Why is it combater and not material master, martial artist, warrior, or whatever else? Why insist on calling it combater?
The answer is obvious: because combater means combative.
This combative nature comes from the training itself—grinding down the body, tempering the spirit, until blood surge upward, that raw power bubbling in the heart. Unless it's released, it's unbearable. One sandbag company's ad shows how many sandbags and wooden dummies get smashed by combaters yearly; strung together, they could circle the continent three times.
Of course, not everyone sticks to sandbags and wooden dummies. The best way to improve yourself has always been real combat. Things like this happen often: two combaters run into each other, their eyes lock, sparks fly, and with strange smiles they both head for the arena...
Combaters are born fighters. That's why they're called combaters, not masters.
This state lasts a long time, until a combater enters the next stage of training—though of course, talent matters. It's a bit like a teenager's rebellious phase. Lindholm, for example, never really had one stage like this.
But that urge to fight has already been carved into a combater's very bloodline. Even after passing the phase, they still crave strength, still yearn for battle and victory.
At Ford's age, there won't be much growth left. He's already past his peak. But no matter the years, no combater can ever turn down a fight against another strong combater.
"Yes." Lindholm answers curtly.
No matter when, no matter where, no matter who, no matter if man or woman, old or young, many or few, weak or strong... if challenged, he fights.
Ford is overjoyed. He stands up and says: "Then let's head to the arena."
"No need," Lindholm shakes his head, speaking casually. "This office is plenty spacious. Here is good enough."
Ford narrows his eyes. "No prana, just technique?"
"Fight however you like," Lindholm says lazily. "...Don't worry, I won't kill you."
"It seems... you really are confident." Ford draws in a long breath. "At the very least, you should get a weapon."
"The blade is already in my heart," Lindholm replies. "That's enough. Don't worry about me. Please."
Nephalem stands to the side, watching.
Ford wastes no words. Facing such an unfathomable opponent, once the other had spoken, there would be nothing more to say. He slips his left leg back, bends slightly, fists raised—one forward, one back—already in stance.
"Polar Day Rampage School—Marcus Ford. Please enlighten me."
Before engaging in combat, declaring one's own school is a basic etiquette for combaters.
Lindholm tilts his head down a few degrees. His hands drops loosely, holding nothing, yet keeping the posture of gripping a sword.
His whole body is nothing but openings.
"Ephemeral Transcendence School—Alvin Lindholm. Please enlighten me."
Neither moves.
Lindholm's earlier response had been arrogant, but Ford wasn't angry. Young combaters are all full of pride in their strength; for an old man like him, being underestimated is nothing new.
But, my life has not been in vain...
If you dares to fight me without even a weapon, against these fists I've honed for decades—you'll regret it!
Ford spots an opening. Just as he throws his punch, the world goes dark!
Out of the pitch black, a long blade flashes from a blind spot—an overhead diagonal slash, cutting into his ribs, tearing flesh, breaking bone, carving through organs.
He feels the cold edge ripping skin, slicing through entrails, even hears the sound of his body being split apart.
The strike enters beneath his ribs and exited at his shoulder—one cut, cleaving him clean in half.
The stench of death surges in, swallowing him whole.
Life... slipping away.
Dead...?
Yes. He could feel it.
Life fading, everything hollow, himself—dying.
Just like that... dead?
Ford's mind is chaos.
Then suddenly, the darkness scatters. Instinctively, Ford touchs his body—unharmed, intact.
The three of them still stands in the office. Lindholm is still in the same stance, haven't moved at all. Nephalem too, arms folded, leaning against the wall.
The only one who'd moved was Ford, sweating, panting hard, as if he really had been cut down.
But nothing ever happened.
"What... was that?Illusion...?"
As a teacher of the Royal Academy, Ford has seen many schools. Even among combaters, there are some who uses illusions. But... this didn't feel like that.
"Impressive..." Lindholm says with shameless arrogance. He grins. "Teacher Ford, you really were terrified. Not bad."
Before Ford could react, Nephalem claps his hands, cutting in. "Don't mind him. He isn't really like this. It's just, whenever it involves fighting, he talks in a way that sounds insufferable. Even if it sounds like mockery, what he actually means is that you did well."
Yes—if anyone understands Lindholm, it is Nephalem.
