The Referee

What followed was a most curious exchange—neither fencer wanted to attack, but they both needed to. It was a tied score, so neither had the option of running down the clock, but both men were keenly aware that whoever attacked would be at a disadvantage. French Grippers excel at counterattacks due to their ability to manipulate angles, and regardless, fencing is a sport where defending is easier than attacking.

The metagame thus creates an interesting duality: a fencer must attack, yet attacking puts you at a disadvantage! This uncertainty can end in three separate scenarios, aside from passivity rules. The first is that one fencer will let their guard down during this extended period of no hits, and the other fencer will take advantage of that. The second is that this prolonged act of keeping outside of each other’s distance tires out a fencer, making him vulnerable. The third is that one fencer will lose his patience and attack even if they don’t see an opening.

It was this last option that happened in this match—and naturally, the one who lost his patience first was Carr.

I know I’m walking into a trap but I don’t even care! Carr thought. I’m going to make it work!

Carr stepped inside Max’s distance—both men were just within lunge distance of each other. Carr could hit Max’s forearm from this distance, and Max, the taller of the two, could hit up to Carr’s bicep. Neither blade was near the other—instead, both fencers were attempting at angling their tips at each other’s arms. This was a delicate balance, because you had to calculate the angle perfectly—if your angle of approach wasn’t optimized, then you would be losing out on reach and your opponent had the chance to hit you before you could hit them.

It should go without saying that Carr was aware of that—and that Max had him beat in distance right now.

He lunged anyway.

You’re always so reckless, Max thought, filled with exasperation as he angled his blade at his opponent for his counterattack.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 2 (18)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 1 (18)

Carr’s blade caught Max’s wrist just as Max’s blade caught the lower side of Carr’s bicep.

A double hit…he’s supposed to be faster than me with his stats. This meant he wasn’t expecting the attack, Carr thought. But he still made it work. Guess his reflexes really are top notch right now.

And here I thought my stats would make this easy, Max thought, stepping backwards with his arm extended for safety. I know my stats aren’t as high as some people like Valle, but I should still be able to combine it with my fencing ability. I know how to use fencing to overwhelm people with superior stats to me…but can I use my stats to overwhelm an equally skilled fencer? Max shook his head. No. That’s the wrong mindset. I’ve a very good record against Carr with just my fencing. If I focus on using my stats, I’m going to lose. I’m going to destroy him like I always do. No reason to change things up. Focus on being safe.

This was easier thought than done—Carr did not intend on letting Max concentrate.

Daringly, recklessly, mockingly, Carr stepped forward and used a beat four on Max’s blade.

He was too far to follow it up with anything, but the attack was a taunt. Beating with a French Grip used to be an unusual strategy, though modern fencers since adapted to doing it more often through sheer athleticism. Still, the reason for it being rarer was simply that you lose a lot of power in exchange for the grip’s extreme angulation abilities. For Carr, a mere human without stats, wielding a grip known more for its angulation than its power, to do it to Max, whose stats made him a borderline superhuman, was downright mockery.

If you don’t use your stats, I’m going to bully your arm around.

Without stats, Carr was the physically stronger fencer, even if Max was taller. But if Max were to engage with his stats, things could be different. I’m not crazy. I know the issues of [Swordsmanship] better than anyone. Better speed, but no improvement in reach and the recovery is arguably worse than a regular step. It takes a master or a genius to combine the two effectively. A Duartes or a Valle, to be precise. Still…if that’s what you want… . Max grinned and move forward, grinning, I’ll play with you!

Max stepped forward without using stats, until he was only one step away from Carr’s distance. Here, he used his stats only for the final step to finish faster than before, and to power his blade movement. IT DOESN’T MATTER IF MY RECOVERY IS SLOW IF I FINISH IT WITH ONE STEP! He beat at Carr’s blade, hoping to knock it out of the way.

Carr’s blade swung to the side as if it offered no resistance. No, Max thought, as he had already initiated his lunge, he really put no resistance behind it. This guy…

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 3 (19)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 2 (19)

Another double. Carr took a step backwards and managed to put the tip of his sword back on target after the beat, placing it just in time for a double hit.

