The training field stretched out before us, a vast open space designed for swordsmanship lessons. Its size was impressive, capable of accommodating students from the first year all the way to the fifth, allowing everyone to train without holding back. The sun shone brightly overhead, illuminating the well-trodden ground and casting long shadows as we stood at the upper left corner, awaiting our first challenge.
Instructor Gord's commanding presence anchored us. "All of you can activate swordsmanship skills, so there's no need to teach you the basics; that's why I separated you from the others," he announced, his voice booming across the field.
A mix of excitement and apprehension coursed through me. This was it—the moment we'd been waiting for. I glanced at my fellow first-years, some of whom wore expressions of eagerness, while others seemed visibly tense. Instructor Gord continued, "Now for the first lesson, let me measure your strength. To do this, we will conduct a match between the 16 of you."
A competitive spark ignited within me. Measuring our strength through combat would be a true test of our skills. I looked around as he started to pair us up, my heart racing with anticipation.
"First pair, come here!" Instructor Gord commanded, pointing toward Tyiyn and a brown-haired boy. I watched as Tyiyn stepped forward, his usual confidence radiating from him. As the heir of a swordsman family, I was eager to see how he would perform.
"The match will end if either of you surrenders or loses your sword," Instructor Gord explained, his tone serious. "I will also stop the match if I decide that one of you cannot continue. That's all."
With the rules established, he added, "Now for the proper etiquette of a swordsman. You must state your name before the match to show respect and to remember the name of someone with whom you crossed swords."
I took a deep breath, my heart thudding in my chest. The atmosphere crackled with tension as Tyiyn and his opponent prepared themselves.
"Now, take your stances!" Instructor Gord ordered.
Tyiyn assumed a confident stance, his feet planted firmly apart. "My name is Tyiyn, son of Al'lan!" he declared, his voice steady and clear.
His opponent, a boy with a serious expression and sharp features, followed suit. "My name is Beric, son of Derald!" he responded, his voice low but resolute.
I couldn't help but admire the formality of the moment. It was a tradition steeped in honor and respect—something I found inspiring. Instructor Gord held a coin in his hand, ready to initiate the match. "Once this coin reaches the ground, the match will start. Now get ready!"
With a swift motion, he tossed the coin into the air. It glinted in the sunlight as it spun, and for a brief moment, time seemed to slow. My gaze followed the coin, feeling the weight of anticipation in the air.
The moment the coin hit the ground, Tyiyn launched forward, wasting no time. His speed was impressive, and his green eyes were locked onto Beric, who stood ready, sword raised in a defensive stance. The distance between them closed in an instant, and with a sharp swing of his wooden blade, Tyiyn attempted to strike.
He's fast, watching as Beric quickly raised his sword to block the strike. A loud 'clack' echoed across the field as the two blades met. Despite the force behind Tyiyn's initial attack, Beric remained firm, his arms steady as he absorbed the blow. But Tyiyn wasn't done. Without hesitation, he launched another series of rapid strikes, his movements fluid and relentless.
Beric, however, was prepared. He shifted his feet, staying light on them, moving just enough to parry each blow. His technique was solid, calm under the pressure of Tyiyn's continuous barrage.
But even from my position, I could see it: both of them had openings. They weren't huge gaps, but to someone trained or experienced in the flow of combat, they were clear. A slight overreach from Tyiyn when he swung, or a half-second too late on Beric's guard—these were things a skilled fighter could exploit.
Am I the only one seeing this? My gaze flicked to Instructor Gord, who stood silently, observing with folded arms. I wondered if he saw the same things I did. Then again, maybe those life-threatening experiences I got from fighting strong swordsmen in the past made me more aware of these weaknesses. For all their skill, these two were still just beginners.
The match continued in the same rhythm—Tyiyn pressing forward, attacking with wild energy, while Beric calmly defended, not giving him an inch. The sound of clashing wood filled the air, a constant back-and-forth of offense and defense.
After what seemed like an eternity, I could see the toll it was taking on both of them. Five minutes of nonstop fighting had passed, and Tyiyn's attacks were starting to slow. His shoulders heaved with exertion, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His stance was still strong, but the fatigue was visible in his movements.
Beric, though faring slightly better, was also showing signs of wear. His grip on his sword tightened as he held off yet another of Tyiyn's strikes, his own breathing growing heavier. It was clear that this battle of endurance couldn't last much longer.
This is the moment, I thought, leaning forward slightly in anticipation. Fatigue always brought more openings. I could see Tyiyn's already loose stance becoming even sloppier, and Beric, while still composed, was beginning to show cracks in his defense. A misstep here, a poorly timed block there—their weaknesses were laid bare for anyone sharp enough to notice.
