The square arena, paved with heavy stone slabs, held three figures. Two were boys clad in the academy's black uniforms traced with white—Henry and Benson. The third was a middle-aged man in red leather armor, a teacher of knightly rank, a baron in title.
The teacher cast a subtle glance toward Wallace, who stood among the crowd, then cleared his throat and gave the signal:
"Begin."
At once, Henry and Benson surged forward, feet pounding like war-drums upon the stone. The distance of ten paces vanished in the blink of an eye.
Clang!
Their blades leapt from their scabbards in perfect unison, flashing in the sunlight, each executing the same opening form—Silver Frost Reflects the Snow, the first stance of the Silver Frost Knight's swordsmanship. It was a probing strike, easily shifted into other forms, and ideal for opening an exchange.
Steel met steel. The crash rang sharp as thunder.
For a heartbeat they seemed equal. Then the truth showed.
One youth staggered two steps back before regaining his stance. The other held firm.
"Henry…"
Charles's face tightened. It was Henry who had been driven back. The clash made plain what they all suspected—Benson's physique outmatched his.
"Pathetic."
Benson's lips curled as he pressed the advantage, sword raised high in a crushing overhead chop—the fifth form of the Silver Frost style, Silver Frost Winter Snow, a blow to split a man in half.
Henry, forced backward, betrayed no panic. He had expected as much. His body slid left, blade sweeping up in a diagonal arc—the second form, Silver Frost Early Snow.
Clang!
Steel rang again. Henry's upward sweep deflected the descending sword just enough to skew its path. Benson's weapon carved into the stone itself, cleaving a furrow seven or eight centimeters deep.
Had that stroke found Henry, it would have cut him as cleanly.
Shhh!
Benson wrenched his blade free and swung again, a brutal horizontal slash.
Henry blurred aside.
Slash after slash rained down—whist, whist, whist—and each time Henry slipped away, turning blows aside with deft parries or stepping just out of reach.
"He'll lose."
"It's only a matter of time. Keep running and sooner or later Benson will corner him."
"Strength decides this. Henry is weak. Benson will win."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. To their eyes, Henry was harried and desperate, barely evading each blow. His chances looked slim.
"Lord Wallace, Benson has the match in hand. Pity the rules forbid him to strike too heavily, or the teacher would be forced to intervene."
One of Wallace's attendants smirked.
Wallace gave a thin, mocking smile. "Do you really think heavy hands are forbidden?"
The attendant froze, staring in shock. Wallace's look held only contempt. Teachers of Neo Knight Academy might be knights, might even bear baronial rank—but before an earl's house, and not just any but House Lund, a thousand-year lineage, their weight was little indeed.
So long as appearances were maintained, who would dare again say Wallace's will?
"Is he truly losing?"
Titus Kirk watched from the crowd, his eyes narrowed. On the surface, yes—Henry seemed harried, pressed to the edge. Yet something did not fit.
For all his dodges, Henry looked neither frantic nor overwhelmed. His movement bore the ease of one in control, his gaze sharp, searching.
"No… he's waiting. Like a hunter."
"What's wrong, Henry? All you can do is run?" Benson snarled, blade sweeping wide.
"Would you prefer I stand and let you cut me down?" Henry answered with a wry smile.
The battle was not brute force alone. To pit his weaker strength against Benson's head-on would be folly. Instead, Henry's swordsmanship—the keener edge—was his shield. He turned aside blows, stole angles, and bided his time, watching for the smallest gap.
Then—
Shhhk!
A silver flash cut across the arena, too sudden to follow.
Gasps broke from the crowd.
Blood welled. Benson's left arm, its leather rent, bore a shallow gash.
The stunned silence was palpable.
Had Henry been the one to bleed, no one would have been surprised. But for Benson—the aggressor, the stronger, the one pressing all along—to be the first wounded? It overturned expectations.
The certainty of the duel, once so clear, grew clouded.
"So," Titus murmured, a smile curling his lips, "it is as I thought."
Henry had been circling, deflecting, evading—not from desperation, but from design. Like a hunter, he had waited for his chance, then struck.
"You—how?"
Benson's eyes blazed with disbelief. He had held the upper hand. How could he be the one cut?
"Bastard!"
He roared, rage twisting his face. With both hands he lifted his blade and brought it down in a savage stroke, all his power behind it, determined to repay the wound in full.
He told himself Henry's cut had been luck, no more. After all, in speed and strength, he was superior.
How could Henry truly defeat him?