Facing Lance's counterattack, Eric had no choice but to leap sideways, barely evading the swift strikes. However, as he adjusted his stance, Lance's assaults came relentlessly, one after another.
"Boom!"
Eric found himself on the defensive for three consecutive times, forced to parry Lance's methodical attacks with hurried blocks. The rhythm of Lance's swordsmanship was unexpectedly smooth, leaving Eric increasingly astounded by the complexity and efficiency beyond anything he had anticipated.
The spectators were unaware of Eric's internal turmoil; they assumed he was deliberately going easy on Lance, allowing the latter to dominate the match. Irene, in particular, watched Lance with eyes full of concern, believing the bout to be a prearranged charade to boost her brother's morale.
However, only Eric, directly experiencing Lance's methodical and increasingly oppressive onslaught, understood the grim reality: Lance's mastery and execution of basic swordsmanship were astonishingly superior to his own. Despite leveraging his superior physical fitness to carve out brief moments of advantage, Eric found himself invariably outmaneuvered by Lance's seemingly simple but effectively timed strikes.
Eric, much to his disbelief and against all prior expectations, was being systematically overpowered and outclassed by Lance. No substantive counterattacks materialized; instead, he was ensnared in a relentless cycle of defensive responses, a situation he had never imagined possible.
"Impossible!" Eric's internal scream was a mixture of disbelief and desperation. In a frantic bid to regain control, he intensified the force behind his defensive strikes. The clash of wooden swords resonated louder than before, echoing Eric's growing panic.
However, this desperate attempt only led to his downfall. In his eagerness to block, Eric left himself wide open, a critical error that Lance didn't hesitate to exploit. With calculated precision, Lance advanced, pressing the wooden sword firmly against Eric's chest.
A hushed silence enveloped the martial arts field as every spectator fixated on the astonishing tableau before them. Eric stood frozen, wooden sword poised against him, his face a canvas of shock and disbelief. His thoughts were scrambled, unable to reconcile with the reality that he, the son of the castle's patrol captain, had been bested by Lance, whom many considered a nonentity.
The air among the gathered youths was thick with confusion and whispered disbelief.
"What on earth is happening? Am I seeing things?" one teenager muttered under his breath, his eyes wide with shock.
"Did Boss Eric... actually lose?" another asked incredulously, struggling to grasp the unexpected outcome.
A collective bewilderment hung over them as they tried to make sense of the Lance before them — known to be unsuitable for swordsmanship — now displaying unexpected proficiency. Eric, the focal point of their astonishment, stood frozen, his usual swagger vanished, as if wishing the ground would mercifully swallow him up.
Maintaining his composed demeanor, Lance calmly sheathed his wooden sword and coolly observed, "You're too inattentive."
A heavy silence enveloped the group, broken only by Eric's muttered response, his voice a mix of bewilderment and bruised ego: "..."
Internally, he grappled with the situation. His supposed superiority and his natural talent in swordsmanship should have made quick work of Lance, widely regarded as a non-entity. And yet, here he was, facing an embarrassing defeat that turned his world upside down.
Refusing to succumb to the reality of his defeat, his frustration boiling over, Eric clenched his wooden sword tighter and declared defiantly, "Come again!"
Lance merely nodded, unfazed by the challenge, his simple reply, "Okay," hanging in the tense air. The surrounding teenagers watched on, silent and wide-eyed, bracing themselves for what was to come, the outcome no longer certain.
Once more, the martial arts field became the arena for their renewed struggle. This time, Eric unleashed his full physical prowess, channeling his superior strength, endurance, and agility into a relentless assault. With his every attribute seemingly overshadowing Lance's, Eric was fueled by determination and disbelief, resolved not to be bested in basic sword techniques.
"This time, let's see you dodge!" Eric bellowed, his wooden sword raised menacingly as he prepared to deliver a forceful strike. However, to his dismay, Lance's sword once again made a seemingly effortless, smooth contact with his side.
Eric's frustration spilled over as he cried out, "Not again!" In a split second, he had to retract his intended powerful blow to defend against Lance's strategic strike.
The pattern was becoming painfully clear to him, and with each exchange, Eric's confidence wavered, grappling with the unexpected reality that Lance's mastery and strategic application of basic swordsmanship was disrupting his rhythm and putting him on the defensive time and time again.
