Strategic Mating Partner Chapter 55

Then, Ms. Kim Seoyoung abruptly dragged Sejin to the height measurement machine.

“Step on it.”

Why should I… Sejin was flustered, but since Seoyoung was so insistent, he reluctantly stepped onto the machine. With a soft whir, the measuring bar descended, lightly tapped Sejin’s head, and rose back up. Looking at the number displayed on the panel, Seoyoung spoke.

“See? I knew it’d be around 180. I’m really good at guessing heights.”

She pointed at the panel, and as she said, it read 180.1 cm, not in the high 170s. Being tall wasn’t a bad thing, but Sejin recalled the height listed on Taehyun’s profile: 183 cm. He was still 3 cm shorter. He wasn’t sure why he was even thinking about this… Feeling awkward, Sejin stepped down from the machine.

“It doesn’t… really matter, does it, whatever it is…”

As Sejin mumbled, avoiding her gaze, Seoyoung laughed and responded.

“Hey, whether you’re over 180 or not is a big deal! And I told you to stop with the formal speech. My birthday’s late, so we’re practically the same age. Compared to the other sunbaes, who are five or more years older, we’re basically peers. Just talk casually and call me noona.”

Only then did Sejin realize the age gap with the other athletes in training. The next oldest after Seoyoung was, what, twenty-four? The oldest athlete was thirty-three in Korean age. Below that were thirty-two, thirty, twenty-nine, and twenty-eight. Most were in their late twenties to early thirties. In contrast, Seoyoung and Sejin, at eighteen and nineteen in Korean age, were significantly younger than the average. He could understand why she felt a sense of camaraderie with a peer, but… Just as Sejin was starting to feel distant and pull away, the coach called out to them.

“Hey, kids! Get over here quick.”

A middle-aged man with an unfamiliar regional accent called Sejin and Seoyoung over, and Seoyoung hurriedly dragged Sejin to the coach. Were they about to get scolded for goofing off during the break? Sejin tensed up momentarily, but to his surprise, the coach handed each of them a chocolate bar.

“I only got two, so I’m giving ‘em to you kids. This is just for you, so work hard, alright?”

While Sejin was too stunned to react, Seoyoung responded cheerfully.

“Oh, thank you! I was just craving something sweet!”

She immediately unwrapped the bar and took a bite. Savoring the sweet flavor, Seoyoung chewed with a pleased expression before looking up at Sejin.

“What’re you waiting for? There’s nowhere to stash it, so just eat it now.”

Urged by Seoyoung, Sejin wasn’t exactly grateful but bowed his head in thanks anyway. With a still-reluctant expression, he bit into the chocolate bar. It was sickeningly sweet and tasteless. He couldn’t understand why anyone would eat this as a snack.

“Alright, break’s over. Everyone, gather up!”

As soon as the coach announced the end of the break, training resumed immediately. Today, Sejin was paired with a veteran athlete eight years his senior for practice. His name was Mr. Lee Dongcheol, wasn’t it? A bronze medalist in the individual event and gold medalist in the team event at the last Asian Games, he was well-known enough that even Sejin, who wasn’t particularly interested in the Korean team, vaguely recalled his name. Since starting his fencing career, Sejin had memorized the names of top-ranked award-winners worldwide. Dongcheol was slightly shorter than Sejin, with a lean build and a gaunt face that gave a sly impression. As Sejin faced him, geared up and slightly nervous, Dongcheol smiled and said.

“No need to be so on guard. I know you must’ve been shaken by what happened when you first got here, but I’m not young enough to pull childish stunts like that.”

True to his word, Dongcheol came at him without holding back. His aggressive style, aiming to overwhelm his opponent from the start, didn’t mesh well with Sejin, who built up his pace slowly. It was fair to say Sejin was at a clear disadvantage. Naturally, Dongcheol took the lead in the first set.

Fencing consisted of three three-minute sets, with the first to score 15 points winning regardless of remaining time—a clear rule. Things got slightly more complex in overtime, but generally, if neither reached 15 points, the one with the higher score won. The three-minute segments were officially called bouts, but outside of France, terms like “set,” “round,” or “period” were used interchangeably in Korea and abroad. During the first three minutes, Sejin scored zero points against Dongcheol, who racked up four points in that time.

“You just gonna stand there? I heard you grabbed a sunbae by the collar, so I thought you had some fire, but how’d you even make it this far?”

Dongcheol had a knack for provoking and getting under his opponent’s skin. That must be why he maintained such an aggressive style in épée, where simultaneous hits were valid. His world ranking was also far higher than Sejin’s. Sejin realized he’d been arrogantly mistaken.

Sejin’s low ranking among the team was, of course, due to his significantly lower accumulated points from the previous season. The reason was simple: he hadn’t competed in many events. He’d made it to the podium in every event he entered, but due to his background and nationality, his opportunities were limited. Transferring to a Korean agency had resolved his entry issues, allowing him to get this far, but his ranking still lagged behind the others.

Even so, Sejin was confident he could hold his own in a one-on-one match against the Korean national team. He’d even beaten an Olympic silver medalist in an international competition. Technically and physically, he believed he had the edge over this mister(?).

But after clashing in the first set, it was clear he’d misjudged. This wasn’t about technique. He felt the stark lack of experience. Was this guy insane? Sejin had never encountered someone who charged in like a moth to a flame from the very start.

“…”

It wasn’t fun to keep giving points to Dongcheol while trailing for three minutes, especially with the taunting meant to stoke his competitive spirit. It might’ve been worse than outright bullying—a veteran’s cheap prank. Sejin gritted his teeth, waiting for the one-minute break to pass quickly. Changing his attack style now would be pointless. So how could he seize the lead? How could he make this guy anxious? Sejin glared at Dongcheol through his mask. Even though his expression wasn’t visible through the protective gear, the smirking face he’d seen earlier flashed vividly in his mind.

Sejin gripped his weapon tightly and took his stance. As soon as the start signal sounded, Dongcheol lunged again. Sejin quickly parried his blade and thrust at his torso. Dongcheol swiftly stepped back, making the attack fail. In that moment, Dongcheol exploited the gap. This was why épée matches, compared to other disciplines, often seemed slow-paced. A failed attack instantly gave the opponent an advantage. Sejin tried to shift his weight back to dodge Dongcheol’s blade, but it grazed past his shoulder in a flash.

“Yes!”

Even though it was just a practice match, Dongcheol’s triumphant roar was infuriating. The commotion drew the attention of other athletes sharing the training area, their gazes locking onto Sejin and Dongcheol. The humiliation of being seen in this pathetic state stung worse than when he’d grappled with an athlete from another discipline. He didn’t want to lose like this. He needed to find a way, fast, but this aggressive, soul-crushing style was so disorienting he couldn’t adapt.

‘He’s bound to have plenty of openings too…’

The difference between him and Dongcheol likely came down to how skillfully those openings were covered. Sejin’s style was to avoid giving openings to make his opponent anxious, so this was his worst matchup. That meant he needed to exploit a weakness before the match even properly started… During the second set, Sejin gave up another four points. He managed two points from simultaneous hits, but Dongcheol still led, 2:8. At this rate, defeat seemed inevitable.