A Background Character's Path to Power-Chapter 47: From Guns To Swords

"BEGIN!"

Dozens of floating orbs erupted into motion above us—streaking left, right, in erratic zigzags and sudden. The crowd’s murmurs faded to silence.

Leroy didn’t hesitate.

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!

Three shots, three hits. Blue target orbs shattered in quick succession.

"See that, transfer?" He smirked, not even looking as he nailed a fourth. "That’s called precision."

I exhaled, raised my staff—

Pfft. (Miss.)

Pfft. (Miss.)

Pfft. (Hit.)

Laughter rippled through the spectators. Leroy’s grin turned razor-edged. "Aw, did the transfer forget to practice?"

I ignored him, rolling my shoulders.

Weight: 2.3 kg. Crystal charge time: 4.2 seconds. Orb velocity: 8 m/s average.

If I was a genius, I would have something like that but I had my own powers.

Observant Eye activate...

The world sharpened.

Orb trajectories became clearer, their patterns emerging like lines on a map. And beneath that, something else—a faint pulse I could almost feel guiding my aim.

And as soon as Echo of Life was added, I stopped seeing the targets.

I felt them.

They had no life sure, but I could feel the hum of their movement. The pulse of their flight paths.

Now!

Pfft. (Miss.)

Pfft. (Hit.)

Pfft. (Hit.)

"Perhaps you’d like to forfeit-!"

Leroy’s next taunt died in his throat as his eyes flicked to the scoreboard:

Leroy: 14

Amaniel: 9

He scoffed and resumed firing—but his rhythm had tightened. No more flourishes.

By the 2nd minute, my staff became an extension of my arm. Each 4-second cooldown was spent tracking the next three targets.

Pfft. (Hit—ricochet off the ceiling took out a second orb.)

The crowd gasped.

Leroy: 27

Amaniel: 26

Leroy’s knuckles whitened. "Lucky shot—"

Pfft! (He missed.)

Finally the 3rd minute.

Leroy and I moved in sync now—no words, just the staccato of airbursts and shattering crystals.

30 Seconds Left...

Leroy: 32

Amaniel: 32

10 Seconds:

Tied at 35

5—

Pfft! (My shot clipped two crossing orbs.)

"DING-DING-DING!"

The shrill bell rang through the hall.

"STOP!"

Both of us lowered staffs simultaneously.

Silence gripped the crowd as everyone turned to the floating scoreboard:

Silence.

The scoreboard flickered:

[ Score ]

Amaniel: 39

Leroy: 37

Leroy’s face went through three distinct stages:

- Confusion (brows furrowing at the numbers)

- Denial (lips moving soundlessly)

- Dismay (eyes widening comically)

"...How is this possible?" The words slipped out, barely audible.

Around us, the spectators wore matching expressions of shock. A first-year dropped her drink. Two teachers exchanged bewildered glances. Even the ever-eating poet paused mid-bite to stare.

I simply set my staff down, the crystal tip still faintly warm.

Well, I guess I got lucky. Plus Leroy’s arrogance and underestimating me-

"He actually beat Von Albrecht?!"

"Did anyone record the shot counts?"

"That last double hit—!"

Leroy’s jaw worked like a fish out of water before he managed: "You... you’re not even a—" He caught himself, remembering public decorum. His fingers clenched around his staff.

"WELL WELL WELL!"

The female announcer swooped in like a glittering hawk, her silver ribbon fluttering as she landed beside me.

She draped an arm across my shoulders with theatrical flair though I effortlessly dodged it.

She shot a surprised glare and continued.

"Our mysterious transfer student defends his date with style! And who is the lucky lady~?" She twirled toward our table. "OH-HO! None other than the famous transfer student Lady Emilia herself!"

The crowd’s murmurs crescendoed. I barely suppressed a groan.

"But, this was only the first steal-!" She smiled mischeviously, glancing at me as if to say see what can I do.

"That means..." Murmurs increased.

"That’s right, gentlemen~!" She spread her arms to the audience. "The field is still OPEN! Who dares steal this flower next—?"

I shot Aeron the most obvious look imaginable—eyebrows raised, gaze darting pointedly toward the stage.

"I-I will challenge him!" Aeron blurted, leaping up so fast he nearly toppled his chair.

