Mark went over to the librarian, who promptly wrote down the book he was taking, noting it in the records for future reimbursement.
As he walked out with the book by his side, a familiar system prompt activated.
┌─────═━┈┈━═─────┐
Art Detected:
► Would you like to begin Art Integration?
└─────═━┈┈━═─────┘
'Yes. Wait, isn't this going to go inside of me…?'
Yes, it was. Mark automatically brought the book up to his chest as it began to phase inside of him.
A few chills and convulsions later, he gave one final shiver before another prompt appeared.
┌─────═━┈┈━═─────┐
Art Integration Complete.
└─────═━┈┈━═─────┘
┌─────═━┈┈━═─────┐
◃───***Arts***───▹
✩ Academy Longsword: Defensive Style
→ Mastery: None (0/100)
Description: A basic form emphasizing tight and controlled movements. Gains openings through fundamental, sturdy parries. Lacks offensive power or deception.
└─────═━┈┈━═─────┘
'Thank fuck that's over. Why can't it just turn into blue light and enter through my nose or something? Which God in this universe thought that knowledge literally phasing through my chest was a good idea?'
There were many sick freaks in this world, from top to bottom.
***
"No more excuses now, Abbott?" Professor Everett asked condescendingly upon Mark's return to the Training Facility.
"Yes, ma'am."
Mark went over to the weapon wall and grabbed a two-handed longsword . The sounds of exasperated combat filled the large Training Facility.
As he stepped onto his designated platform, it was like he never left. Zac still looked as retarded as ever.
"Are you being for real?" Mark had to ask.
"Of course not," Zac replied, his eye snapping back into place as he entered a readied stance.
'Alright then… seems he's just a goofy goober. Or maybe he's a robot with a built-in combat mode? Whatever…'
Mark kept his new longsword outstretched in front of him, steadying his breaths.
Likewise, Zac held his one-handed shortsword out in front.
"321 Go!" Zac hurriedly shouted, immediately dashing in with incredible speed.
'Holy shit…'
It was like trying to swing at a 100-mile-per-hour fastball—Mark had only ever faced low 80s. Mark could barely make out his opponent.
But what he did read was an all-out thrust.
From the knowledge he gained from the Art's integration, he was overwhelmed with the amount of ways he could handle Zac's first move.
Eventually, he settled for a simple backstep and downward block, which would move his opponent's sword out of its intended path.
With Zac having thrown all of his momentum forward, this would easily send him tumbling.
WHOOSH…
Mark's sword hit nothing.
'A feint?'
Low to the ground, Zac retracted his thrust.
He gathered his momentum into a spin and slash, rapidly twisting his torso.
ZZZTTT…
The blunt shortsword connected with Mark's hip, who couldn't move his longsword to defend in time.
"Argh…!"
Mark grit his teeth as the electric shock sent him paralyzed and convulsing, falling backward and flat onto the sparring platform.
"Hah… hah… hah…" he breathed, the shock finally subsiding.
"Nisch try, buschter," Zac said in a fake, lispy nerd voice. "Gotta be quicker than that to beat me!"
"Shut… up…"
Mark closed his eyes as he recovered, though he could hear a faint snicker.
'Fuck that hurt. That's it, I'm beating the crap out of this autistic kid…'
After a few seconds of rest, Mark shot back up.
They readied themselves to fight once more.
Zac engaged with another rapid burst of speed, extremely low to the ground. This time, he didn't make his attack known, holding the shortsword close to his body.
Hoping to strike back at his opponent, Mark readied a thrusting riposte.
CLANG.
Their swords connected as Zac's exploded outward, batting the thrusting longsword aside.
That left Mark wide open for a follow-up attack.
ZZZTTT…
Zac slashed across Mark's entire abdomen.
As his joints locked amidst an electric shock, Zac sheathed his blade into a nonexistent scabbard—smiling as he roleplayed as a samurai.
Once more, Mark was sent onto the platform
'God damn that hurts. I gotta stop getting hit…'
But at least the shock didn't kill him. He had been tased before—not to mention that Mark just popped his 'fantasy taser' cherry moments prior.
In reality, Mark really couldn't compete. He was a total beginner.
While his mind had been fed information, it wasn't embedded into his physical being—like instinct. Without extensive experience, the Art was nothing in the face of a lifelong swordsman. Muscle memory was an important part of swordsmanship.
'The best time to learn swordsmanship was 15 years ago, the second-best time is now.'
