On the field, Harlan shed his armor, standing bare-chested, holding a stone longsword, facing Siran.
Siran also took off his mentor's robe, tied it around his waist, and likewise held a stone sword, facing Harlan.
The two stood solemnly opposite each other, sharp auras swirling around the two Sword Masters, an invisible momentum clashing fiercely in the air.
"Stone swords? Want to start with something traditional? Do your old bones need a warm-up?" Harlan asked with exaggerated casualness, his sword dancing in his hand, creating a dazzling display of sword flowers.
"Are you an idiot?" Siran scoffed, drawing a semicircle with his stone sword in front of him, while striking an attacking pose: "We can demonstrate for the apprentices; I believe it will be more impactful than verbal instruction."
Even in the moment of a duel, Siran did not forget his duties as a mentor.
A duel between two Sword Masters is a rare opportunity, and how much the apprentices learn depends on their talent.
With frequent warfare, all the experts are out fighting, making it impossible to find a Sword Master for guidance and teaching.
Since an opponent had proactively come to his door today, Siran naturally had to make good use of the opportunity.
The so-called traditional swordsmanship is a 'contradictory' swordsmanship developed by the Sentinels, used for self-discipline.
It is not sharp, and its offensive power is average, but for those who can use it skillfully, their swordsmanship can definitely be described as uncanny.
It relies on Argent Nur White Stone and is named: "Restraint."
When the white stone is polished to one millimeter thin, it exhibits a unique characteristic: longitudinally, it is incredibly tough, but horizontally, the blade will snap with even a slight application of force.
The Restraint match is simple: both sides use any movement to attack, cutting off the opponent's sword while ensuring their own sword does not break.
It sounds difficult, but in practice, it is even harder.
It tests both sides' control and mastery of technique.
Since they were starting with the traditional method, the two no longer had a tense, drawn-out atmosphere; instead, they approached each other quite relaxed.
Harlan bounced along, his entire body relaxed, adjusting every muscle to its optimal state.
Siran was much the same, swinging his limbs to relax his taut nerves.
"Zheng--" The two stone swords clashed, a clear, resonant hum echoing through the training ground. This crisp sound was both a salute of courtesy and a declaration of engagement.
Harlan launched the first attack. The moment the blades touched, his arm muscles suddenly exerted force, and the stone sword slid down the blade, striking directly at Siran's face!
"Your intention is too obvious!" Siran's ancient, robust voice still sounded like a teacher giving guidance.
He gently turned his blade, meeting edge with edge, forcing Harlan to stop his strike.
Indeed! When stone sword blades collide, the one who uses more force is at a disadvantage, as the sword body is more likely to break at the point of impact.
"Humph!" Harlan grunted, his arm muscles suddenly tensing, forcefully stopping the descending blade instantly!
This is the essence of "Restraint": instantly stopping the blade!
It requires powerful body control, manipulating body muscles to instantly halt the stone sword from rapid motion!
The moment it stopped, Harlan's blade, defying inertia, instantly slashed horizontally, cutting a 90-degree right angle.
"Oh!"
By the side of the training ground, the tactical apprentices gasped in amazement.
Such a battle involved no screaming clash of blades, no dazzling sword techniques, only a rigorous test of fundamental skills.
Blazkowicz also watched, clenching his fists. Imagine on the battlefield, your opponent wielding his sword with complete freedom, controlling its direction at will—what a terrifying sight.
Siran's expression was serious; it was time for his sword to give the young man a taste of hardship.
The two disengaged after one strike. Siran's stone sword swept upwards from below, launching an attack from below.
Harlan's swordsmanship was aggressive, meaning he would not block with his blade horizontally but would instead chop downwards, striking at the incoming blade.
"Whoever stops is a coward!"
His eyes conveyed this message. Their gazes met, fierce eyes clashing, both wanting to pierce through the other.
Neither would yield; they were determined to determine a victor.
"Hah!"
A muffled grunt came, and the instant the blades touched, almost simultaneously, both men gasped for breath, stopping their blades.
