time, from Capo Ferro’s fifth guard to Fabris’ second guard—a most unusual guard, where his body was more squared up than the lateral movement used by epee fencing or even Capo Ferro, and his back hand was brought forward, his body nearly hunched over, and his fist turned sideways in a surprisingly comfortable position. It could best be described as a half squat with his sword arm pointing forward, half-extended. It was a guard used with one singular goal.
When your opponent raises their sword even slightly, you go under and thrust at them.
The Executioner was not a trained fencer. He couldn’t help but raise his arms slightly as he went with the unfamiliar thrust, and at that moment Valle used the low stance Fabris’ second guard put him in so as to attack him from under that blade. Carr showed you are vulnerable there, Valle thought.
The New Bladewolves:
Valle of Cresna — 4 (39)
The Real Bladewolves:
Valder the Executioner — 2 (36)
“The first of my desires,” Valle shouted, as his attack connected, “is—”
Valder did not allow him to finish. Rather than allow the Champion of Cresna the chance to recover, he stepped forward, trapping the blade within his chest and marching forward. From that close distance, his blade would not have connected with his opponent, so instead he brought the pommel of his sword down, meaning to strike down at Valle’s head.
The Champion did not hesitate.
Here, he stepped back to safety.
And he left his sword behind, still stuck in Valder’s chest.
“Return his weapon at once,” I demanded. “The rules of fairness state—”
“Damn your fairness,” the Executioner replied. “If he wants it back—let him try to take it.”
This insolent bastard dared to talk back to me, the Almighty Referee? I considered my options. As he had declared his intention to violate the rules, I could have him disqualified or attack him myself, but doing so would disgrace this beautiful duel. Yet I must be fair, I thought. I may not allow him to continue like this, it would be unfair to Valle of Cresna. I must—
“That’s fine with me,” Valle said. “I don’t need my sword to win.”
Here everyone at the arena turned in surprise. Fedal, Katherine and her sister all shouted a variation of the word ‘WHAT,’ while both Carrs, real and fake, smiled and said, “Oh?”
And The One Who Should Not Have Been watched it all with interest, raising an eyebrow.
“The rules,” I said, “state that you must wound your opponent with your sword to score a point. Merely submitting him is not enough.”
“That’s fine,” Valle replied, looking away. Rather than appearing concerned with his lack of a weapon, rather than appearing concerned with his own blood loss—how long could he fight for before his reflexes were dulled?—he contemplated the arena itself. The empty stands. “Countless ages ago, this sacred arena honored the strongest of competitors. These stands would be filled with people who appreciated beauty, the art of duelling. Even now I believe, Valle said, a rather wistful tone, “that those people lurk in the stands. That they watch us. That they appreciate our art. And they deserve a show—one the Champion of Cresna shall provide for them.”
Again, his honoring of a long-forgotten history touched me deeply. Still—! To allow such a match to continue, it would be—! Not strictly against the rules, I thought. Perhaps—
Before I could make a decision, Valder rushed forward with a downward cut, no longer fearing Valle’s parries as he was without a sword.
“The first of my desires,” Valle repeated, “is to become the strongest swordsman in all of Cresna. What should I do to achieve this dream?”
Valle absently stepped backwards, dodging the strike—cuts were hard to measure, and the Executioner still hadn’t fully escaped the habits of Resonance guiding his sword toward its target, though he had gotten better. Valle’s intense training had allowed him to measure their distance and dodge without much effort. “I will tell you! To achieve such a dream, I must win every match. But I ran into issues, you know? Estella the World Champion—Stefano—Lezander—and finally, Carr. I lost to all four of them.”
Valder was not interested in a conversation and continued his strikes. If even one of them hit Valle, he would have surely killed him. Yet, Valle’s stats were high enough that, combined with his understanding of fencing distance, he managed to dodge them. Not only that, but he made it appear effortless. The man had brought his hand to his chin in a thoughtful position and watched his opponent only from the corner of his eye as he dodged. It was, oddly enough, easier for Valle to dodge the strikes without a sword than with one—the distance was different, Valder wasn’t used to it, and he needn’t remain in an en garde position as he wasn’t holding a sword. Still, it was dangerous.
To everyone, including the Sun Wolf, it must have looked like he was absolutely certain of his victory. I knew otherwise. Valle of Cresna knows he might die, I thought. He knows each strike he dodges increases his chances of being caught by one, and dodging with that absurd pose only increases the chance he might be hit!
“I beat Lezander,” Valle announced, “and I am fully planning on defeating the other three now. My heart beckons it: the title of World Champion! And my greed responds: I shall make it so!”
