The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 135: Test Your Skills (4)

Chapter 135: Test Your Skills (4)

"What's ...?

Tudor jerked awake.

Had he dozed off?

No, that couldn't be it. How could he doze off in the middle of a match when he was sweating it out in the first place?

As time seemed to pass slowly, Tudor recalled the situation just before his memory was momentarily interrupted.

'I'm pretty sure I got the ball, I dodged the Baskerville triplets, I broke Highbrow's pursuit, I ran forward, I took a shot at the defenders in my way, and....'

And?

I don't remember what happened next.

I'm pretty sure I spotted the goal and was about to throw the ball in, but... why did I stop?

Thought after thought led to another.

...!

And with that momentary lapse in thought, Tudor came to his senses.

'What am I doing?'

Only then will his vision return to normal.

After a moment of blackness, his vision returned to normal.

The green grass of the training field, the blue sky, the towering goalposts, and the surprised faces of his enemies and allies.

So far, it's the same scene I saw just before my memory faded.

The only thing different is... that they're all upside down?

"Huh?"

Only then was Tudor able to come to his senses.

He was now stuck in the corner of the field, also upside down and in a ridiculous position.

"Ugh!?"

Tudor scrambled to his feet, looking down at the dirt and grass that covered him.

He looked down at the dirt and grass on his body, and in front of him stood Vikir with a nonchalant expression.

Tudor suddenly remembered everything.

'That's him. Just before scoring a goal, I gave him a sneaky shoulder-bump....'

A guy who was only good at studying and seemed very corrupt.

For a moment, I had the nasty thought of giving him a hard time.

But the moment I reached him and slapped him on the shoulder, Tudor was impacted as if he had been hit by a giant mountain.

He bounced off and rolled on the floor, leaving him stretched out in a ridiculous position and momentarily stunned.

Somehow, the guy who'd actually gotten the shoulder block was just standing there, dazed.

Tudor scrambled to his feet and was about to say something to Vikir when he heard a voice.

"Class A goal!"

Tudor heard the referee shout.

Tudor looks up, startled, and sees the ball rolling under the B team's goal.

As Tudor spun out of the way of Vikir, the ball floated upward and somehow went in.

It was a lucky, lucky goal, like catching a mouse in the back of a cow.

But there wasn't much of a roar from the crowd.

Even Tudor's head, after scoring the goal, was marked with a '?'

'What did I do? Why did I fall?'

Tudor continued to look bewildered.

"Even though I scored a goal, I didn't feel any sense of accomplishment.

It was just a silly goal that went from bad to worse.

The question is, why did Tudor fall?

Tudor had never encountered a situation like this before in his career.

Even at the age of 17, he was able to overwhelm the knights in his family with his physical strength, and his talent was especially evident in the sport of Naphtali.

A jack-of-all-trades who could jump, run, dash, pass, and wrestle.

Holder, kicker, punter, returner, running back, fullback, quarterback, receiver, tackler, guard, center, linebacker, sapper, all-arounder who could play any position.

Don Quixote's unrivaled ability to outwork his peers.

That was Don Quixote Tudor.

But he was beaten to the punch by that study bug in front of him, the sandy-haired Vikir?

'No, that's not possible! Even if I hadn't spent any mana, that's impossible!'

Tudor shook his head in disbelief.

If Vikir had been a good lineman and blocked his charge, he wouldn't have allowed the goal to go in in the first place.

'There was something wrong there, let's do it right again!'

Tudor corrected his stance and ran back to his side of the field.

Next thing you know, the B team's keeper has kicked the ball out of play.

Tudor, being the genius that he is, snatched the ball up.

It was a phenomenal display of ball possession.

"Block it!"

Tudor hugged the ball and ran at full speed.

What?

For some reason, he couldn't see the Baskerville triplets who had been blocking him with their eyes lit up.

"...?"

I looked up, hoping to see something, and saw the back of the stadium.

The Baskervilles' triplets were blocking Vikir's path.

It looked like they were escorting him.

'What are they doing? Why aren't they staying on the line?'

Was it because they didn't feel confident enough to confront him?

No, I don't think so.

Tudor, the eldest son of Don Quixote, had heard rumors about the Baskerville triplets.

Strong, cunning, and rascals their own age.

They are not the kind of people who would give up just because they were pushed out once.