Instant stop, instant cut. These two simple movements left both Grand Swordsmen sweating after two rounds of engagement.
Their legs were rooted like old trees, their arm muscles bulging and tensed, veins protruding, yet needing to relax instantly.
Even for battle-hardened warriors, such a burden was still difficult to bear.
The swords touched "gently," and they faced each other like reflections, blades touching, maintaining precise contact through every advance and retreat.
The mastery of technique and degree of strength control displayed by both sides were beyond what ordinary people or even the Sentinels could achieve.
The two Grand Swordsmen's blades remained tightly pressed for only a few seconds, their faces streaming with sweat, their muscles reddened from repeated instant tension and stretching.
"Warm-up's about done, isn't it?"
Harlan noticed Siran's flagging stamina and offered an out.
"About done!" Siran also understood that traditional swordsmanship was too simple for two Grand Swordsmen, making it difficult to determine a victor.
In a Restraint match, for one Grand Master to cut off another Grand Master's sword?
By normal standards, such a contest, even if it continued until exhaustion, would be hard to call.
It was better to save some strength for the second stage, using their true swordsmanship to decide the winner.
Traditional swordsmanship is basic swordsmanship, used by every Sentinels. The true decider of victory is "Advanced Swordsmanship."
It's a very broad term; any swordsmanship that goes beyond basic swordsmanship is called Advanced Swordsmanship.
Harlan's instinctive swordsmanship is Advanced Swordsmanship, and Siran's sword techniques are also Advanced Swordsmanship. There's almost no fixed definition; any swordsmanship that develops its own style is Advanced Swordsmanship.
Switching to fine iron longswords, both sides rested for a few breaths, preparing for the second stage of the match.
Hearing that both sides were about to get serious, Queen Elise's expression suddenly changed, as if remembering an important lesson.
"Later, you can study and refer to Harlan's swordsmanship, but you must not learn anything else!"
"Promise me!" Elise, abandoning her usual gentleness, said to Blazkowicz with a serious expression: "Don't learn anything at all!"
Looking at the serious expression on his mother's face, Blazkowicz also said earnestly: "I promise you! I won't learn anything except the swordsmanship!"
The next moment, Harlan on the field spoke.
Blazkowicz finally understood the reason for his mother's prohibition—besides the sword techniques, Harlan's other aspects were not to be learned.
"Old man! When my wife gave birth to your great-grandson, you didn't even come to see him?"
Harlan's mouth was faster than the sword in his hand; the moment he spoke, Siran's aura faltered, and Blazkowicz clearly saw veins bulging on Siran's forehead.
In that moment of hesitation, Harlan seized the opportunity to close in, his sword weaving an impenetrable net, forcing Siran to retreat repeatedly.
As people knew, Harlan's swordsmanship was renowned for its aggression; every strike aimed at vital points like the throat.
"Look at you, your sword-holding hand is trembling. Why not retire and go home?" Compared to his sword, his mouth was no less aggressive.
Blazkowicz had heard of the Champion Swordsman's title but hadn't learned much about the man himself.
Now, the incessantly chattering person on the field made Blazkowicz uneasy; he hadn't expected his guard's verbal aggression to be so potent.
"Although it's a very effective strategy, never learn it!"
Queen Elise reiterated her solemn instruction, with a serious expression Blazkowicz had never seen before: "You are a Novick Family Prince; you can lose gracefully, but you cannot win like him."
Blazkowicz nodded, understanding the meaning behind his mother's words.
His identity and Harlan's were different. The Champion Swordsman could act without restraint, using any means to achieve victory; that was his duty.
But royalty must maintain their dignity!
On the field, the two swordsmen were at the pinnacle of their art, engaging in fierce combat the moment their blades met, neither able to gain an advantage over the other.
Their attack speed was incredibly fast, striking each other over a dozen times a second, their swords a blur of motion, dazzling the eyes.
Harlan's sword swung rapidly, its light interweaving into a net that enveloped Siran.
