To the audience in the gallery,
Yet Lorist stood on the ring like a mountain, his gaze firm and resolute. His right hand hung limp at his side—too weak from the injury to his right ribs to do much of anything—only clenching around the hilt on those rare occasions when he gripped the sword with both hands. His left hand, however, wielded its longsword with fluid ease. Parry, deflect, block, intercept, draw, circle, sweep, chop, thrust, bind, tap, hang—the full catalogue of sword techniques flowed from him naturally, each one executed with a熟练 that was hardly inferior to when he fought right-handed.
Facing his opponent's savage, relentless assault, Lorist was like a lone pine standing proud against a tempest—no gale or downpour could bend him. He was like a sea-cliff battered by enormous waves; no matter how ferocious the surf, the waves shattered against him without making the slightest impression.
The Silver-ranked swordsman was panting too. The non-stop barrage of attacks had sapped even a peak Silver-ranked fighter's stamina. He used a two-handed sword—a weapon that naturally favoured offence over defence. The fact that Lorist had managed to hold him off with a single-handed sword for nearly ten minutes had already been astonishing. Among both his colleagues at the academy and the opponents he had faced during his years of field training, only a scant handful had ever lasted this long under his onslaught. And the man he was facing now, Lorist, was supposedly only an Iron-ranked swordsman.
"What are you doing, you idiot? Don't let him catch his breath! Flank him—circle around to that bastard's rear! He's bleeding! He can't hold out much longer! Keep attacking—don't stop! One more push and we win! Get in there!"
From the gallery came the furious bellowing of Dean Weston of Saint Maso Academy. The dean had long since been unable to sit still. He was on his feet, screaming at the ring without the slightest regard for his own dignity or the sidelong glances of those around him.
Today was the inter-academy duel day, and the fifteenth academy drawn was none other than Saint Maso Academy—the mortal enemy of
The Silver Instructor heeded Dean Weston's command and began circling Lorist, probing for an opening. Lorist's response was simple: he pivoted on his left foot while his right shifted slightly, keeping his body squarely facing his opponent at all times, never allowing the man to get around to his flank.
"Attack! What are you dithering for? That bastard can barely fight back! Attack now—we can win this any second!" Dean Weston was gesticulating wildly from the gallery once more.
"Kill!" the Silver Instructor roared, coiling his body and lunging forward.
"Hmph." Lorist gave a cold snort and did not give an inch. His left-hand sword tapped lightly, pointing straight at a gap in his opponent's blade work.
The Silver Instructor changed tactics, switching from a thrust to a sweeping cut. Lorist angled his longsword in a diagonal hang and took the blow head-on.
Clang, clang, clang… The two swords rang against each other like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil, rapid and sharp. After dozens of exchanges, the Silver-ranked swordsman retreated, leaning on his sword to catch his breath. Lorist, meanwhile, looked even more bedraggled, his body swaying noticeably.
"Ha! Attack, attack! He's out of energy—he's done for! Ha ha ha!" In the gallery, Dean Weston was practically ready to dance and sing, flailing his arms in excitement, his face flushed crimson.
The Silver Instructor lunged again, his two-handed sword sweeping and chopping in wide, powerful arcs.
Lorist parried and blocked, his defence watertight—though the force behind his left-hand sword grew weaker with every exchange.
The Silver Instructor's spirits surged. He lifted his blade and drove upward with all his might. With a resonant clang, Lorist's longsword was knocked aside, leaving his guard wide open.
The two-handed sword came crashing straight down. Lorist had no time to bring his blade back to block.
"I've won…" The Silver Instructor breathed a sigh of relief.
"We've won!" Dean Weston clenched both fists.
…
Lorist took a single step backward…
This was the final duel against Saint Maso Academy. From start to finish, it had lasted nearly fifteen minutes. During those fifteen minutes, Lorist had done nothing but endure the Silver Instructor's storm of attacks. No counterattacks—only defence, standing his ground, never moving a single step, defending passively the entire time. So overwhelming was the ferocity of the assault and the tightness of his guard that everyone had forgotten Lorist was even capable of moving. His opponent, that Silver Instructor, had forgotten too.
Lorist took one step back. The two-handed sword slashed past his clothes and struck the ring's floorboards. The longsword that had been knocked into the air traced a graceful arc and came to rest, light as a feather, against the Silver Instructor's neck.
…
"Instructor Locke wins!" Fatty Shrade announced loudly from the ring.
Clang. The Silver Instructor's two-handed sword hit the ground. He raised a hand to cover his face, tears streaming down, and actually broke into sobs right there on the ring.
From the gallery came shouts of bitter disappointment, murmurs of admiration, and then applause—gradually building, merging into a single thunderous wave that filled the entire indoor training hall. It was the audience's tribute to Lorist, their respect for a man who, injured as he was, had fought through every bout without a single loss.
The Silver Instructor kept muttering to himself: "How could you step back? How could you step back…"
A few Saint Maso Academy instructors and assistants nearby wanted to go comfort him but feared they might become targets of his frustration. They could only stand off to the side, watching dumbly.
