"So, combat practical," Jace said as they walked into the training arena. "Any idea what that means?"
"Probably sparring of some kind."
"Against who? Each other?"
"Could be, or maybe instructors."
Jace groaned. "Great. So either I get beaten up by a noble who hates me, or I get beaten up by a professional. Wonderful options."
"You could win, you know."
"Rook, I saw what you did in the physical tests. If you fight anything like how you move, I am already outclassed."
The arena was larger than Rook had expected, with rows of stone seats arranged in a half-circle around a flat fighting pit. The examinees gathered at the edge while the head examiner stepped forward to explain the rules.
"Phase Three will assess your combat ability," she announced. "Each of you will spar with an instructor. The instructor will adjust their level to match yours, so this is not about winning or losing. It is about demonstrating your technique, your instincts, and your adaptability."
She gestured to a line of instructors standing at the far end of the pit. There were six of them, all wearing practice armor and carrying wooden weapons.
"When your name is called, step into the pit and choose your weapon. The match will last until the instructor calls it. Any questions?"
No one responded, so she nodded and said, "Then we will begin."
The sparring started, and Rook watched carefully from the sidelines. The nobles went first, as usual, and most of them performed well. Their mana-enhanced bodies gave them speed and strength, and their formal training showed in their clean technique and precise movements.
'They have been doing this their whole lives. Private tutors, expensive equipment, endless hours of practice. This is what money buys.'
But Rook noticed something else too. Most of them fought the same way, using the same stances and the same predictable patterns. It was textbook fighting, effective but rigid.
The commoners were less polished. Some of them had clearly never held a sword before, and they fumbled through their matches with more enthusiasm than skill. But a few of them showed something different, a raw instinct that the nobles lacked, an ability to adapt and improvise when things went wrong.
'Those are the ones to watch. The ones who learned to fight by actually fighting, not just practicing.'
Jace's turn came, and he stepped into the pit with obvious reluctance. He chose a short sword, the lightest option available, and faced his instructor with a grimace.
"Try not to break anything," Jace muttered under his breath.
The match began, and Jace immediately went on the defensive. He was not fast or strong, but he was slippery. Every time the instructor swung, Jace moved out of the way, ducking and weaving and generally making himself as hard to hit as possible.
'He is not trying to win, he is just trying to survive. That is actually pretty smart.' Rook thought as he watched the instructor's moves.
The instructor pressed harder, but Jace kept dodging. He took a few hits, mostly glancing blows that bounced off his guard, but he never went down. After about a minute, the instructor called the match.
"Good instincts," the instructor said. "Work on your offense."
Jace walked back to where Rook was waiting, breathing hard but grinning.
"Did you see that? I lasted a whole minute!"
"I saw. You did well."
"I mean, I did not land a single hit, but I also did not fall on my face. That has to count for something, right?"
"It does. Survival is its own skill."
"Alright, your turn. Try not to make the rest of us look too bad."
Rook stepped into the pit and walked over to the weapon rack. It had a variety of options, swords, spears, axes and maces. He looked them over for a moment, then reached for a simple wooden sword.
'This feels right, the balance is good and the weight is manageable.'
His instructor was a woman with short dark hair and a calm expression. She held a wooden sword of her own, and her stance was relaxed but ready.
"Whenever you are ready," she said.
Rook did not wait. He moved first, closing the distance quickly and striking at her left side. She blocked it easily, but he was already pivoting, changing his angle and coming in from a different direction.
She blocked that too, but this time she had to move her feet to do it, which meant he was pushing her back.
'She is faster than me and stronger too, but I can read her movements.'
He pressed the attack, throwing a series of quick strikes that forced her to stay on the defensive. She parried each one, but he could see her adjusting, raising her guard to match his speed.
'There. She is favoring her right side. If I can get her to overcommit...'
He feinted left, then reversed direction and came in low on her right. She saw it coming and stepped back, but not fast enough. His blade caught her on the forearm, a clean hit, and she smiled at that.
"Self-taught?" she asked.
"Yes."
"It shows." She did not say it like an insult. "Again."
The match continued. She stopped holding back, and suddenly Rook found himself on the defensive. Her strikes came faster and harder, each one testing a different part of his guard. He blocked what he could and dodged what he could not, but she was clearly the better fighter.
'She is too fast, I can not keep up with pure speed. I need to think instead.'
He started watching her patterns more closely. Every fighter had habits, unconscious tells that gave away their next move. The instructor was good at hiding hers, but nobody was perfect.
'There. She drops her shoulder slightly before a thrust. And she always steps forward with her left foot when she goes for an overhead strike.'
He used that information. When she dropped her shoulder, he sidestepped her thrust before it came. When she stepped forward with her left, he was already ducking under her swing and countering from below.
She blocked his counter, but she was nodding now.
"You learn fast," she said.
"I have to, otherwise I do not survive."
The match went on for another minute before she finally called it. Rook was breathing hard, and his arms were sore from blocking her heavier strikes, but he had held his own.
She turned to the examiners and said, "This one is at expert level already. He reads opponents like someone with years of experience. I would keep an eye on him."
Rook walked back to the sidelines. The other examinees were staring at him with mixed expressions, mostly confusion and irritation, though a few looked almost impressed.
Jace was shaking his head when Rook got back to him.
"You actually held your own against her," he said. "She even had to try near the end."
"Is that how it looked to you?"
He looked back at the instructor. 'Everyone here is a monster. Just how far behind am I?'
"That is exactly how it looked. You really are something else, you know that?" Jace shook his head with a disbelieving laugh.
Rook did not respond. He was too busy watching the noble with the slicked-back hair, who was glaring at him from across the arena with undisguised hatred.
'That one is definitely going to cause trouble.'