Amidst a chilling sword light, Siran remained composed, his counterattacks always at the most opportune angle, piercing through the sword net Harlan had woven.
He not only defended against all attacks but also managed to counterattack.
Siran gradually took control of the rhythm with his exquisite swordsmanship, slowly dismantling Harlan's fierce offensive with broad, balanced sword techniques.
"Old man, don't you have any new tricks? Still the same old routine?"
Suddenly, Harlan's sword style changed, allowing him to break free from the quagmire formed by Siran's sword moves.
"Throat!" the Champion Swordsman roared, thrusting his longsword sharply towards Siran's throat.
Siran's expression was grave; he dared not be careless, raising his longsword to parry the blade aimed at his throat.
At that moment, Harlan's longsword moved like a venomous snake, its position rapidly changing without stopping, striking towards Siran's throat like a viper.
Harlan was true to his word; if he said throat, he went straight for the throat.
Siran sharply retreated, quickly moving out of attack range, but Harlan's blade, like a persistent maggot, was difficult to shake off.
"Left collarbone!"
Another warning sounded in Siran's ear. The current situation allowed him no time to think.
If he defended his left ribs, Harlan would feign; if he didn't, the sword's edge would surely strike.
As an experienced Great Swordsman, Siran ignored Harlan's trash talk. He noticed the instant the thrusting sword was withdrawn, the brief opening in the attack, and lashed out with his own sword!
"Clang ~ Clang ~ Clang ~"
The swords of the two masters rang out with crisp calls, dozens of times in a short period.
Under the immense force of their clashes, the edges of their fine steel longswords shattered, becoming jagged like saw teeth.
What a magnificent duel! Even Blazkowicz, with his keen eyesight and analytical skills, couldn't help but clench his fists, cheering for their match.
The audience in the training ground was flushed, but dared not cheer or scream, fearing they might disturb the two.
As their duel progressed, the field fell silent, awaiting that fatal blow, the one strike that would decide the victor.
"Heart!" Harlan's warning sounded again. Both knew it was time to decide the victor.
The longsword, like a spirit snake flicking its tongue, was insidious and swift, baring its fangs at Siran.
Siran smirked, waving his hand to withdraw his sword and defend, using the angle between the guard and the blade to trap Harlan's sword, then forcefully twisted.
"Bang!"
The sword blade, already serrated from the clashes, could not bear the strain and split in the middle. The longsword in Harlan's hand broke off about a third of the way from the tip!
At this instant, all the warrior apprentices stood up, ready to celebrate Siran's victory.
In a duel between masters, even a small difference in attack range brings an astonishing advantage.
An inch longer, an inch stronger. At this moment, Siran only needed to retreat and create distance, and Harlan would have no chance of winning.
The audience thought so. Siran thought so too. He quickly retreated to create distance, fully utilizing the advantage of attack range.
Harlan let out an evil laugh, not moving forward to close the distance, but instead threw a punch, aiming it at the broken sword blade.
"You lose!"
Their voices sounded simultaneously, each declaring the other's defeat.
The people in the stands froze, unsure who had won the final victory, unsure who to cheer for.
Siran's sword rested on Harlan's shoulder; with a single swing, he could take off his head.
And in the gap of Harlan's fist, he held the broken sword blade, pointed directly at Siran's glabella:
"If this were on the battlefield, this fragment would have pierced your head. You wouldn't have had a chance to kill me."
"Unfortunately, this isn't a battlefield. Victory and defeat aren't a matter of life and death, but decided by rules."
Siran said earnestly as he withdrew his longsword, "The battlefield has its rules, and a competition has its rules."
"If everything could be mixed together, then what would be the necessity of rules?"
"Stop talking!" Harlan waved his hand dismissively, his face showing no concern, "I only care about victory and defeat on the battlefield, not about any rules."
"Harlan Ogilvy!" Siran's grave voice was very low, "You had many ways to defeat an old man like me, and you even saw through my tactics, but you still attacked with what you 'believed' was instinct, without any strategic thinking."