“So that’s your strategy for dealing with high powered beats?” Max’s voice was annoyed, but he grinned nonetheless. “Annoying bastard.”

“Be like water,” Carr replied, laughing. “Or whatever bullshit Mr. Frankovic used to say, remember?”

From Max’s bench, the False Carr stood up and said, “TIMEOUT! Ref, I’m concerned my fencer’s blade was damaged in the exchange and would like time to analyze it for safety’s sake.”

Carr groaned. It was obvious that the False Carr meant to coach Max, and it was a request in bad faith, yet the rules were on his side. It was a gentleman’s agreement not to abuse such rules, yet the False Carr appeared not overly concerned with such conventions. Both fencers saluted each other with their blade, and Max headed off to his end of the piste to, frankly, receive coaching.

You are not going to steal the momentum or the lead here, the False Carr thought. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to win. Stats, strategy, whatever. You’re just a weaker version of me that refuses to play hard…no way you can match up, Faker. Get mad. Let Max beat you. I’m going to break your rhythm.

Curiously, Carr did not move from where he was. He had a habit of staying on piste during opponent’s breaks so as to not lose his concentration. This was a mental trick of his to avoid leaving his head space during a contest, to avoid what had happened to Fedal just a little before.

You are probably going to make this as long a break as you can manage, Carr thought. I know what you’re trying. I won’t let you do it.

It’s difficult to maintain your concentration, even if you know your opponent is trying to delay the match to break your rhythm. Carr had ample experience in his long years of competitive history, but this didn’t make him immune to it—only resilient to it, at most.

From the bench, Fedal was rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and trying to understand what had just happened. How did Carr manage to get his blade up so quickly? Shouldn’t his arm be hurting from being hit with those stats? I don’t understand. Is his sword special or something? No…Carr has made his stance quite clear. What is it?

Isabella stepped up beside him, arms crossed and eyes fixated on the piste, where Carr kicked the ground a few times to keep his body warm. “It’s his grip,” she said, calmly.

“The French Grip?”

“No—I mean the way he gripped at the sword.” Isabella stared at Carr’s hands intently. “Look at the way he’s holding his sword…his grip is really soft. He’s barely holding it.”

Fedal narrowed his eyes. “I can barely see it…but I’ll take your word for it. How does that help him?”

With an annoyed grunt, Isabella handed Fedal a small metal hair clip and motioned for him to hold it with his hand. He followed her instructions, closing his fist upon it, leaving only a small part of it exposed to the outside world. Fedal did so fully expecting what followed—Isabella brought her hand down furiously against the exposed part, causing Fedal to stumble and nearly lose his balance.

Fedal very nearly fell into the water surrounding the piste. WAS THAT REALLY NECESSARY? “That—okay, I get that.”

“Now relax your grip,” said Isabella.

Now, Fedal was instructed to change his grip, so that though the hairclip was inside his fist, but his fist wasn’t fully closed, merely enveloping it without applying pressure—when Isabella brought down her hand again, the clip sort of rattled inside his semi-closed fist, but he didn’t feel himself be pushed downward. He looked up at her, his face full of surprise. “Okay, that makes sense but it feels weird.”

“It doesn’t really negate your opponent’s attack, but you can recover from a beat a lot quicker if you let your hand go loose. Can’t get it back in time to stop a lunge every time, but it’s a good idea. Sometimes you have to hold it tighter, but it’s a good neutral way to hold the blade sometimes. Means your hand doesn’t get tired as often too.”

“That’s awesome!” Fedal exclaimed. “How do you know about—oh, right, Duartes! Sorry, sometimes I forget you were trained by a legendary fencer.”

Isabella turned to him with a cold expression and said dryly, “I suppose I don’t give people reason to remember that, do I?”

