Chapter 5: Smoke Bombs, Narrow Victories, and Bitter Losses

The neuter pill worked instantly.

After swallowing it, my teammate turned stone-cold—zero distractions. On the field, his blade was a blur.

Meanwhile, I looked like the walking definition of hot mess.

Before the National Sword League, Coach had one warning: unless I absolutely had to, don’t use my signature sword.

He claimed he was protecting his reputation. Yeah, right. Years ago, he’d had a thing for the Silver Hollow coach—too bad she’d never go for a broke swordfighter.

He just didn’t want my meme-sword name trending.

Luckily, the comment section was always there with underhanded ideas. Smoke bombs filled with cheap knockout powder? The crowd ate it up. Every competitor eyed me like I was about to pull out a prank or two.

The little bald kid from the meditation club started squeezing his stress ball whenever I walked by—afraid just talking to me would get him in trouble.

It was shady, but it worked. Top twenty in the National Sword League meant a shot at the Grand Illusion Arena.

I barely squeaked in at nineteenth place.

But just as I reached the entrance, my feet turned to concrete.

The bleachers were packed, the air thick with the smell of nachos and sweat. Somewhere, a marching band was warming up. The neon sign over the arena flickered in the drizzle, and the world felt like a bad high school movie right before the lead blows their big shot.

I wasn’t qualified to enter, after all.

I stared at the doors, gripping my duffel bag strap. The buzz of the crowd faded to a dull roar. It felt like getting benched the night of homecoming—everyone else got their shot, and I was stuck holding my gear bag and my pride.