Johanne collapsed onto one knee, her sword trembling in her grip as she used it for support. Her other hand clutched at her stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of her uniform as if trying to squeeze the pain out. Beads of sweat trickled down her pale face, her breath ragged, uneven. Even without experiencing it myself, I could tell—this was agony. Her expression twisted in pain, brows furrowed so tightly they nearly touched, her lips slightly parted as soft, shaky breaths escaped.
Her opponent, mid-step, hesitated. His weapon lowered slightly, his expression shifting from focused determination to something else—concern. He stood there, frozen, watching her instead of attacking. It was an odd sight, almost surreal. This wasn't just hesitation—he was genuinely worried. That was the first decent thing I'd seen someone do in this tournament. A moment of genuine sportsmanship in a place where brutality was the only thing that mattered.