“That’s not—that’s not what I—I’m sorry,” Fedal said in a hurry. Smooth, Fedal. Why did he have to always mess things up? Even if his friends liked him, he still always knew the wrong thing to say. It’s at least good that I’m trying to say something now, I guess, instead of just being quiet. Can’t say the right thing without being okay with messing up, right? “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She sighed, opened her mouth and let out a loud sound, as if starting to shout at him, but stopped. Then, in a much calmer tone, she said, “It’s fine. It’s just something I think about a lot.”

“I—I think you’re a fantastic fencer, if it helps.”

“Fedal, do not compliment my fencing right now,” Isabella grunted in response. “I’m in a bad mental space for it. Sorry.”

“But your fencing is—right, I won’t say… .” Shit, what do I tell her? Am I just digging my hole deeper here? He considered the point. Well, yeah, I am. But I am committed to it now and I shall not stop until I reach the other side of the world. “You look very pretty.”

Isabella turned to him, appearing to be torn between several conflicting emotions. She appeared strongly insulted, mildly flattered, and most of all flabbergasted at his words. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Hey, you told me not to compliment your fencing, but you looked like you could use a compliment, and…well, you are pretty. Look, I don’t know what to say here, and I don’t know when to shut up, so if you just stay quiet I’m going to say something fantastically stupid at some point. Case in point, right now.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, fully intending to mock him for it. But such was his sincerity that she hesitated, and upon seeing his self-aware smile, Isabella couldn’t help but break into a laugh. “For the record, that’s a terrible line to use on pretty much anyone. Just comes off weird and mildly creepy. But I have a huge ego and self-confidence issues at the same time, so, eh, works on me I guess.” Isabella spoke in the sarcastic, self-depreciating tone of someone who speaks honestly and frankly about their mental health but can only do so under the guise of a joke.

Fedal laughed. “Yeah, I know, it was inappropriate, sorry. Just wanted to make you laugh, if it helps.”

“Well, you did make me laugh.”

Their laughter faded, they both looked back towards the piste and he paused in silence. Should I say this? Fedal thought. It could end poorly…I’m not like Carr or Valle to pull that line off. He grew irritated at his own hesitation and bit his lip. Ah, fuck it, if I can get stabbed by a lunatic I can talk to a girl. “I wasn’t lying, though.”

Isabella turned her head to him. “I’m sorry?”

“What I said—I wasn’t just lying about your appearance to make you feel better, for what it’s worth.”

She regarded him for a few seconds, as if trying to get the right measure of him. “Next time, compliment me for something other than my looks, alright? If you haven’t noticed I’m not a fan of being defined by who I was born as. Kind of a big thing for me.”

Fedal was about to complain that she had asked him not to talk about her fencing, but in fairness there were other things he could have gone for. Take the win, he told himself. I can use this as an excuse to compliment her later.

“Thanks for trying to cheer me up,” Isabella said quietly. “Sorry. I’m just nervous that my match is coming up after this one…and it’s going to be a weird bout. For a lot of reasons.”

Behind them on the bench, Valle, who was getting treatment for his injuries, whispered, “Hey, Celle? Gambling is sort of your deal, right?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not by choice, but sort of, why do you ask?”

Valle produced a single gold coin from his pocket and flickered it toward her, who only had to open her fist without moving it to catch it. Celle looked at the gold, puzzled, then glanced up at Valle expecting answers. “One piece of gold they get together in a month,” he said.

“A month?” She grinned back. “Those are some damn good odds you’re giving me. You’re on.”

“I—I can’t believe you’re betting on that!” Princess Nevada said, her voice appeared offended or scandalized, it was hard to tell which. She had been sitting beside Valle and healing him. Katherine and the young girl—likely her sister—were sitting at the side, away from all of them, having a private conversation, and Gilder was watching the match by himself in a corner, appearing lost in thought, likely torn about who to cheer for. “Lord Valle, to make such a bet, that is—!”

Valle looked at her, a mixture of guilt and concern on his face. He hadn’t meant to offend the princess, especially now that their relationship mattered for Cresna’s sake, but he wasn’t entirely certain he had been overly crass. “Does the betting offend you, Your Highness?”