The Silver Instructor on the ring realized that crying in public was rather humiliating. He wiped his tears, turned, and strode toward the exit, not even bothering to pick up his two-handed sword from the ground. But he had not taken more than a few steps when he heard commotion behind him. He turned to see that Instructor Locke had finally collapsed, unconscious, and several Dawn Academy students were scrambling to support him, calling out, frantically searching for a stretcher to carry him to the infirmary.
That did it. The Silver Instructor was devastated. If he hadn't listened to the dean and dragged the fight into a war of attrition… If he hadn't rushed in so eagerly, trying to finish things quickly—just a little more patience, and the victory would have been… In that moment, the Silver Instructor was overwhelmed with grievance and bitter regret. Unable to contain his emotions, he dropped to his knees on the ring and wailed…
Lorist being carried off the ring on a stretcher, apparently unconscious, pushed Dean Weston in the gallery over the edge. So close—just a little more! If Lorist had held out a few moments longer without attacking, he would have collapsed on his own! Dean Weston felt utterly suffocated, the frustration lodged in his chest with no way to vent. In a blind rage, he suddenly grabbed a chair and began smashing it against the surrounding seats with a deafening clatter. The people nearby fled in terror, thinking he had gone mad…
…
Who would have thought that when the pig bladders burst, the chicken blood would seep out and stain the bandages red—looking very convincing indeed—but even more chicken blood would congeal on the bandages against his skin, making him itch unbearably? On the ring, Lorist had barely been able to keep himself from reaching up to scratch. The others, seeing his pale face and profuse sweat, had assumed his injuries were flaring up. How could they have known the sweat was from him desperately fighting the urge to scratch?
It took a long while to unwrap the bandages, and once they were off, Lorist scratched to his heart's content before finally letting out a long breath. "That itching was killing me. I never imagined it would be that hard to endure. Half the time on the ring, I was tempted to just let my opponent stick a sword in wherever it itched."
Terman picked up a thin linen cloth from the hot-water bucket, wrung it out, and walked over. He began scrubbing vigorously at the patches of dried chicken blood still clinging to Lorist's skin while saying, "The bandages this morning were wrapped too tight and didn't breathe. After the chicken blood leaked out, what didn't stain the bandages congealed inside them. The friction against your skin ground it into powder, and once it got into your pores—of course it itched. It's a miracle you lasted until the duel ended."
"But your performance in that final bout was truly spectacular. If I hadn't known you weren't really hurt, I would have believed you were about to collapse. That step backward—how did you come up with that? Everyone was certain you'd lost. Who would have thought you could take one step back and turn defeat into victory."
"Heh." Lorist chuckled. "I dragged out that final duel for so long precisely to create the illusion that I couldn't move—that I could only stand in one spot and parry, as though leaving my position would mean instant defeat and collapse. No matter how ferocious the attacks, I could only stand there and receive them without moving. After dragging it out long enough, everyone stops expecting me to suddenly move—and that's when the opportunity appears. Swordsmanship isn't just about technique. The mind matters too. The more critical the moment, the calmer and clearer your head needs to be."
Terman was silent for a moment, pondering. He knew Lorist was teaching him, and he said with genuine feeling: "Thank you."
When Fatty Shrade came in, everyone was crowded into the infirmary drinking malt brew—a gift that Dean Levins had just sent over for Lorist, rewarding his outstanding performance in the morning's duel against Saint Maso Academy, which had given the dean a tremendous sense of vindication. The reward had promptly been confiscated by Terman and the others, and in the spirit of "share the blessings together but you take the hardships," they had promptly started brewing the malt brew right there in the infirmary's treatment room.
"Great news, great news…" Fatty Shrade burst in, beaming.
"What great news? Out with it," said Terman.
"After Little Locke's duel ended and he pretended to pass out and got carried off the ring, it completely broke the Saint Maso people. That Silver Instructor who fought him had a total meltdown—sobbing on the ring like a child. And Dean Weston lost his mind in the gallery, picking up chairs and smashing them everywhere. In the end he vomited blood and passed out. They had to perform emergency treatment to bring him around. When Dean Levins was seeing him off at his carriage, he leaned over the stretcher and told Dean Weston, 'Don't worry—the bill for all the property you destroyed will be sent to Saint Maso Academy.' And that set Weston off vomiting blood and passing out all over again. I just heard that Dean Weston will need at least six months of bed rest before he recovers. If that's not great news, what is?"
"Tch. That's great news for that old fox up there. What's it got to do with us?" Terman said dismissively.
Lorist finished the malt brew in his cup and said to Fatty Shrade, "I've been in the infirmary for over an hour now. It's time to send me back."
So everyone re-wrapped Lorist's bandages, placed him on the stretcher, and carried him through the academy toward the Gold Instructor residential area. Terman walked alongside, murmuring final instructions: "Make sure no one sees through this. Not the slightest clue."
Lorist lay with his eyes closed, enjoying the gentle swaying of the stretcher, and grumbled: "One old fox and one fat fox—the two of you are getting more and more addicted to this con."
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — "Struck unconscious by a palm to the back of the head. Instructor Locke wins. Next challenger, prepare to enter the ring." Fatty Shrade announced loudly.