Another strike. This one missed Valle by less than an inch, but the man appeared unfazed. Whether he fails or succeeds, he will not be anxious over it. For his actions will not change. He is a man set on the path he created, I thought, with a small amount of respect. To respect a mortal was rare, but this man—!
“I also want the City of Cresna to be respected,” Valle said, as if musing on the topic for the first time. “For everyone there to be able to live a wonderful life, my lord.”
Another attempt at a cut—this one was further away than the last, and allowed the two fencers to create some distance between the two. “You gave that up when you flashed steel against Johan,” the Executioner barked. “The Terra Inglesa is now in danger of—”
“Yes, I am quite aware of that,” Valle responded nonchalantly. “But I loathe Johan and everything he stands for. The man is a monster who kills those beneath him for the sake of his goals and I would not see him on the throne.”
“You must choose. Dying in vain trying to keep him from the throne, or protecting your precious Cresna?”
“Choose?” Valle replied, perplexed. It was as if every second took a gargantuan amount of effort to keep him from bursting into laughter. “Me? Never. Everything I want, I take—victory, wine, status. I want to see both Cresna safe and Johan six feet under.”
Another slash and another predictable dodge—yet this time, the attack came closer. Valle was breathing heavier, and his wounds had been getting worse. The man would be incapable of fighting in a minute or so now, I was sure.
“You cannot have both!” the Executioner shouted as Valle retreated. “How do you intend on keeping both Cresna and the rest of the world safe?”
“That is very simple, my lord.” Valle smiled here, and looked to the sky for a moment. Then, with a confident gaze, he locked eyes with the Sun Wolf and said, “I will kill Johan.”
“You cannot stop his coronation at this point. The Battle for the Crown is a mere formality, and he will—”
“Damn the crown,” Valle said. “And damn Johan. Do you not understand yet?”
The Executioner lowered his sword for a moment, confusion and exhaustion both setting in at once. “What do you—”
“THIS,” Valle shouted, “IS MY DECLARATION OF WAR!”
He looked straight at the [Eyes] up in the sky. He knows, I thought, in shock. Somehow…he knows Johan is transmitting this match to the entire Terra Inglesa.
“FROM TODAY ON CRESNA IS NO LONGER PART OF THE LUSOBRITANIO EMPIRE!” Valle’s voice grew louder. “We will not bow to Johan. Ah, such language is usually beneath me, but you will allow me just this once, yes?” Valle smiled and raised his eyebrows at once, giving his expression a sort of jesting appearance, as if he was in on a joke nobody else did. “Fuck the crown.”
And so he dashed toward Valder.
You can’t escape me from this distance! Valder thought, as he swung his blade in a cutting motion. This time, he bent his knees so that his cutting motion would be lower than the last time. You don’t have the time to dodge backwards if you’re advancing at me—you have no sword to parry—you can’t duck because of my angle of approach—you can’t dodge sideways against a cut—THIS IS OVER! DIE CRETIN OF CRESNA!
Valle used his [Swordsmanship] to power his legs and jumped upward. “I have not yet shown,” he said, as he jumped above the cut, “my true style for you, have I? Epee 3.0?”
No one in the arena said anything.
No one could muster up their disbelief into words.
No one dared scream, lest they miss the climax.
Valle used [Walking] to stand on top of Valder’s sword, and because of Valder’s own high stats, the sudden weight was not too much for him, and thus the Champion of Cresna stood there, like a victorious flag planted atop a conquered mountain. The Executioner couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. “I want to protect Cresna. I want to defeat Johan. I want to put on a show worthy of the history of this stadium! Thus, I allowed you to hit me a few times, but still intend on making it clear who the superior fencer is.”
Shock wore off and the Executioner pulled his sword back, intending to make the Champion fall. As he did so, however, Valle squatted down, still atop the sword and reached out his right arm. “If you will excuse me—I will be having this back.”
And he leaped back, sword in hand, pulling it out of the Executioner and causing a second wound. Should I count that as a hit? I thought. And, to my eternal shame, it wasn’t my knowledge of the rules that made my judgment. It was that I didn’t want this to end yet. I wanted to see what Valle of Cresna would do.
“Handicapping myself, still defeating the opponent before me, then making a vow to dethrone Johan—this is the Champion’s Road I choose to walk on, the one I will forge with my own steel! But of course, there’s one more matter I want to prove on this road.”
Here, Valle thought of Carr.
“That I am the best swordsman on this team, damned the anchor spot.”