“No—yes—I mean… .” Nevada blushed, then glanced up ahead at Fedal and Isabella, standing with their arms crossedin silence, looking on at the piste. “Lord Valle, it is most unwise to bet that they will be together within a month. I do not think the Hero is likely to make a move, and Lady Isabella appears too concerned with other matters. Not to mention, I do not think she fancies him that way.”

Valle smiled. “Ah, so that’s what you meant?” I’m liking her more and more.

“What I’m hearing, Your Highness,” Celle interjected, her tone full of jest, “is that you would like to place a bet.”

“Me?” Nevada exclaimed, her blush intensifying. “I—I could never, that would be most inappropriate, I—”

At that moment, Fedal cleared his throat, looked at Isabella and said, “Hey—um, after this tournament… .” He trailed off, shook his head, and said, “We’re gonna win, right?”

Isabella looked at him in sheer confusion. “Yes? That’s the goal.”

Nevada’s blush turned into an expression that could perhaps best be described as nearly blank, save for a frown and an annoyed eye twitch. She picked two gold coins from her pocket. “They are not going to be together in a month.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING DONE WITH YOUR GODDAMN FAKE COACHING?” Carr screamed. Suddenly, he turned to me. “REF! REF! GIVE HIM A WARNING! HE’S BEEN OFF THE PISTE FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES!”

“Wow,” Celle said, as she finished writing down the group’s bets. “Is this what Carr is usually like at fencing tournaments? He’s usually more of a…dignified berserker, if that makes sense. He’s just really pissed right now. Like, there’s not even a lot of reason for it this time.”

It is an universal truth that tournaments bring out the best and the worst in people.

“Sorry,” Max said, as he walked back onto the piste. “It wasn’t my decision. You know that.”

Carr drew a long breath. Then, when he was done, he drew another long breath. His face still looked exactly as pissed off as it had at the start of his gesture. Finally, he looked up, frowning, and placed his hands on his hips. “Fine,” he spat out. “Let’s get on with it.”

The match resumed and Max’s plan had clearly changed. The False Carr had told him to stop trying to play Carr’s game and go back to his. At the very start of the match’s resumption, Max leaned forward and lunged at Carr’s foot.

Carr, who had been struggling to remain warm and focused on the match, was unable to avoid it.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 3 (19)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 3 (20)

“DON’T MIND IT!” Celle shouted, but Carr wasn’t listening.

He already knew he shouldn’t mind it. He also knew that he had no intention of letting this match go like this.

I was just getting started when you stopped the match like an asshole…fine. I have to accept that I am going to slow down a little until I can get warmed up, and you can just use your stats to make up for your body being cold…that’s fine. Don’t get angry at what you can’t control. Embrace your emotions. AND LET IT ALL OUT!

Carr advanced at Max with two quick steps. I am not planning to let you put me through that guessing game. He lifted his front foot off the ground and moved it forward, landing heel first. Max, expecting this to be a lunge, put his blade up as a counterattack. But though the movement looked similar, it wasn’t quite the same. Only Carr’s front foot had really moved. His back foot hadn’t finished the lunge movement yet—it was a half-lunge. A move where you advance your front foot, land with your heel, then make a split second decision about whether to complete the lunge or do something else.

Here Carr saw that Max had readied a stop-hit counterattack, and during his pause at the half-lunge, he took Max’s blade, enveloping it in a counter-sixte. At that moment, he finished his lunge to the chest. It was a shallow wound, but the hit landed nonetheless.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 4 (20)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 3 (20)

“I’M NOT GONNA GIVE IT TO YOU,” Carr shouted. “THE PACE—OR THE MATCH! THIS IS MINE GODDAMN IT!”

So this is how much shouting he does if the ref doesn’t care enough to stop him, Max thought. He looked at me absently, and I shook my head. Whatever the rule on Earth may have been, there was nothing stopping him from trash talking here. “Fair enough,” Max muttered. “Guess I can’t complain about the rules considering what my captain has been doing.”

Valle wanted to fight you on your strong points, Carr thought. I did too, for the longest time. And I lost, a shit ton of times because of that. I’m not playing around anymore. I’m not going to let you fuck me around with your strong points. We’re dancing to my tune today, Max.