Eric, now entirely out of his depth, found himself unwittingly drawn into Lance's combat rhythm, a place he never expected to be against what he perceived as a lesser opponent. His movements, honed through years of advanced swordplay, were riddled with vulnerabilities when reverted to the basics—a testament to his long neglect of foundational techniques. However, Lance's sharp perception and strategic execution, significantly augmented by [Fox]'s analytical support, dissected Eric's approach with clinical precision.
{Alert: Anticipate an 86% probability of a diagonal defense from chest to lower waist. Optimal response: execute a vertical strike targeting the shoulder area.}
Guided by [Fox]'s calculation, Lance's response was swift and precise. His wooden sword, under the directive of calculated intelligence, transformed into an instrument of tactical prowess. It sliced through the air with intention and precision, aimed unfailingly at Eric's exposed shoulder.
Taken aback by the accuracy and the timing of Lance's strike, Eric's face registered shock and disbelief. Forced into retreat, he stumbled backward, overwhelmed by the unforeseen skill and strategic acumen of his adversary. This was a side of Lance that Eric, and indeed all onlookers, had never anticipated.
Eric's confusion and frustration grew with each exchange. Despite his superior strength and agility, he found himself consistently outmaneuvered within the limited scope of basic swordsmanship. Lance, with his methodical and precise attacks, seemed to effortlessly identify and exploit Eric's every vulnerability.
The disparity between them wasn't just in skill or technique; it was the acute awareness and predictive insight that Lance, guided by the analytical prowess of the [Fox], brought into play. This was Lance harnessing the third function of his main chip: analysis. The chip, through the processing of visual and sensory data, was providing Lance with estimates and predictions about Eric's next moves.
Admittedly, these predictions were not infallible. The [Fox]'s analytic predictions, while useful, were preliminary and lacked the finesse of higher-level tactical analysis due to its nascent nature and Lance's current limitations in accessing more sophisticated sub-chips. Yet, even this basic level of foresight was proving to be a game-changer in their duel, unsettling Eric to the core.
Even with its inherent limitations, the strategic edge that the [Fox] provided was proving to be more than adequate for Lance to dominate in this foundational level of combat. The realization that his prowess was not solely of his own making but augmented by technology was a secret edge that Lance held close. Yet, it was this very edge that was reshaping the dynamics of the duel, proving once again that sometimes, intelligence and strategy could level the playing field against brute strength and agility.
"What!" Amidst the clash, Eric found himself unwittingly driven into a corner by Lance's relentless assault, his back thudding against the stone wall unexpectedly. Seizing the moment, Lance swiftly directed his wooden sword to Eric's wrist, causing the latter's weapon to clatter to the ground, leaving Eric weaponless.
Dry-mouthed and pale-faced, Eric stood frozen, disbelief etched across his features. The onlooking teenagers exchanged glances, silent and stunned. Their eyes were wide with astonishment. The first defeat might have been dismissed as a fluke, attributed to Eric's lack of caution. But now, faced with a second, unmistakable loss, how could Eric—or anyone else—rationalize this unexpected turn of events?
"Master Lance's technique seems basic, how did Eric lose so easily?" whispered a lanky teenager, confusion written all over his face.
The older boy beside him shot a glance towards the sweat-drenched Eric and quickly clamped a hand over the younger one's mouth, signaling him to be silent.
Lance, sheathing his wooden sword, turned to Eric with a measured look. "You were more focused this time."
Eric stood there, a mix of frustration and disbelief clouding his features. Inside, he was a tumult of emotions—humiliation at being so thoroughly bested, especially when he had given his all. For Eric, who had rarely tasted defeat, this was a bitter pill to swallow, made all the worse because it came from someone considered inferior in swordsmanship.
Unable to accept the reality of his consecutive losses, Eric's desperation became palpable. "Wait, don't leave. Let's go again," he called out as Lance began to exit the arena, the urgency in his voice betraying his inner turmoil.
Lance shook his head decisively, "No more duels."
Eric, unable to hide his anxiety, pressed, "Why not?"
"Because the outcome will always be the same," Lance responded calmly, an air of finality in his tone.