This previous challenger had, for some reason, fixated all of his attention on Lorist's longsword. Every technique he unleashed was aimed at the blade itself, as though he were determined to cut it in half. Lorist had deliberately left several openings in his body to bait him, but the man ignored them all, focusing solely on duelling Lorist's sword. So Lorist simply tossed his longsword into the air. The fool actually looked up to watch it, and Lorist closed the distance and delivered a palm strike to the back of his head.
What an incredibly frustrating way to lose. Fatty Shrade suppressed his laughter, directing the enforcement team to carry the defeated challenger away while quickly whispering to Lorist, who was standing nearby: "The next one up is Sandos Yelta—the one who studies under the Storm Sword Saint of the Kelia Kingdom. Be careful. The last few opponents were all acting on his orders, using those stalling tactics on the ring just to drain your energy. His sword is fast…"
Over on the other side, a young nobleman holding a longsword in an ornate scabbard stepped onto the ring. He stood across from Lorist and bowed with impeccable grace. "Dear Instructor Locke, I never expected you would actually last long enough on the ring for this student to take the stage—to stand before you like this. What a pleasant surprise. It is such a shame that the instructor is injured and cannot fight this student at full strength. Truly a regret."
Lorist raised his sword hand, signalling the young man to stop talking and get on with it.
But the young nobleman continued standing there, rattling on: "Instructor Locke, our parting three years ago left an indelible impression on this student. In the years since, whenever I recall the lesson the instructor bestowed upon me, I toss and turn, unable to sleep. To repay the instructor's kindness, this student has trained day and night, thinking only of…"
"Cough, cough, cough." Lorist finally could not take it anymore. He coughed several times to cut off the relentless chatter. "I say—what was it again? Ah yes—Higuita. Are you just going to stand there nagging at me until I can't take it anymore and forfeit?"
"Damn it, I told you that kid is Sandos Yelta! How many times do I have to say it? I told you to be careful and you still don't listen—you can't even remember his name!" Fatty Shrade cursed from below the ring.
The young nobleman called Sandos Yelta flushed crimson. So Instructor Locke hadn't even been taking him seriously—he couldn't even get his name right. And here he had thought he was applying pressure, only to stand here making a fool of himself.
Shing. Yelta drew his sword. "Since that is the case, then this student will not hold back."
Before the words had faded, sword-light swept forward like a bolt of silk, swift as lightning.
Lorist's eyes sharpened. His left-hand sword swung out to meet it. Clang-clang-clang—the sound of blades striking rang without pause. In a mere instant, their swords had clashed more than a dozen times.
Yelta's sword was indeed fast. However, he relied almost entirely on thrusts and deflections, rarely employing chopping or sweeping motions. While this increased the speed of his blade, it made his technique rigid and lacking in variation. Under Lorist's dynamic vision, even the fastest sword could not conceal the trajectory of its movement. Lorist deflected wave after wave of attacks with ease.
Yelta was fighting at full power. His sword-light spiralled around Lorist like a constellation of cold stars, shrouding Lorist's figure completely.
To the audience in the gallery, Lorist looked like a tiny boat tossed on storm-tossed seas—one wrong move and he would be capsized and drowned.
But in Yelta's eyes, Lorist was clearly toying with him. His lightning-fast swordsmanship posed absolutely no threat. Every time a thrust was about to land, Lorist would shift or slide just enough, and the blade would pass within a hair's breadth of where he had been.
The more Yelta fought, the colder his heart grew. He had believed that three years of gruelling training would be more than enough to handle Lorist. Who could have imagined that Lorist would surpass even his wildest expectations? His eyes turned cold—he would have to use that technique. A look of vicious cunning flickered through his gaze.
Yelta suddenly shifted his style, switching entirely to chopping and cleaving strokes. Lorist parried idly, waiting to see what else he had.
Yelta's wrist turned, and his longsword struck flat against the blade of Lorist's sword. With a sharp ting, Yelta's sword snapped cleanly at the hilt.
Lorist blinked. How had his sword suddenly broken? But then he saw Yelta, still gripping the hilt, charging straight at him.
The sword was gone—why was he still charging? Before Lorist could figure out what was happening, he heard a sharp hiss. A blade glazed in sinister blue shot out from the hilt in Yelta's hand, flying straight at him…
The attack came from so close it might as well have been from his own sleeve. No one had expected it—no one had imagined Yelta's sword concealed a second blade within, and a poisoned one at that…
Lorist threw his head back with every ounce of speed he could muster. Under his dynamic vision, the poisoned blade grew larger and larger before his eyes. He took a deep breath and forced his head down another inch. The blade grazed past his face close enough to stir the skin, and a foul, acrid stench flooded his nostrils.
He kicked Yelta square in the chest. The young nobleman flew off the ring and smashed into the gallery railing before crumpling to the ground.
Lorist signalled for Fatty Shrade to come up and remove the poisoned blade that was now embedded in the ring's floorboards.
Fatty Shrade said, "Brother, that kick was too savage. Yelta's sternum is shattered. Even if they heal him, he'll be crippled—no more combat aura cultivation for him."
Lorist's face was cold. "Where's the next challenger? Hurry up and get out here."
…