Max and Carr started jumping in and out of each other’s range at a furious speed, both threatening to attack. Max alternated pointing his blade at Carr’s foot and shoulder, his low and high lines, trying to make him guess the wrong direction. The foot was arguably an even shallower target than the hand, as the lack of a hand guard meant you could hit the tip of the foot from extremely far away—if Carr feared the foot touch, Max would control the distance.

So Carr advanced, fearlessly.

And he got hit.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 4 (20)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 4 (21)

Now you have to give me some respect, Max thought. Respect that I can nail your foot. Worry about it. Dread it. Let me control your pace. You know you can’t just attack mindlessly now, don’t you? So just—

Carr advanced again, without fear. This time, Max didn’t have a foot shot ready, nor was he using his stats to strengthen his power. Carr beat his blade away, then flèched straight at him.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 5 (21)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 4 (21)

A loud roar filled the arena—upon scoring the point, Carr shouted to the heavens and punched the air. Then, looking an astonished Max in the eye, he said, “DID YOU NOT HEAR ME, MAX? I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU HAVE THE PACE OR THE MATCH. THEY’RE FUCKING MINE!”

Carr had decided on an extremely aggressive plan. He was fully aware that Max’s foot touches were world class and that exposing his low line was an issue. Even so, he decided to move forward. It was an extremely aggressive plan he came up with after facing off against Max many times—one he and his coach discussed after the last World Cup when he barely edged out a win against Max.

“Well,” his coach had said, “you can never guess between low and high lines right?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I can deal with his counters, but when it comes to guessing I just always get it wrong. He knows how to get inside my head.”

“Well, kid,” his coach said, a mischievous grin on his face, “how about you throw away one of the options then?”

Forget about guarding the low line.

Let him have it. Claim victory elsewhere.

It was a risky option and it meant that Carr would be hit in the legs and foot numerous times—but in the end, even if someone like Max was a specialist, foot shots were still harder touches to land than arm shots. Knowing his foot would be hit sometimes, he would simply accelerate at his max speed to fight Max. DON’T BACK DOWN. DON’T LET HIM THINK. This wasn’t a strategy to keep himself from being hit. It was a strategy to hit Max more times than he could hit him.

Valle wasn’t content with victory—he wanted to win beautifully. To prove that his opponent’s best wasn’t enough to defeat his worst. That was his dignity as a champion.

Carr’s dignity as a champion was slightly different. He didn’t mind if he was dragged down to the dirt and if he couldn’t beat his opponent’s plan, that was fine. As long as he stood at the top of the mountain in the end, that was fine. One exploited weaknesses, the other exploited strengths.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 5 (21)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 5 (22)

Carr exposed his low line in his advance, and Max punished it appropriately, with a hit to the leg.

Are you fucking serious? Max thought. Sweat was dripping from his forehead now, and he was breathing heavily. ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? What kind of insane ultra-offensive fencing is that? Since when do you have the balls to do that, Carr? You were always crazy, but goddamn!

Immediately after, Carr advanced furiously at Max, closing in the distance. They were now at torso-lunge distance. Too close for low line, they both thought. And here, Max’s plan started to break. If he got his strategy in play, there was no doubt in his or Carr’s mind that he would come out on top. Their many past matches had shown that he could predict and trick Carr over and over again.

I WON’T LET YOU HAVE THE PACE OR THE MATCH.

In that aggressive range, Carr moved forward as if intending to flèche again, but when Max started to retreat he angled his blade for a lunge at the wrist.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 6 (22)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 5 (22)

Again Carr roared.

“I have never seen Carr be so loud during a match before,” Celle said quietly.

“He’s overwhelming him,” Valle noted. He narrowed his eyes, watching the match carefully. “Usually, we’ve seen Carr try to be careful because his opponent’s stats were so much higher that a single mistake meant death. Here, even though they are using sharp swords, the risk is much lower. Max’s stats aren’t enough to kill him with one touch like mine are, for example. And don’t forget the rules say that murder is forbidden, anyhow. What I suspect is that this…this is Carr, how he fenced back in his homeland.”