Stunned into silence, Eric could only watch as Lance walked away. Lance, taking hold of a dazed Irene, made their way past the cluster of young onlookers and headed deeper into the castle. The surrounding teenagers, still in shock, watched them with a newfound respect mixed with disbelief.
However, only Lance knew the true reason behind his refusal. He rubbed his wrist subtly, feeling the ache extend up his forearm. "Quite the actor, aren't I?" he mused to himself, acknowledging his own deceptive performance. The truth was, he could no longer continue the duel; Eric's superior physical condition had begun to wear him down, the pain in his arm a clear testament. Moreover, Lance sensed his energy flagging. To continue the duel under such conditions would only invite defeat.
Eric, preoccupied with his own confusion and frustration, failed to grasp the real situation. Lance, seizing the opportunity, quickly led Irene away from the practice field and into the safety of the castle, leaving the puzzled group of teens behind.
…
"Brother Lance, you're incredible," Irene finally spoke up as they ventured deeper into the castle, her voice filled with undisguised admiration.
Lance glanced at her mud-splattered face, still wearing a look of awe, and quizzed lightly, "What were you doing mingling with those lads?"
Flushing slightly, Irene confessed, "I... I want to learn swordsmanship!"
"Swordsmanship? But you're a girl," Lance replied, perplexed.
Immediately, Irene's expression turned to one of frustration, "Why do you sound just like Father now? He won't let me train with the sword, will you also forbid it?"
Lance sighed heavily, understanding the situation better. It was clear now; Irene had joined Eric and the others in the hopes of learning swordsmanship in secret.
"Why the sudden interest in swordsmanship?" Lance pressed, his tone layered with genuine curiosity.
Irene paused, searching for her words, then spoke with a conviction that surprised even herself, "Practicing swordsmanship... it's the only way to protect those you care about... like Father does."
"Girls are traditionally protected, not protectors," Lance countered, echoing a sentiment prevalent in their society.
But Irene, undeterred, shook her head firmly, "Girls can protect others too." Her expression suddenly became introspective, a blush spreading across her cheeks as if she harbored a secret inspiration.
Lance eyed her curiously, unable to decipher her sudden emotional shift. Irene, as the Viscount's adopted daughter, had lived a life cushioned from harm, cherished within the walls of the castle. Known to be the child of one of the Viscount's dear friends, she had been treated with all the care and love of a biological daughter, shielded from the world's harsh realities.
"Why does she want to wield a sword so badly?" Lance pondered, struggling to find a reason for Irene's sudden interest in swordsmanship.
Finally, with a sigh, he made his stance clear, "You shouldn't be mingling with those boys."
"But they're the only ones who will teach me!" Irene pleaded, her voice echoing a deep-seated desire, "Brother Lance, I only convinced Eric and his friends to teach me swordplay, please, just agree."
Lance remained firm, "No. Absolutely not." The thought of Irene spending time with a group of boisterous young lads filled him with concern. Any misstep could lead to chaos he preferred to avoid.
However, Irene, looking pitifully at Lance, didn't give up, though he remained unmoved by her plea.
Annoyed, she tugged at his sleeve, her resolve hardening, "I just want to learn to fight! Father's not here, and even if you're my brother, you can't control what I do."
While discussing, she inadvertently brushed Lance's arm with her well-developed breasts, and the unexpected sensation briefly caught Lance off guard. In a moment of impulsive benevolence, Lance found himself responding with an offer, "Okay, you can learn swordsmanship. But not from them—I'll be your instructor. How does that sound?"
Irene paused, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it gave way to a bright, delighted grin. "Really, Brother Lance? You're so much better than Eric! I want to learn all your secrets!"
Lance, taken aback by his own sudden acquiescence, could only watch as Irene skipped away, presumably to clean up and prepare for her unexpected lesson. He rubbed his temples, a sense of foreboding settling over him. Dedicating time every day to personal practice was one thing; allocating additional hours for Irene's lessons was another.
"Sisters," he mumbled under his breath, a wry smile forming despite his exasperation, "truly the most intricate of puzzles." Resigned yet slightly amused, he admitted to himself that life in the castle was about to become even more interesting. For now, his strategy was simply to adapt and proceed—one step at a time.