The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 243 National University League (8)

Boli Bollason, the top student of Varangian’s 1st year, declared towards Colosseo.

“Come out, the strongest one among you!”

Coincidentally, the area he was in was where 1st-year students from both schools were having their meals, making the target of provocation clear.

It would be embarrassing for the 2nd and 3rd year students of the school to come out against the 1st year students of the other school, so only a 1st year student will step up.

“Alright. I’ve come this far; he can’t refuse to come out.”

Bollason sighed, clenching his fist.

He had confidence in defeating whoever came out.

Sancho in front of him, who was once stronger than him, wouldn’t be now.

While that guy was neglecting his training due to indulging in the peacefulness of Venetior, they had been training relentlessly in the harsh environment of the North.

Tudor, who was rumored to be strong because he was from Donquixote, was strong indeed, but that was only within the strict rules and precedents of Styleal sports, friendly matches, and other official events.

He was just a greenhorn with little experience in impromptu street battles.

The Baskerville triplets… Honestly, they were intimidating, but they were confident that they wouldn’t lose in a one-on-one fight.

Granola? That sly guy who knows how to play with poison, wasn’t even considered as an opponent in a one-on-one battle.

And the presence of Sinclaire and Bianca fueled Bollason’s determination even more fiercely.

‘It’s definitely not envy or jealousy of the co-ed system. Definitely not!’

Bollason could confidently say that personal emotions such as envy or resentment of the opposite gender’s presence didn’t interfere with this hostility.

However, Bollason could be sure of that.

…However?

Everyone’s gaze moved to another place.

Despite Bollason’s demand for the strongest one to come out, the fixed gaze of Colosseo Academy students, including Tudor’s, Sancho’s, the Baskerville triplets’, Granola’s, Sinclaire’s, and Bianca’s, was at someone else.

Vikir. A male student quietly eating on one side.

He was completely indifferent to the commotion on this side, absorbed in his own thoughts.

‘…Now that I’ve perfectly mastered the Baskerville 7th Style, my seventh fang has grown as big as the sixth fang. So, is it time for 8th Style right, the eighth fang?’

It was a plan to leap beyond the current state of a Swordmaster.

‘There’s a saying, ‘The eighth fang grows at the threshold of death.’ It means you have to experience a fight fierce enough to reach the brink of death.’

Such life-and-death battles were something Vikir had experienced enough.

The smell of blood, numerous quests, and experience points that had been accumulated in his soul would undoubtedly serve as fertilizers when breaking through the wall of the 8th Style.

…However, Vikir’s thoughts were cut off there.

“Hey, friend. Are you the top student in Colosseo’s 1st year?”

“?”

Vikir paused for a moment, turning his gaze.

There was suddenly something thick and large in front of him.

…Thud!

It was Bollason’s forearm.

Bollason was straightforward and spoke briefly.

“Wanna arm wrestle? No aura.”

Being students of the prestigious Colosseo Academy, they couldn’t engage in street brawls.

However, stylistic duels were also problematic, as injuries before the competition would be troublesome.

So, the warriors of Varangian often engaged in a preferred Style of contest: mainly ‘wrestling’ and ‘arm wrestling.’

If there was ample space with a sandpit nearby, it was wrestling; if the space was confined and the terrain unsuitable, it was arm wrestling – a cultural norm in Varangian.

“….”

Vikir stared down, clenching his fist.

Bollason’s large hand was provocatively beckoning him to join the challenge.

“Why? Scared?”

“….”

“If you’re afraid, you can just say so. I’m not someone who looks down on losers.”

“….”

“However, it might be awe-inspiring to witness someone like you, a top student at the Colosseo Academy, struggle. Hahaha-”

Bollason continued his taunting.

Then, a voice intervened.

“Please stop.”

Dolores, descending from the second-floor stairs, looked down at the first-year students.

As the saintess of Colosseo, Dolores was respected even by Varangian warriors, and Bollason politely lowered his head.

Dolores spoke sternly.

“I won’t allow disturbances between schools before the tournament. Resolve your grievances here, and everyone retire early for the competition….”

“Just a moment.”

Another voice cut in, interrupting Dolores.

It was Bakilaga Juragio, the president of Varangian.

He looked at Dolores with a smirking face.

“It’s not a disturbance, it’s just fun among our cute 1st years.”

“Mr. Bakilaga, I understand what you’re trying to say, but…”

“Frankly, without a bit of chaos like this, how will timid kids become friends? There’s a saying that children grow up while fighting, isn’t there?”

“It’s not permissible.”

“Oh, well. But my juniors are itching to prove their strength right now. I think it’s the same for Colosseo students.”

Dolores turned her head at his words.