If Mark wanted to get anywhere, it had to be off the back of his sheer will. He had to be better. He had to be more.
Standing back up, Mark readied himself once more.
He couldn't beat Zac. At least, not immediately. It needed buildup.
To that end, he would go all in on defense. He would first master blocking, learning Zac's moves before inching his way into an actual parry.
"Alright," Mark exhaled, his sword handle squeaking under his tight grip. "Let's go."
'Training montage time…'
…
ZZZTTT…
'Shit.'
"I'm the bescht, you failed the tescht!" Zac lispily taunted.
'So annoying.'
…
ZZZTTT…
"Out of schteam? I reign schupreme!"
…
ZZZTTT….
"Hold on let me think of another. I blanked."
…
ZZZTTT…
"Nicshe try, buschter, that'sch all you could muschter? Hmm, lots of lisp on that one…"
…
Mark was thrown into an electric blender.
His entire body was hot—scalding to the touch. Pain pulsed throughout every inch of skin; his breaths were heavy and ragged.
Worst of all, he could hear his rapidly pounding heart beat arrhythmically—a result of repeated shocks. A tight and squeezing pain pierced his chest.
Despite that, his mind had never been more alert.
He was slowly starting to see Zac's sword with clarity. His tricks were becoming less surprising. Mark began recognizing the patterns and anticipating, rather than just reacting.
'I have… to keep going…'
William was ahead of the curb. Mark had to do more.
He stood up, entering his readied stance. Mark's face scrunched with agony, but his eyes stayed determined.
Zac entered with less speed, throwing a strong downward swing.
CLANG.
Their swords collided, with Mark executing a perfect, sturdy block. Their sword blades locked, with Mark taking a step forward in an attempt to finish the parry—more hastiness.
Zac escaped the clash with ease, dropping to the ground like a cat, and then executing a riposte.
The tip of the blade touched Mark's heart.
ZZZTTT… thud.
Mark lay on the ground near hyperventilating.
"Whoops. Scared me for a second. We should probably take a break…" Zac said with a comic-like wipe of his brow.
When he regained control of his hand muscles, they tremored uncontrollably.
The cold tingle of instinct begged him to stop.
'Fuck… I almost… had him.'
But he had to keep going. He was close.
As Mark tried to stand back up, none of his muscles complied. He was glued to the platform.
'Come the fuck on. I'm so close. Get up! Get the fuck up…'
Gritting his teeth, Mark growled as he gave everything to uplift his torso.
But bodies were fragile, especially Mark's. As he rose, waves of black void flooded his vision.
As the blood drained from his head, Mark blacked out—gravity returning his head to the ground.
…
"Did I kill him…?"
"Just leave him, Zac," Everett called out, tapping her watch for medical help. "Come rotate with this group."
"Thanksch teach. I don't think I improved at all…" Zac replied, walking over to another sparring platform
As Professor Everett made her way over to the unconscious Mark, a few people looked over to see the fuss.
While they didn't get to see the fight, they saw the aftermath; Zac Cristall had mopped the floor with Mark di Abbott.
The onlookers shrugged and continued with their own sparring. Injury was common—especially in Class 1-A. If anything, it was a good thing to get injured.
It meant you were pushing your limits. That was the best way to improve.
Though this presumption was within context; they believed that Mark belonged. Had they truly seen the extent of his swordsmanship, their admiration would have most certainly shifted.
The only ones who saw much of anything were Zac, Professor Everett, and Ranni.
The Luikots heir had snuck peeks between her duels with Lucas to check on her new prospect.
'He did well enough as a swordsman to be moved and into Class 1-A…? So what the hell did I just see then?' Ranni thought, her mind a jumbled mess.
Rather than answering any questions, spectating Mark only created more.
While she was willing to take him on as a known risk, there were a limited amount of unknowns that she could just ignore. Her Guild's future was at stake. Her principles couldn't bend this far.
Ranni decided she had to nip the mystery in the bud. Direct confrontation.
"What's wrong?" the gentle voice of Lucas asked. "You usually aren't this distracted."
Ranni snapped herself back into action, her eyes piercing through the Prince's kind soul.
"And what do you know about me?"
Ranni lunged forward with her rapier as they reentered combat. Irritation reinvigorated her fighting spirit.
CLANG. CLANG. ZZZTTT.
Lucas Raymond fell to the mat.
"Score's 6 to 8, you're up," Ranni said as he rose to his feet, flourishing her rapier.
Ranni was still distracted. She needed answers.