6th day of Bruma, Year 769.
Seven had overslept after the intensity of yesterday's training. He arrived at the training square just after the introductions of the cadets finished: Lythian and Maelle.
The senior knight already had his hands raised.
"In your positions… begin!"
Dhush!
Lythian took two quick steps and darted forward; Maelle matched him. If she hadn't, Lythian would have shoved her to the edge of the square and picked apart her guard.
Their wooden swords met at the center.
Thunk!
Lythian then attacked with a diagonal cut, but Maelle parried and countered with a thrust. By twisting his torso, the thrust flew an inch past his body.
Seeing the tension from Lythian's leg, Maelle hopped back and dodged a swift low steep just as she predicted it.
Thunk, thunk!
A series of exchanges followed.
Lythian's rapid attacks set the tempo and probed reaction, while Maelle answered with her skillful angled footworks, along with tiny feints that used the square the way a cat uses shadow.
It was a two-way battle, and neither side was refusing to let their opponent take even a proper breath. Both cadets ducked, rolled through the snow, spun mid-air, and performed other acrobatics that could gain an upperhand.
Maelle came up with a reverse grip thrust but Lythian parried it with his palm, shoving the wooden sword away.
Both cadets leaped backward.
Atop the stacked crates, Seven leaned forward.
Even the watching knights held their breaths from anticipation.
Lythian was the defending champion for a reason, looking like he could read attacks like notes in a poem; but Maelle moved in notes he hadn't expected, looking like an impromptu verse.
Dhush!
Once again, both cadets lunged and met by the center.
Lythian tried to seize an edge with another low sweep, but the same attacks wouldn't work twice.
Maelle planted her boots into the snow and answered with a half-turn that left her opponent's wrist exposed then performed a riposte. The flick would have grazed his throat if not for his shoulder roll.
The wooden sword hit his collarbone instead.
Lythian ignored the pain and spat on the snow, and continued the succeeding exchanges.
Thunk, thunk!
Thunk!
Seven's face contorted. From his perspective, Lythian looked like he was being pushed back.
That was… unexpected.
But based on the current turn of events, there was a high possibility that Maelle might come out as the victor.
Both cadets danced farther apart, studying the possible next move of each other on the breath between strikes.
Fwoosh!
Maelle arced into a clean downward strike at his shoulder, and Lythian extended his reach and performed a stab.
Maelle had no room to parry, thus she let it strike her chest given that she wore a leather breastplate. She then used the shock to drop under his arm like a cat, then came up on his flank and trapped his sword under her armpit.
With her other hand, she swung the sword upward but Lythian tilted his head back and the sword missed his chin by less than half of an inch.
Lythian jumped and kicked her chest. That movement pulled the sword free and gave him enough distance, his breath ragged like he truly ran out of energy.
Maelle didn't waste the opportunity, lunging forward.
Thunk!
Lythian blocked, and their blades crossed.
But…
Maelle's sword snapped in two, the top half spun away and buried itself in the snow.
For a second, the square held only the sound of two cadets panting and the air that whistled past the broken wooden sword in her hands.
Maelle asked for a handshake.
"It's my loss, Lythian. It was a good—"
Lythian ignored the other cadet and leveled his wooden sword toward the figure sitting above the stacked crates.
"..."
"..."
An awkward silence filled the square, gulping as he looked at the tension between the gazes of the winning cadet and the young lord.
After a few seconds of intense staring contest, the senior knight cleared his throat. Only then did Lythian lower the wooden sword.
"For the past few days, the cadets have displayed spectacular performances. But with three wins and no losses, the defending champion once again reigned above."
The senior knight swept his gaze across the square.
"In seven days' time, upon the 12th day of this month, Lythian Floquet will defend that title against the young lord."
The knights clapped politely, murmuring theories with low voices as they fully expected that the finals would take place the day after.
Lythian frowned. It was the fact that he couldn't do anything about it, as the schedule might have been decided by the commander.
Besides, that time should also be enough for a handicap for the young lord who first held a sword a few days prior.
"That was a spar to remember. The cadets are highly talented with their own talents. In any case, young lord, would you prefer a short break or to start the session at this moment?"
Heinrich received no response.
Looking up, the young lord's eyes were focused on nothing in particular while fidgeting his fingers.
Truth be told, Seven was replaying the battle in his mind, in again, such a high detail.
He had already replayed it many times, over and over, again and again: Lythian had the upper hand all throughout the bout and many chances to deliver a fatal blow were present, yet his expression looked like he was barely keeping up and refused to exploit those chances.
"Wait. Isn't that…"
But after examining every detail, Lythian had been hitting the same exact point in Maelle's wooden sword. Consistently, from start to the end.
Lythian was merely showcasing his skill.
It was his own way of telling the young lord to fuck off and lock himself back in the manor again, not trying to play with the sword.
"Heh. Such an arrogant fudger. I'll have my chance to put you back in your place soon…"
Step.
Seven leaped down from the crates and grabbed a spare wooden sword.
"Heinrich."
"At once, young lord."
He then inhaled slowly, then tightened his grip around the wooden sword but not too much— exact force of what he learned these past few days.
Across from him stood Heinrich.
But in Seven's eyes, the vice commander's figure blurred and shifted, replaced by the image of Lythian.
Before moving, he replayed Lythian's style in his head: from the rhythm and speed of his footwork, and the angle of his attacks and counters.
Truth is, he had already imagined several responses: if Lythian stepped left or right, if he dodged back, if he chose to slip past the blade instead of parrying it.
Dhush!
Seven darted forward.
Fwoosh!
Heinrich slipped past the first strike with ease, but he stepped exactly where Seven expected. Thus his sword chased him immediately.
Fwoosh, fwoosh!
A succession of strikes followed.
Heinrich could still dodge them, his movements remained calm and precise.
An hour passed.
Then three.
Five.
They kept at it through an abundant lunch Iria had brought. Seven's arms burned from fatigue, and his breath came ragged and hot in the chill air. But he pushed on.
Seven hours.
At first, it still looked like Heinrich was simply avoiding the attacks. But gradually, it became clear that something else was happening.
'...Is the young lord not predicting my next step, but guiding them by limiting the choices I would take?'
Heinrich thought, and he was right.
Each swing forced Heinrich into a narrower path, each feint subtly herded him toward the next strike. Like water being channeled through a narrowing stream, Heinrich's options became fewer and fewer.
Fwoosh!
Seven trained until the sun hid behind the western peaks.
Eleven hours had gone by when, at last, he managed the move he'd wanted: he forced Heinrich's hands from behind his back and used his forearm to block a strike aimed at his neck.
"Huff… I… did it."
Fully soaked with sweat, snowflakes settled on the bridge of his nose as he looked up. The fading apricity of the winter sun reflected in his indigo eyes.
"I… finally did it, damn it."