"It is this narrow focus on the immediate that prevents your Master Swordsman techniques from being truly refined."
"Stop, don't say anymore!" Harlan quickly waved his hand, his expression showing a plea for mercy, "I surrender! I surrender!"
"Today I am not the main character. We have already delayed Blazkowicz for a long time, so stop chattering."
Finally, Siran opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but swallowed it back.
"Continue training!" His angry roar dispersed the warrior apprentices who were watching, as the remaining matters were not for them to be involved in.
Siran smiled gently, pulling Blazkowicz to his side and saying, "Go to the training ground. Harlan Ogilvy will teach you the basics. Your mother and I have something to discuss."
"Alright!"
Blazkowicz nodded and then left. When adults discussed certain things, he needed to give them space.
"Me?" Harlan pointed to himself, looking at Siran with a puzzled expression, his eyes full of confusion.
Seeing Siran's grave expression, he asked no more questions, silently following Blazkowicz away.
"Queen Elise." After Harlan and Blazkowicz had walked away, Siran looked at Elise, hoping the Queen would provide an answer: "The royal family's learning process has remained unchanged for thousands of years. Are you not going to give this old man an answer?"
Nothing is trivial in the imperial family. Every action of the Nowick royal family involves many things and cannot be changed on a whim.
The different order in which knowledge is learned greatly influences a person's subjective perspective, leading to different decisions on the same matter.
A prince should first enter the Division of Command to establish a comprehensive strategic view, understanding the consequences of his decisions and how they affect the fate of many people.
For a prince, warrior training is necessary, but not as important as the former.
A warrior who makes a wrong decision in battle might die, and in the worst case, could lead to the demise of a small squad.
If a commander makes a mistake, it leads to complete defeat.
A commander needs to be rational, suppressing the desire for victory to achieve it.
A warrior needs rage to ensure they kill the opponent in front of them.
The two are vastly different. The type of education received first dictates the type of thinking one adopts.
Siran did not understand why Elise had sent Blazkowicz here to first undergo warrior training.
King Nowick had explicitly stated that he considered Blazkowicz his son and wished for him to inherit the throne. Siran was one of the witnesses.
Could it be some court politics?
Siran couldn't help but be suspicious. He was not a pure warrior like Harlan Ogilvy. Having served two King Nowicks, his senses were very sharp.
"It's not what you think." Under the suspicious gaze of the Court Swordsman, Queen Elise quickly explained, "Nowick told me to do this."
"King Nowick?" Siran's eyes instantly became serious, "Then do I have the right to know?"
Involving King Nowick's arrangements, Siran also maintained a serious attitude, carefully asking if he had the right to know.
"He instructed that, besides me, you are the only other person with the right to know."
Elise pulled Siran into the shadows, and after confirming no one was around, she lowered her voice and said cautiously, "He foresaw the future and believes Blazkowicz must first wield a weapon and possess the power to protect himself!"
Upon hearing this, Siran's pupils suddenly constricted, his heart pounded wildly for a few beats, and cold sweat instantly streamed down his forehead.
Blazkowicz needs to protect himself?
This indicated that King Nowick could no longer be certain that his abilities or the Sentinels's abilities could protect Blazkowicz.
Siran felt his mouth go dry. He couldn't understand what kind of enemy would make King Nowick feel such pressure.
"Then we must hurry!"
Under Harlan's guidance, Blazkowicz began to learn basic swordsmanship, practicing with considerable skill, which amazed Harlan at his learning ability.
"Blazkowicz! From now on, you will follow my arrangements."
Siran's voice suddenly rang out, his eyes somewhat grave, "We must hurry. Use all your abilities and learn the way of the warrior well!"
Blazkowicz's excellent perception allowed him to sense the gravity in Siran's eyes, as well as the suppressed urgency.
His small face was serious, and he nodded heavily, "I can't wait!"
Harlan also became aware of the heaviness in the air. His instincts told him that his future work would not be easy.
Thus, Blazkowicz embarked on his path as a warrior.