And then it happened. Tyiyn swung again, another powerful slash aimed at Beric's torso. Beric moved to block it as he had done dozens of times already, but this time, instead of stepping back, he did something unexpected—he stepped forward.
The sudden movement caught Tyiyn off guard, and for a split second, he hesitated, his momentum faltering. Beric seized the opportunity, his eyes flashing with determination as he began to activate a skill. I could see the faint glow surrounding his blade as the words left his lips.
"Horizontal Slash!" Beric shouted, his voice filled with force. With a swift, decisive motion, he swung his sword, the blade cutting through the air with enhanced speed and power. The force behind the skill doubled his usual strength, and if it landed, Tyiyn would have no chance of blocking or dodging.
I leaned forward, expecting Tyiyn to lose right then and there. I knew how difficult it was to avoid a skill-enhanced strike, especially at such close range. There's no way he can dodge that.
But what happened next caught me, and everyone else watching, by complete surprise.
Just as Beric's blade was about to strike, Tyiyn did something completely unexpected. Instead of blocking or trying to sidestep, he jumped. Not just a normal jump, but a high, graceful leap into the air. And as he rose, his legs split apart in midair, a perfect display of flexibility and agility. Beric's blade sliced harmlessly through the empty space where Tyiyn had been standing just moments before.
The crowd gasped. Even Instructor Gord's usually stoic face showed a flicker of surprise.
Did he really just dodge that? my eyes widening. I didn't expect that at all.
Tyiyn landed smoothly behind Beric, who was still recovering from the powerful swing of his failed attack. Beric's stance was completely open now, his body unbalanced and vulnerable. It was a mistake Tyiyn wasn't about to let go unpunished.
"Horizontal Slash!" Tyiyn shouted, his voice ringing out loud and clear. Before Beric could regain his footing, Tyiyn's blade came crashing down in a swift, decisive slash. The strike hit Beric squarely across the chest, knocking him to the ground with a heavy thud.
The match was over.
Tyiyn wasted no time in positioning the tip of his wooden sword just above Beric's throat, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His face bore a confident smirk, one that clearly said, I've won.
Beric, still lying on the ground, looked up at him for a moment before sighing in defeat. "I surrender," he muttered, his voice filled with exhaustion and disappointment. His head hung low, but there was no bitterness in his tone—only the acknowledgment of a hard-fought battle.
Tyiyn, still panting, lowered his sword and extended a hand toward Beric. "That was an amazing match," he said, a faint smile on his face. "If I hadn't had the time to jump, I might have been the one on the ground right now."
Beric hesitated for a second before accepting Tyiyn's hand. With a grunt, he pulled himself up, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yeah, that jump... I didn't see that coming at all," he admitted, shaking his head. "But I won't lose next time."
"The match ended! Tyiyn won!" Instructor Gord's voice echoed across the training grounds, firm and authoritative, his words cutting through the tension like a sword through air.
The gathered students, who had been watching with bated breath, erupted into scattered applause, their faces showing a mixture of surprise and admiration. Tyiyn, drenched in sweat but wearing a triumphant grin, lowered his wooden sword, taking a deep breath as he basked in the glory of his hard-fought victory.
"Not bad, Tyiyn... Not bad at all," I muttered under my breath, watching as Beric slowly picked himself up off the ground, accepting Tyiyn's extended hand. Beric's face was red, not just from exertion but from a combination of frustration and embarrassment. He had clearly expected to win, but Tyiyn had pulled off something truly unexpected.
Instructor Gord called for the next pair, his voice booming once more to draw the students' attention away from the aftermath of the match. Tyiyn, still beaming, started walking over to where I stood, his steps filled with an uncharacteristic bounce. I could already see it on his face: he was going to milk this win for all it was worth.
"How's that? How's that?" Tyiyn asked, practically bouncing with excitement as he reached me, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of victory. He looked like a kid who had just won his first prize at a carnival, eager for everyone to recognize his achievement. "Pretty amazing, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," I replied, waving him off with a slight smirk. "That was amazing, alright. I didn't expect you'd pull it off. I was completely sure you'd lost when Beric activated his skill. That jump you did—it came out of nowhere. That was one great coincidence."
Tyiyn raised an eyebrow at me, his grin never faltering. "Coincidence? That wasn't a coincidence."
I blinked at him, tilting my head in confusion. "Huh? Then—" I started to ask, wanting to probe further, but before I could finish, the sound of Instructor Gord's voice interrupted me, announcing the start of the next match.