Kids like Tudor and Sancho, having heard their friend being insulted, were already showing signs of agitation.

You could use the school president’s authority to forcefully order them to step back, but that would likely hurt the feelings of the juniors.

Dolores, who let out a small sigh, seemed to catch Bakilaga’s eye.

“Instead of that, why not have us, the senior members, join as spectators? It’s just arm wrestling, a little friendly competition before the tournament. It could be a small amusement to boost the competitive spirit before the event,” Bakilaga suggested with a smirk.

Dolores, reluctantly, nodded. Excluding the competition might dent the morale of the Colosseo freshmen before the tournament.

“…If there’s any sign of trouble, I’ll intervene immediately,” Dolores said.

“Sure. But I might declare a stop even before that. I’m more cautious than you think. Especially when it comes to the health of our juniors,” Bakilaga replied.

The presidents of both schools reached an agreement, and the space was cleared, a venue arranged. Vikir and Bollason sat face to face at a table made of stone.

“Hehe, flexing those forearms, eh? They look like the arms of a noble kid, I’m afraid I might twist it~,” Bollason said, taunting.

“….” Vikir extended his hand without much response, his expression calm.

Soon, the two men’s hands met in the middle.

…Squeeze!

At the moment when strength surged into each other’s hands, Bollason’s expression changed.

“Huh? Surprising…”

“….” Vikir remained silent.

Eventually, the referee, Figgy, blew the horn loudly. At the same time, Bollason began to exert tremendous force with a fierce spirit.

“Whooooaah!”

The impact of his spirit was enough to make the nearby glassware tremble. Varangian men cheered, backing Bollason.

“Whoa! Go, 1st year!”

“Show us the strength that can strangle a bear!”

“Just crush him!”

The crowd’s cheers erupted. However…

“Whooooaah!”

“….”

“Uuuurgh!”

“….”

“Kkiyooooot!”

“….”

Bollason shouted, but there was no apparent change on the wrestling mat. Vikir’s arm and Bollason’s arm remained motionless in the same position. Only the veins bulging on Bollason’s forearm wriggled on the mat like a thrown snake.

‘Why isn’t this guy going down?!’

Bollason continued to forcefully press his strength into his forearm. However, Vikir, with an expressionless face, stared straight ahead, unmoving.

“Hyuck! Huff! Huk!”

Bollason’s eyes were now wide open. His disheveled face was covered in saliva, mucus, and sweat. Yet, despite his efforts, Vikir did not release his grip. The two hands were firmly fixed in the center of the arm-wrestling table.

“….”

Vikir calmly watched Bollason, whose face was drenched in sweat, as if it were pouring.

Even when Bollason’s strength gave out, and his hand loosened, it remained stuck in the center. Push or pull, it wouldn’t move. Vikir didn’t let go, and Bollason couldn’t pull his hand away.

In this situation, Bollason, feeling like he was trying to push a giant mountain with his hands, couldn’t help but turn pale. Tudor and Sancho, observing the scene, chuckled.

“I remember feeling like this when I arm-wrestled Vikir for the first time.”

“Yeah, it was beyond common sense. His strength was extraordinary.”

Eventually, in this spot where the attention of both Varangian and Colosseo students was focused, Bollason, who had struggled for a long time, finally admitted defeat.

“….I-I lost.”

The Varangian students, who had been cheering enthusiastically, now looked at each other in astonishment.

“What? Bollason lost?”

“He didn’t go down, why did he lose? It was a close match!”

“Bollason! You spineless loser! What if it was a draw? What are you forfeiting for?”

“He couldn’t get you down either! If you held on a bit longer, you could have won!”

Receiving jeers, Bollason bit his lip.

‘These guys know nothing!’

On the surface, it appears to be a draw, but it is not. Vikir had no intention of winning; he simply agreed to give this side a chance…

“How strong is he, really?”

Bollason’s complexion turned pale. In arm wrestling, maintaining a draw while watching the opponent is much more challenging than winning. The overwhelming difference in strength is the only factor that can keep the opponent’s arm in a fixed position at the center.

While Bollason was breaking into a cold sweat and lost in various thoughts, someone shouted, “Move aside! I’ll take the challenge!”

“If we’re comparing strength alone, I’m better than Bollason!”

“If it’s limited to arm wrestling, I’m stronger!”

“I want to try too!”

“I’ll challenge him and prove that I’m stronger than Bollason!”

“Will you accept challenges from second years?”

“I’m a third year, but I wanna try too?”

As Bollason declared his withdrawal disappointingly, other students from Varangian gathered, angry and challenging.

And then…

“Line up.”

Vikir gladly accepted the challenges from all of them.

‘…This reminds me of the old days.’

It was a nostalgic feeling, spurred by someone’s words or just a small diversion.