Whether in my past life or this one, it was the first time I'd seen Kris in fencing gear.
His tall, straight figure didn't appear bulky in the full set of protective equipment. Instead, he exuded the commanding presence of a general.
He and Roman strode to the center of the piste, saluted with their swords two meters from the centerline, and took their stances.
At the referee's command, they lunged forward almost simultaneously, their blades clashing with a sharp, ringing sound.
The green light flashed.
Each scored a point.
Beside me, the onlookers exclaimed. "As expected of Roman! I definitely couldn't block that thrust."
"Kris is also strong! That parry-riposte was beautiful!"
'Huh?' I thought.
All I saw was a blur and heard a clang, and it was over.
This scene repeated fifteen