"Oh! The second match is starting! We'll talk later, Will!" Tyiyn said, cutting off our conversation as he eagerly hurried back toward the front of the group to get a better view of the upcoming match. He seemed completely absorbed in the idea of watching the next duel unfold, his curiosity piqued by the skills of the other competitors.
As I watched him walk away, my mind lingered on his words. What did he mean by "that wasn't a coincidence"? Did he know that Beric would do that and he somehow anticipated Beric's move? The idea gnawed at me, but I didn't have the luxury of dwelling on it for long. My own match was approaching soon, and I needed to stay focused.
I shifted my attention back to the training grounds just as the next pair began their introductions. This was Raiden's turn, and I found myself growing more interested.
"My name is Raiden, the Infernal Swordsman," Raiden declared as he stepped forward, his voice low and steady. His sword rested easily in his hand, as though it were an extension of his body, and he moved with a quiet grace that spoke of countless hours of practice.
I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his title. Infernal Swordsman? That was… quite the name. It reminded me of something my mother once told me during one of our training sessions. In our world, fathers often gave their children titles, and it seemed Raiden's father had bestowed that particular one upon him. I snorted at the thought, wondering what kind of title my own father might have given me. Probably something embarrassing, like "The King of All Elements" or some ridiculous exaggeration.
The rules surrounding titles were simple: you could only change it if someone of a higher class gave you a new one. It was a mark of honor and respect, but you could also refuse it. Refusing meant rejecting the person offering the title, a significant statement in itself.
Raiden's opponent, stepped forward next. She had long, dark green hair that framed her serious expression, her eyes sharp and focused like the blade she wielded. "My name is Nyrinn, daughter of Aegar," she said, her voice as calm as Raiden's, though it carried a more determined edge.
There was something about Nyrinn's demeanor that reminded me of Raiden. Both of them had that same intensity, a quiet confidence that made it hard to read their intentions. It was clear that this match wasn't going to be like Tyiyn's. There would be no reckless attacks or frantic dodges. No, this match would be different—a battle of precision and patience.
Instructor Gord tossed the coin into the air, the sound of metal clinking as it landed on the ground marking the start of the match. But… neither of them moved.
For several long moments, the training grounds were filled with an eerie silence. Raiden and Nyrinn stood perfectly still, their eyes locked on one another, neither making a move to attack. The tension was palpable, hanging in the air like a coiled spring ready to snap.
"What's happening? Why won't you attack, Raiden?" Tyiyn's voice broke the silence, his usual impatience getting the better of him.
"Shut up! Don't interrupt!" Instructor Gord barked, shooting Tyiyn a sharp look that made him shrink back into the crowd, suitably chastised.
Despite Tyiyn's outburst, neither Raiden nor Nyrinn so much as flinched. The two of them seemed to be in a battle of wills, waiting for the other to make the first move. It was almost as if they were trying to outlast each other in a mental duel before the physical one even began.
After what felt like an eternity, Instructor Gord finally stepped forward with a sigh, breaking the tension. "Well, shall I call it a draw? If no one attacks, the match won't end."
Raiden and Nyrinn exchanged a glance, but neither of them moved to disagree. With that, Instructor Gord officially called the match a draw, and the students let out a collective murmur of disappointment.
So that's what this was about, I thought to myself, realizing the truth. Raiden and Nyrinn were both defensive fighters, relying on their opponents to make the first move before counterattacking. Neither of them had been willing to go on the offensive, and as a result, the match ended in a stalemate.
A draw. It wasn't the most exciting outcome, but it revealed something important about both of them: they were swordsmen who valued patience and precision above all else.
As I stood waiting for my turn, I couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement and nerves building up inside me. The atmosphere in the training grounds was filled with anticipation, as each match seemed to intensify. I watched as instructor Gord announced the completion of the fifth match, calling out the sixth pair—my turn.
I took a deep breath, calming my nerves. My opponent, a dark-haired guy with glasses, walked toward the center with me. He had a quiet, focused demeanor, and I could tell he was the studious type. The light glinted off his spectacles as he adjusted them slightly, a sign that he was getting serious.
"All right, sixth pair, step forward!" Instructor Gord instructed. We moved to the center of the arena, the crowd of students watching us closely. My palms felt sweaty, but I tried to ignore it. Focus, Will. Remember the training.
Instructor Gord began explaining the rules again, even though we'd all heard them several times by now. I stood there, stretching my arms, eyes locked on my opponent. I couldn't read much from his expression—his face was as calm as a still pond.
When Instructor Gord finished, he nodded toward me to introduce myself first.