Tudor ran straight for them.

Papapapap!

Tudor, a near-professional when it comes to lead dribbling, once again flipped off the Baskerville triplets and drove deep into the B team's goal.

"Someone like a loach."

Highbrow Baskerville closes in on Tudor.

...Puff!

Highbrow's muscles and bones, hardened by the protection of the Styx River, clashed with Tudor's.

However, in hand-to-hand combat, Tudor was definitely outmatched.

"This isn't martial arts, my friend."

With a flowing motion, Tudor slipped through the hollow under Highbrow's flank and ran straight for the back.

Suddenly, the goal was in sight.

Except.

This time, it wasn't the goal, but Vikir, standing far behind him.

Even without mana, Tudor was confident.

The power of his grueling training had been summoned from his lower and upper body, from the soles of his feet, through his hips and waist, and exploded in his palms.

Tudor's arms flew out like a single giant spear, smashing through the targets in front of him.

'There will be no coincidence this time, try it!'

And then.

...puck!

Once again, that was Tudor's last thought.

* * *

Meanwhile. Vikir clicked his tongue as he watched Tudor crash into him and fall away.

'Why does he keep coming this way?'

Since the other party is getting upset, the atmosphere makes it impossible for you to get upset too.

Vikir gave him a cursory glance in the direction of his position with a look of annoyance.

But.

This time, I hit him pretty hard, and Tudor is worse for wear, completely unmoving.

Looks like he'll be stunned a little longer than last time.

Dorrrr...

The ball rolled and landed at Vikir's feet.

Mmmmmmmm.

Vikir stared at the ball rolling on the floor.

But to his surprise, no one came to pick it up.

Tudor's unrivaled performance had kept everyone, friend and foe alike, away.

Then. A tremendous amount of cheering came from the stands of the B team.

"Who is he! You're in class B, right!?"

"Tudor's in the grass! Now's your chance!"

"But why did Tudor fall?"

"I don't know! Does it matter now! We're going to lose to the A class if we keep doing this!"

"Run! It's almost game time!"

"But who is he?"

"I don't know! He's in our class, so cheer for him!"

Everyone in Class B, who was about to lose 1:0, started cheering for Vikir.

Vikir sighed softly to himself.

He didn't want to stand out, but in such a high-profile crisis, doing nothing would only make him stand out more.

Unable to help himself, Vikir reached out and grabbed the ball.

'Oh well.'

But the situation was pretty hopeless.

All of his allies were either on the ground or far away, having been pierced by Tudor.

There were only A's running toward them.

Vikir was faced with a dilemma: Is he going to lose the ball like this? If he did that, He'd get the risk of being branded as a traitor and receiving more attention throughout the new semester.

But he also didn't want to charge with the ball, score a goal, and become a star.

In the end, Vikir made his own compromise.

Swoosh.

Vikir picked up the ball and pulled his arm back.

The game was seconds away from ending. The cheering Class B students muttered to themselves in disbelief.

"Alas, 5 seconds before the end of the match, it's over."

"Can't believe we've been losing to Class A since the beginning of the semester."

"...? Look at him. What's the kid with the ball trying to do right now?"

"What are you doing? There's three seconds left."

Everyone was frustrated.

Even the Team A linemen were slowing down, realizing that the game was over.

And then.

Boom.

Vikir's arm moved.

A throw.

The ball flew. Straight up into the sky.

But with one second left in the game, what's the point of a ball flying?

One by one, the students who were watching the sporting event packed up their things and left the stands, as if they had nothing to look forward to.

Only a few students, who are unusually attached to the victory, follow the ball's trajectory with regret.

... but?

The ball flies a little far.

A little too far.

Zoom, zoom, zoom.

The ball continues to rise, even though it has passed the distance where common sense would tell it to stop.

Shhhhhhh.

And now it began to fall in a gentle curve.

"...?"

"Huh!?"

Everyone's eyes widen, A and B teams alike.

Time had run out and the game was over.

But the ball, still hovering in midair, continues to move forward, not caring that the game is over.

And then.

BANG

The ball hits one of the posts of the iron Y-shaped goal and slides into it.

And.

....

The center of the field is immersed in silence.

All the students in the stands and on the field were at a loss for words.

The professor who officiated the game dutifully dropped the whistle in his mouth and muttered in a daze.

"... Buzzer Beater."