He explains: "That wasn't an illusion. It's a combination of killing intent, posture, tiny motions, and subtle eye signals—plus a burst of prana—that makes the opponent feel as if they've been cut down."
"He calls it Consciousness Slash."
"The stronger and more experienced the opponent, the more vivid the details they perceive. The weaker and more inexperienced, the blurrier it is. Since you reacted so strongly, it proves you sensed a lot. So... when he said you did well, he really meant it."
"An unheard-of technique... I remember Teacher Nightsong once joked that a true hero could kill with his eyes alone. I thought it nonsense. Yet I nearly saw it come true." Ford falls silent, then says sincerely: "Truly astonishing."
He ignores Nephalem's attempt to whitewash Lindholm's words, hearing only the principle behind Consciousness Slash.
"No sword in hand, yet still able to slash." Lindholm says languidly. "Too many bumptious fools in prison. Bored, I came up with the trick. Nothing worth mentioning."
"I have no objections then... Welcome to the Royal Academy."
Leaving the Department of Combat office, the two of them run through some paperwork. Maybe because they'd already checked in yesterday, everything moves unusually fast. By the end of the afternoon, it is basically all settled.
Nephalem now follows Lindholm to his faculty dormitory: a one-bedroom, one-bath, one-living space. No kitchen, but otherwise fully furnished—which doesn't matter to Lindholm anyway.
Nephalem glances around, checking for missing essentials, and says: "We've known each other for a while. Honestly, your emotions are remarkably stable... The only thing that worries me is why you never refuse to accept when challenged. Back in prison, now here—it's the same."
His sudden question makes Lindholm pause. Then he replies: "If you really want to know, Nephalem... don't you think refusing a challenge is a terribly despicable thing for me to do?"
His expression carries a natural certainty that Nephalem couldn't understand.
"Despicable...?" Nephalem can't grasp it. "Why would you say that?"
"Take chess, for example," Lindholm says. "In South Aureland chess, the highest rank is called Eternal Sky. Only one person per era may hold it. But if, once someone gains the title, he refuses to ever play again... then no one could ever take it from him, no matter how skilled they are."
"That man could keep his title until death. And even if later generations earn the title, people would always think it illegitimate."
"Because the only rightful way to obtain Eternal Sky is to defeat the previous holder."
"Even if your skill far surpasses him, even if you could crush him outright, people would still say your title is tainted..."
Lindholm looks at Nephalem, speaking softly: "The fate of the strong is to accept challenges. To dodge and refuse... in my eyes, that is truly despicable."
"...Honestly, I can't really understand. But since you've always held back enough not to hurt anyone, do as you please."
Nephalem scans the room. The Royal Academy had done well with faculty housing. Everything necessary is there. Nothing left for him to do.
"I've got some work to get back to. The room seems fine. If you need anything else, just grab it at the convenience store... I'll get going?"
"Mm. Goodbye."
Nephalem takes two steps, then turns back. "Don't lose your faculty card."
"I know. Only kids lose things like that."
"And the key too."
"I know..."
He nods, turns, walks another two steps.
"Make sure to memorize your schedule. Best to pin it above your bed where you can see it. Don't be late on your first day, it'll leave a bad impression."
"I know! I got it already!"
Two more steps, and again he turns.
"You'd better familiarize yourself with the map as well. Don't get lost in the Academy. And don't be late to your first class, seriously, it'll look terrible."
"Why don't you just say it all at once..."
This time, Nephalem turns and walks straight to the door. But as he turns again, the world dims again. Lindholm's expression grows cold, more like the one he once captured in old photos before imprisonment—blade in hand, glinting with killing frost...
The sword slashes down, aiming to split him in two!
At the last moment, Nephalem regains control of his body. He steps back. The blade brushes past him, missing by a hair.
The world returns to light.
Nephalem, drenches in cold sweat, mutters: "That's exactly what I mean... This isn't prison anymore. Stop scaring people for no reason."
Lindholm whistles, eyes drifting away.
Nephalem sighs, steps out, and closes the door behind him.
Just as Lindholm thought he was gone, the door opens again. Nephalem pokes his head back in.
"If anything comes up, come find me. Don't bottle it up alone."
Lindholm shoots him a glance—the so-called killing gaze of a true hero. But Nephalem is prepared for this. With a snap, he shuts the door.