The announcer clapped. "SPLENDID! The famous ladykiller Aeron steps forth!"

As she prattled on, I caught Leroy storming offstage, his pristine jacket wrinkled from how hard he’d been gripping it. The look he threw me could’ve curdled milk.

The male announcer produced the game-selection chest with a flourish. "LET’S SEE WHAT FATE HAS IN STORE—"

The slip he drew burst into flaming letters:

«BLADEMASTER’S WALTZ»

Swords Speak Louder Than Words!

Of course. My fingers twitched. Swords. Because the universe hates me.

But this actually what I hoped for, at least my failure will look beliviable.

Aeron accepted his practice blade with visible excitement. I took mine hesitantly—the weight felt both alien and vaguely familiar, like trying to recall a dream.

"Rules are simple!" The announcer twirled her ribbon like a banner. "First to three clean strikes wins! No fatal strikes, no cheap shots—just pure skill!"

Forfeiting would’ve been the smart or the easy move.

But with half the academy watching—including a certain princess and my supposed partner peering over—backing down would raise more questions.

I adjusted my grip. Might as well go down swinging.

But before we could start the male announcer stopped us. "Gentlemen! A duel of blades is a dance of honor—so let us shed unnecessary restraints!" He winked. "Jackets off, if you please!"

Aeron didn’t hesitate.

He shrugged out of his coat with practiced ease, revealing well-defined arms beneath his rolled-up sleeves. He turned to Livia, who accepted it with a small, knowing smile.

I followed suit giving it to Emilia who arched an eyebrow.

"Was that really necessary?" she murmured, though there was no real bite to it.

"I wonder." I said getting back to the open stage.

Aeron stretched his neck, rolling his shoulders as he tested the weight of his practice blade. "You sure about this?" he asked while passing by, voice low enough that only I could hear. "I don’t mind switching to something else."

"Don’t worry, just don’t hit too hard" I chuckled.

His eyes flickered—surprise, then understanding. He nodded once.

"BEGIN!"

Aeron moved.

It wasn’t a blur—nothing exaggerated. Just clean, efficient motion. His blade cut forward in a straight line, no wasted energy.

I barely raised my sword in time.

Clang!

The impact reverberated through my arms, but my stance held.

Aeron’s brows lifted slightly as if he hadn’t expected me to keep up.

I exhaled, adjusting my grip. Observant Eye activated.

The world sharpened.

Aeron’s movements became clearer—the shift of his weight, the tension in his shoulders before a strike, the minute adjustments in his footwork.

But knowledge alone wasn’t enough.

He feinted left. I bit.

Thwack!

His blade tapped my ribs.

"First strike to Aeron!" the announcer declared.

The crowd cheered, but Aeron didn’t smirk. His gaze stayed locked on me, assessing.

He’s still holding back.

I rolled my shoulders, adjusting my stance. My body remembered nothing of swordsmanship, but my reflexes were sharp—honed from the recent bath incident.

Aeron’s lips twitched. "You’re fast."

"Not fast enough," I admitted.

He chuckled. "Then I’ll stop insulting you."

He lunged, this time with sharper intent. His blade came in a diagonal slash, forcing me to block high.

Clang!

The impact shuddered through my arms once more, but I held firm.

Then, in the same motion, he twisted his wrist—

Thwack!

—and his practice sword snapped against my ribs from below.

"Second strike to Aeron!"

"!"

Aeron didn’t stop, following up with another attack which was faster than before.

But this time, I was ready.

I didn’t try to match his technique—I couldn’t. Instead, I relied on Echo of Life, feeling the rhythm of his movements, the pulse of his intent.

When he lunged, I twisted aside, letting his blade whistle past my shoulder.

And in that split second of overextension—I struck.

Thwack!

My practice sword smacked against his forearm.

Silence.

Then—uproar.

"Amaniel lands a hit! The score is now 2-1!"

Aeron didn’t react at first. He just stared at the spot where I’d struck him, then slowly lifted his gaze to mine.

Something in his stance shifted.

His shoulders settled lower. His grip on the sword tightened, the light in his eyes sharpened, like a hunter finally spotting prey worth chasing.

A chill ran down my spine.

Oh.

Did I just wake the monster inside him?