The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 241: National University League (8)

Chapter 241: National University League (8)

Bolly Bolason, the first-year representative from Varangian.

He declared a showdown with the Colloseo Academy.

The strongest guy here, come out! Something like that.

The provocation was obvious, as the area he was in was a dining area for first-year students from both schools.

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.

'OK, we've come this far, there's no way they won't come out.'

Bolly Bolason blew out a hot snort and crossed his arms.

He was confident that he could beat whoever came out.

That Sancho in front of him was once stronger than him, but not now.

This is because while Sancho neglected his training in the peacefulness of the Imperial Capital, he had trained tirelessly in the harsh conditions of the north.

Tudors, from the Don Quixote family, was said to be strong, but only in sports, friendly competitions, and other formal events with strict rules and regulations.

He'd only be slightly better than brats with little experience in spontaneous street battles.

The Baskervilles' three brothers... were honestly overwhelming, but in a one-on-one fight, he was confident he wouldn't lose.

Grenouille, that sneaky little bastard with his poison, wasn't even a contender.

And the presence of Sinclair and Bianca only served to fuel Bolason's fierce resolve.

'I'm definitely not jealous of co-educational schools. Never!'

Now, this hostility doesn't involve any personal feelings of jealousy or envy of all-boys schools.

At least, that's what Bolason could say with confidence.

...?

Everyone's eyes shifted elsewhere.

The eyes of the students at Colosseo Academy bounced from one to the next as Bolason demanded that the strongest man come out, but when they finally settled on one, it wasn't on Tudor, it wasn't on Sancho, it wasn't on the Baskervilles, it wasn't on Grenouille, it wasn't on Sinclair, it wasn't on Bianca.

Vikir. A boy sitting off to one side, eating quietly.

He was completely indifferent to what was going on around him, lost in thought.

'...I have now mastered the 7th Form of Baskerville. Ever since I became a Swordmaster, my seventh tooth has grown to rival my sixth, so I wonder if it's time for the eighth, the eighth tooth.'

He was ruminating on how to leap beyond the current level of Swordmaster.

'The eighth tooth grows at the threshold of death, which means I must fight to the death.'

Vikir had heard it all before. Crossing the line of death was something he feels relatively confident about.

The smell of blood, the countless karma, and the experience gained would serve as fertilizer as he broke through the Wall of Eight.

...But Vikir's thoughts were interrupted.

Vikir's thoughts were interrupted by Bolason walking in front of him and opening his mouth.

"Hey, buddy. Are you the strongest first-year in Colosseo?"

"?"

Vikir paused and looked away.

Then something large and thick was placed in front of him.

...BANG!

It was Bolason's forearm.

Bolason spoke in a low, short voice.

"How about an arm wrestling match, no mana."

Students of a prestigious academy shouldn't be fighting in the streets.

If they were to formally challenge each other to a duel, there would be a lot of hassle if there were casualties before the tournament.

Therefore, the favorite forms of combat among Varangian warriors were "wrestling" and "arm wrestling".

If the space was large and there were sandpits around, they would wrestle; if the space was small and the terrain didn't allow for it, they would arm wrestle.

"...."

Vikir crossed his arms and looked down.

Bolason's large hand was there, taunting him, inviting him to take the plunge.

"Why, you look like a little shit."

"...."

"If you're scared, you can just say you're scared. I don't despise losers."

"...."

"Though it does give me a new appreciation for the standard of Colosseo Academy, with a guy like you at the top of the class, hahaha-"

Bolason continued to taunt.

Then.

"Enough of that."

A voice intervened.

Dolores stepped down from the second floor staircase and looked down at the first years.

Dolores, a saint of the Colosseo, was revered by the warriors of Varangian, so Bolason bowed respectfully.

Dolores cut to the chase.

"I will not allow any disturbances between the schools before the tournament, so let's end this nerve war and get everyone to bed early for the tournament...."

"Wait."

Just then, another voice interrupted Dolores.

Juragio Bakiraga. The top of the Varangian.

He looked up at Dolores with a smirk on his face.

"I think it's more appropriate to look at this as a little prank between a bunch of hot-headed newcomers than an inter-school feud, right?"

"Mr. Bakiraga. I understand what you're trying to say, but...."

"Seriously, how are they supposed to get along without all the fuss? They say children grow up fighting."

"If they can't, they shouldn't."

"Uh-huh-but my junior is on a mission to prove his strength right now, and that seems to be the case with the students of Colloseo as well."

At that, Dolores turned her head away.