Valle leaned forward, a smirk across his face. Show me, Carr. Show me your best fencing. Show me how tall the wall before me is. Show me what I have to surpass.

Carr’s low line was exposed again, and Max went for a foot shot. Rather than attempt to stop it, Carr threw his entire body forward in something between a flèche and a jump, attacking Max’s shoulder as he crouched down. It was a messy point, but the two hit each other at the same time.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 7 (23)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 6 (23)

Stay calm, Max told himself. He can’t keep that insane plan up for long. If nothing else…he’s human. He’s human, and he has no magical stats. It might be shallow, but I have managed to stab his foot a few times now. The pain should be getting to him. He’s going to slow down. It’s tempting to try to change my plans, but that temptation is a false friend. For victory’s sake, I will remain steadfast. He is going to blink first.

Carr’s injuries were small, but numerous. His front foot was numb, but he had received a few shallow thrusts to the arm as well. Adrenaline kept him going forward, but his injuries were starting to slow him down. Is he going to call for a medical break? Max thought.

No. There was no way he would.

That man would always stubbornly finish his match rather than call for a break unless his friends forced him to. He’s willing to trade the injuries for the momentum. He doesn’t want to give me time to adapt, to consider his plan. Max gripped at his blade tightly, then relaxed. Fine. Let’s see who comes out on top.

This was the last chance both fencers had to make an adjustment in the match. Carr’s strategy, though appearing reckless, wasn’t crazy. By giving up on a perfect victory, he found a way to score as many or more points than Max of Relampago did—and he was willing to pay the blood price for it. Meanwhile, Max’s reasoning wasn’t wrong. Carr was receiving numerous injuries and he was slowing down. If this match went on for much longer, it was true that the powerless human would lose. However, Carr’s absurdly fast pace had made this a very high scoring round—they were near the end already.

Carr lunged at Max—falling inside his range and bouncing into an aggressive attack, uncaring if he was countered. You’re playing for double hits when you don’t have [HP] protecting you? When we are tied in the team score? Do you only care about the individual points? You really are fucking insane, Carr! But I can’t be satisfied with just a double right now!

Max took Carr’s blade in sixte, using his stats to power the parry. This was done so that even if he grabbed the wrong part of Carr’s blade or lacked leverage due to the awkwardness of his late movement, he would complete the move anyhow, by simply powering through with more strength than a human could muster. There was no resistance on his blade. If anything—SHIT! Max realized too late what was happening.

A CEDING PARRY?

The ceding parry is a move where, at its core, the attacking fencer gives their blade to the opponent’s bind. It has many uses, but in this case, against a sixte parry, it was evident. From that awkward distance, Carr lowered his blade while keeping his wrist high, and brought his forearm nearly to his own forehead, with this blade pointing toward the floor. PRIME PARRY? WITH A FUCKING FRENCH GRIP? YOU ARE GODDAMN INSANE!

Allowing your opponent to take your blade in sixte means your blade is high and to the outside. If you manage to keep your hand at that same place but point the tip directly downward, you may transition from that position into a prime parry, a parry for close distance infighting where the sword is used almost as a shield to your side, with the tip pointed nearly at the floor and your elbow raised high—touch your head with the back of your forearm and you will understand the positioning.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 8 (24)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 6 (23)

He’s taken the lead. Not just the individual match, the team score too! Even when he beat me on Earth, never took the lead before. I can’t—no. I won’t hesitate. If I take a single step back here, he’s going to roll over me! I can’t let him extend the lead any further! Max thought.

“DON’T YOU DARE FORGET MAX,” Carr shouted, “I AM THE ONE WHO WON THAT TOURNAMENT! I AM THE FUCKING WORLD CHAMPION!”

They collided, extended blades hitting each other’s shoulders.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 9 (25)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 7 (24)

I raised my hand. “THIS BOUT HAS CONCLUDED!” I announced. “9-7 individual score! The New Bladewolves lead 25-24!”