I stood tall, gripping my sword. "My name is Will, son of William," I declared, projecting as much confidence as I could muster. After all, I had to carry my father's name proudly.
My opponent followed suit, his voice steady and composed, "My name is Famir, son of Lathar." He took his stance, which was a traditional swordsman posture—his form tight, indicating he wasn't a novice.
Instructor Gord stepped back and tossed the coin high into the air, the small piece of metal spinning in the sunlight. The moment it landed, Famir moved with startling quickness.
He attacked immediately, charging at me with a horizontal slash aimed at my side. His movements were aggressive, but I could tell from the way he moved that he wasn't as skilled as the others I had faced before. His strikes lacked precision and power—nothing compared to the intense fight I'd had with Ruel or Uncle Philip. And certainly not on the same level as the relentless practice sessions with my mother.
I dodged his attack easily, stepping to the side just as his sword sliced through the air where I had been standing. Famir's eyes widened briefly, clearly surprised by how effortlessly I avoided his strike. I hadn't blocked it, but rather moved out of the way entirely, something he hadn't expected.
He quickly regained his composure and came at me again, this time with a diagonal slash. I could see the openings in his movements. His footwork was sloppy, and he left himself exposed with every swing. I was tempted to end it quickly, but the part of me that didn't want to embarrass him held me back.
In the midst of dodging, I couldn't help but compare him to the people who'd trained me. Ruel's attacks had always been so sharp and precise; even if I saw them coming, avoiding them was another story. Uncle Philip's strength was almost overwhelming at times, leaving me to use all my agility to keep up. And Mother… Mother's skill left no room for error. She never hesitated to exploit any mistake I made during our sparring sessions.
But Famir? He was no Ruel, no Uncle Philip, and certainly no Mother.
As he swung again, I took a deep breath and decided it was time to finish this. His next attack was aimed at my head, but I swiftly ducked under it and stepped to the side, setting up my counter. His sword passed harmlessly over my head, leaving him off balance for just a moment.
I shouted as I activated my skill, "Vertical Slash!"
My sword came down fast, cutting through the air toward him. Famir barely had time to react, raising his sword horizontally to block the blow. He managed to get his guard up in time, but the force of my strike was too much for him to handle. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground under the weight of my attack, struggling to keep hold of his sword.
I didn't give him a chance to recover. With a quick movement, I kicked his sword out of his hands, sending it spinning into the air. The sword glinted in the sunlight as it twirled, and without missing a beat, I caught it before it hit the ground. The crowd around us gasped in awe.
Instructor Gord's voice rang out, "The match ended! Will won!"
I took a deep breath, lowering Famir's sword and offering him a hand to stand. He hesitated for a moment, perhaps still reeling from the sudden defeat, but then accepted the gesture. His face showed no signs of resentment, just acceptance.
"You fought well," I said, trying to offer some words of encouragement. He nodded, although his expression was a little distant.
After that, I walked back toward Tyiyn and Raiden, who were both standing off to the side watching. The moment Tyiyn saw me, he rushed over, eyes wide with excitement.
"Will! Will! Why didn't you tell me you were that strong?" Tyiyn practically shouted, grinning from ear to ear. He looked like a kid who had just found a treasure chest.
"I'm not that strong," I replied, trying to brush it off casually. "That was just a coincidence."
Raiden, who had been silent, suddenly smirked. "Is that really a coincidence, though?"
I glanced at him, surprised. Even though I had tried to hold back, they still noticed how easily I won. I guess I underestimated how much my skills have grown.
"Anyway, congratulations to the two of you," Raiden said, his tone shifting to something more sincere.
"And you?" I asked, curious. "Why didn't you make a move during your match?"
He looked away, his smirk fading slightly. "No reason at all. It's just that I don't like fighting with women." His tone was nonchalant, but I could tell there was more to it. I didn't press him further. After all, I knew the real reason he held back. It wasn't something I could explain to the others without raising suspicion.
After that, the three of us watched the remaining matches, each of us standing in quiet observation until the last pair finally finished their bout.
Instructor Gord clapped his hands to gather everyone's attention. "You can have your lunch now, but remember to come back here twenty minutes after the bell rings. I noticed that almost all of you don't have much stamina, so this afternoon, we'll be working on that. Understood? Dismissed!"
The three of us headed to the cafeteria, where we met up with Tork, who was already full of energy, eager to share his experiences from the morning. As we ate lunch together, Tork animatedly described everything that had happened to him, his enthusiasm infectious, even as we tried to hold back our laughter.
It was a nice break before the afternoon training—one that we knew was going to be even more grueling than the matches.