She could already see Tudor, Sancho, and the others sulking at having their friend insulted in front of them.

She could use the authority of the student council president to order them to back off, but that would hurt their feelings a lot.

Bakiraga frowned at Dolores, who let out a small sigh.

"Instead of that, how about we become witnesses and observe? I mean, how about arm wrestling? I think it could be a little entertainment to boost the competitive spirit before the competition."

At this point, Dolores could only nod in agreement.

Anything less would have killed the morale of the Colosseo freshmen before the tournament.

"...If there's any sign of trouble, I'll step in and stop it."

"Me too. I might even call a halt to it first. I'm more cautious than I look. Especially when it comes to the health of my juniors."

The presidents of the two schools came to an agreement.

Immediately, seats were cleared and a place set.

Vikir and Bolason sat across from each other at a stone round table.

"Hoo-hoo. Those are some slender arms you've got there. I'll believe you if you say they're the arms of a noble. I'm not sure if I should hold them or not, I might break them."

"...."

Vikir didn't argue, but held out his hand with a grim expression.

Soon, the two men's hands were locked together.

...kkuug!

The moment their hands connected, Bolason's expression changed.

"What the hell? It's quite..."

"...."

Vikir was still speechless.

Then, Piggy, the referee, blew his whistle hard.

At the same time, Bolason began to roar with terrifying force.

"Heuaaaaaaas!"

The sound rattled the glasses around him.

The men in Varangian burst out laughing and started cheering for Bolason.

"Oooooooo, go, freshman boy!"

"Show us how you can strangle a bear!"

"Just smash it!"

The crowd's cheers erupted.

... but.

"Haaaahhhhhh!"

"...."

"Grrrrrrrrrrrr!"

"...."

"Chhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"...."

Bolason's cheers were louder than before, but nothing had changed on the board.

Vikir's arm and Bolason's arm are still in the same place, unmoving.

Only the veins on Bolason's forearm continued to flutter and twitch like a snake thrown onto a grill.

'Hey, why can't I move this guy's arm?'

Bolason continued to pound his fist into the man's forearm.

But Vikir was still staring straight ahead, expressionless and unmoving.

"Hmph, hmph, hmph!"

Bolason's eyes were now completely strained open. His gaunt face was covered in spit, snot, and sweat.

Despite this, Vikir did not release his grip, so their hands remained firmly planted in the center of the arm-wrestling board.

"...."

Vikir was quietly looking at Bolason, who was sweating profusely with a red face right in front of him.

Bolason gritted his teeth as he saw that despite the effort it took to free his hand, it still remained in the center.

He couldn't push, he couldn't pull, his arms won't move at all. He couldn't even take his hand away because Vikir won't let go.

Vikir had no intention of winning in the first place, so he kept his arm in the center and didn't move.

At this point, Bolason can't help but feel like he's pushing a giant mountain with his hands.

Tudor and Sancho, who were watching, giggled in amusement.

"That's how I felt the first time I played football with Vikir."

"Right. That was my first experience with his power. It was beyond common sense."

And then.

With all the focused attention of the Varangian and Colosseo students,

"... lost, I lost."

After a long pause, Bolason finally admitted defeat.

The Varangian students, who had been cheering him on, could only stare at each other in disbelief.

"What the hell, did Bolason lose?"

"He didn't fall, why did he lose? It was tight!"

"Bolason, you spineless bastard, it's a tie, you can't just forfeit!"

"You didn't pass it, but he didn't pass it either! If you had held on a little longer, you could have won!"

Then Bolasen, who was booed, clenched his teeth.

'They don't know anything!'

On the surface, it looks like a draw, but it's not.

Vikir had no intention of winning, so he was letting him off the hook.

And it's possible to be generous in arm wrestling....

'How strong are you?'

Bolason's face turned white.

In arm wrestling, it's much harder to keep a draw than it is to win.

Only an overwhelming difference in strength will allow you to keep your arms centered, depending on your opponent's strength.

When Bolason broke out in a cold sweat and was lost in thought.

"Get out of the way, I challenge you!"

"If it's just strength, I'm better than Bolason!"

"If it's just arm wrestling, I'm stronger!"

"Me too! I'll take the challenge!"

"If I beat him here, I'll be certified as stronger than Bolason, right?"

"Do you accept second graders?"

"I'm a third grader, but that's a bit much, isn't it?"

The other students of Varangian, angered by Bolason's hollow declaration of defeat, began to crowd around.

And.

"Line up."

Vikir graciously accepted their challenge.

'..., this reminds me of the old days.'

By all accounts, it was a small entertainment.