[Valle the Champion of Cresna]
[Swordsmanship]: 735 → 0
[Sword]: 132
“Anything Carr the Swordsman of Zero can do, the Champion of Cresna can do BETTER!” He opened his arms wide. “Now, spirits of the past! Witness as Valle, the Greatest Champion of Cresna delivers the finishing blow!”
It should have been madness.
Valder had been dominating in the first half of the match.
Valle was injured and his reflexes were growing duller by the second.
Valder had been learning how to approach him—how to avoid letting his opponent attack him from below, the same move Carr had used in Gilder’s Trial by Combat, the passata sotto. Yet, so agitated he was over Valle’s use of the Walking ability, on top of his sudden drop in stats, that he saw red. The Executioner rushed forward, thinking nothing besides how to stab his opponent. He didn’t care about the match. He didn’t care if he was hit—he only thought of Valle being injured.
When Valle extended his sword forward, assuming Fabris’ second guard, the Executioner accelerated further, a single thought in his mind. I WILL NOT LET YOU GRAB THE BLADE! His blade went to meet Valle’s. At that speed, with a goal to kill instead of scoring, a sort of aggressive bind that pushed the blade out of the way would be effective enough. And for the first time I felt killing intent in Valder.
I did not even consider stopping the match.
Valle’s worst was turned, palm down, tip of blade angled toward Valder. When Valder’s thrust tried pushing it out of the way, Valle shifted into Fabris’ fourth position, turning his wrist so the palm would face up and moving his entire body to the side as the monster before him marched forward. Then, instead of a riposte, he passed Valder as if he had executed a flèche.
And then, just as he did so, he used the back of his sword to use a cutting attack of his own against Valder’s upper shoulder. It’s not just you who has access to cutting attacks, you know? Rapiers are rather proficient at them as well.
“My greed is as boundless as my talent,” Valle whispered. “I want everything and I will have everything, without betraying my principles.”
The New Bladewolves:
Valle of Cresna — 5 (40)
The Real Bladewolves:
Valder the Executioner — 2 (36)
Valle stood in the middle of the piste, sword high, his opponent separated from him by the distance created in the last exchange.
Rather than celebrate his win with a victorious shout as Carr had done before, instead he smiled politely, looked around the arena, nodded to himself a few times, and then finally bowed deeply to the empty stands. It was a most profound bow, hand over his chest, sword arm straight and to the side as he brought his head down.
“A show worthy of your history,” Valle said, with deep respect. “May this have entertained you as duels of old have.”
Claps from his team were the first. Carr, Fedal, Katherine and her sister applauded him without reservation. To my slight surprise, only a few seconds later, Duartes-Carr and Max from the other side of the piste joined the applause. Then, to my mild surprise, The One Who Should Not Have Been joined it as well. This was all sacrilege to him, but the man appreciated a good show.
It was an immense surprise, however, when I heard more applause.
At first it was a quiet sound, making me think it was only one person, a surprise intruder. Perhaps Johan had shown up or Celle’s group had returned. But this theory was soon disproven as the sound became louder—too loud to be produced by a small group. At first it was the sound of dozens, then the sound of hundreds, then thousands.
Faint blue outlines had appeared by the stands now, taking over every available seat. Humanoid in shape, vaguely faceless, so faint they might as well not have been there. Yet their voice echoed around the arena—around the entire world—as loud as it had centuries in the past. At first, only vague, primal screams of triumph, but they soon morphed into something else.
A heavy accent, of a language long forgotten, a language long lost, a language yet to be learned, a language yet to come to be, present in them all, caused a struggle in the desperate effort to laud the artful contest they had witnessed. Through sheer force of will, their disjointed, foreign chants merged, slowly at first, then into one thunderous, rhythmic chant, inscribing itself into the hearts of history.
VA-LLE OF CRES-NA!
VA-LLE OF CRES-NA!
VA-LLE OF CRES-NA!
I could do nothing but join the applause and hope my tears were not too obvious. An ode to a more glorious time, I thought, cheerfully. Thank you, Valle of Cresna. The Echoes of the past continued to chant, even as their voices started to crack, even as the blue outlines started to fade. There was no hesitation—even as the chant grew quieter when more and more echoes faded, the remaining cheered with the same—no, with even more!—intensity.
As the last of the Echoes faded, and Valle of Cresna stood victorious in the middle of the ring, I could only say one more thing.
“THIS BOUT HAS CONCLUDED!” I announced. “5-2 individual score! The New Bladewolves lead 40-36!”