We both stepped into the arena, on the ground rumbling beneath us.
The crowd exploded—even at the sight of a single one of us, and the rumbling kept growing heavier, with each step we took forward.
I glanced over at Caleb, and his steps seemed as heavy as mine—both of us unable to meet the thousands of eyes that looked down on us.
But we continued to be carried forward, until we were told to stop by the line on the ground—announcing our starting point.
We stood opposite of one another, the sun no longer blurred my vision as his face came into view,
He is younger than the others—around twenty if I have to guess.
Is he impressive for his age? His given title was knight's apprentice after all.
What was made clear by his title was his strength.
I can take him.
Along with that thought the announcer spoke.
"If you arrreee ready—BEGIN!!" A single look at both of us was enough confirmation for him.
Footprints were left behind as dust flew, meeting in the middle.
Before I could find my footing, the shadow of his blade already descended.
I could feel my balance disperse as I met his blade, stepping back to find it again—but he kept close to me, I had no room to regain my balance.
The ringing of our blade came only with his strikes.
His style wasn't rough—not like any I had fought, or seen fight before—he left no openings for me to come in between.
Each of his attacks came, before I could even process his stance.
My blade trembled at the sight of Caleb.
Each swing was aimed at the weakest leverage points of my blade.
I had to mind my stance alongside each swing, preventing any opening from appearing, even those smaller than a hair's width—no matter the opening, it would cause my end.
The impact of the strikes traveled down my ribs, reaching me from multiple sides—he didn't let up, not even a single glisten appeared on his forehead.
This isn't enough to defeat me. I kept pushing my blade between us, not even the sparks were enough to make me blink.
No impact traveled through my arm for a single moment, that was enough space for me.
I can lay pressure on him, following my own rhythm.
I continued flowing my attacks, connecting them to one another—but none hit.
But there were no sounds, no feeling that met my blade.
He wasn't parrying, his defense was evasion alone.
Is he playing with me—no, this is his technique. But even then it was not the opposite of mine.
He evaded every single of my strikes, timing everything according to the attack that came—weaving underneath some, sidestepping the others, and if there was no other choice he stepped back.
While I used my blade to counter, he used his purely for attacks—evasion was a way to save his arms from the additional strain, and stress defense brought.
It was one made for attacking, with a defense formed around it—unlike mine which lacked a dedicated offense, fitting it.
But one thing was obvious, I won't hit him like this—I was still in a disadvantage, but neither was letting him attack a choice.
After all offense was its main quality.
But this was simply an unending sequence of him evading, while I build onto my tiredness.
Both situations were one that put me in an area outside of my scope—one where only I experience discomfort.
The amount of breaths I took increased with each strike.
Drops shattered as they met my swinging hands.
I tried to think, but nothing came to me, the situation in front of me took all of my thinking power—whether it was effect or not didn't matter to me,
Neither of us should fight comfortably.
I stopped my attack in the middle, and jumped back, making sure he stepped back as well.
He readied his sword again as a slight grin appeared, after meeting my retreating figure.
I readied mine as well.
He dashed forward, with his blade already descending, and I followed his lead.
No openings would appear when I was attacking, so I just had to let him attack to my accord—I would attack him during his attacks, defending during my offense.
It was the first time his sword rang—I understood him.
Neither of our arms were pushed back—we pulled them back ourselves.
While his technique and skills far surpassed mine, his physicality didn't—we were equals.
It went against all common sense.
Each time our swords clashed I followed with another attack whenever he didn't with one of his own.
As I felt my blade strike air, I followed his figure.
There were two things that could stop me—him jumping back, or sustaining a wound.
At one point his arms should start to feel heavy. The moment his sword were to lower, that was the moment I waited for—I was more accustomed to the impact it brought, I should be the one to last longest.
This exchange repeated, not once, not thrice, not fivefold.
No—I lost count, the last number I counted was ten.
My insides were spinning, a sour taste spread through my mouth, burning my dry throat that kept worsening with each breath I took.
My blade started to tremble, my arms were heavier, I had two fights in front of me—Caleb, and the one with my own body.
Caleb held the same expression as before, a single drop had formed—one brought on by the warm sunrays.
His assault didn't stop, not a single breather had to be taken, and his strikes never weakened.
He should be tired...
I lifted my gaze up as my foot moved forward, raising my sword once again—he stood still, watching me approach him.
Until his mouth opened,
"Do you think knights, or those who desire to be one are a joke?" It was the first time Caleb spoke, he had a surprisingly soft voice, but layered with seriousness.