"Alright, everyone, take up your wooden swords again, and find your partner from yesterday."
The afternoon sun baked the training grounds, turning the white sand into a shimmering reflector of heat. Arthur stepped into the section he had occupied the day prior. A temporary outline scratched into the earth by a thin branch separated his designated battlefield from the rest, a fragile border between safety and violence.
"Remember, no usage of sword aura is allowed unless I tell you!" the instructor shouted. His voice, usually booming, quickly dissipated, swallowed by the vast, open air of the field.
"Ugh, I can't believe I have to do this again with you."
Arthur's opponent loomed over him. He was a mountain of a boy, broad-shouldered and thick-necked.
"Don't run like you did last time," the boy sneered, rolling his neck with a sickening crack. "Or I'll aim for something more painful."
Arthur held his wooden sword loosely, his stance low.
He is, without a doubt, larger and stronger than me, Arthur analyzed, his eyes scanning the boy's posture. His lack of pity and compassion makes me deduce he's not a commoner. This is within the realm of reason, as the Magic Combat class is the one class we share.
He watched the boy adjust his grip.
However, a noble with all their backing would not have stopped if their opponent could no longer wield their weapon—how chivalrous. Therefore, he must be the son of a knight. Of course, this would mean that they have probably been training with the sword since they were young.
Arthur tightened his grip on the hilt. In short, this means that I will probably lose this fight.
That doesn't mean I can't win. If it was a fight to the death, there is no question. But because this won't even be graded, there's no point in showing off.
To his left, on another mat, a student dropped their sword and frantically clawed at their eyes, screaming. "AHHH!!"
Arthur didn't flinch. Throwing sand is so barbaric. If he won't use cheap tricks, I won't either. No, I won't do that. But the point of this exercise is to win.
"Are you ready?" the boy asked. His tone was irritable, eyebrows arched, eyes staring daggers into Arthur's chest.
Yes, that's right. For better or for worse, the mind adapts, Arthur thought, his internal monologue racing. The body will not want to use more energy than it needs to; it will want to conserve it. If he was able to beat me yesterday in his sleep, his brain would have concluded it's unnecessary to use the energy he did to finish the fight.
Therefore, he will use less energy. He will go easier on me, and I can take advantage of that overconfidence. Well, that is unless he's mad and wants to kill me—which he seems to want—but I can take advantage of that as well.
Arthur noted the boy's gaze. Yes, his eyes are completely focused on me, not my sword. If I can dodge one of his attacks at a close distance and reach him before he reorients himself, I can win!
A thought flashed through his mind, a tribute to a text he had devoured in the archives. William Sinclair, I don't know who you are, but you are the greatest mind I've ever witnessed. I am not certain the intent of your writing was to be used like this, but you have truly enlightened me on the principles of Human Psychology, Philosophy, and Sociology. I don't know why I've never come across your name before, but if you are still alive today, I would very much like to meet you.
Arthur moved.
He darted forward, and his opponent mirrored the action. But just as Arthur neared the center of the ring, he stopped on a dime and sprinted in the opposite direction.
"I told you not to run!" the boy bellowed, giving chase.
They ran three full circles around the perimeter of their ring, dust kicking up in their wake. As the larger boy began to close the gap, he planted his dominant foot into the sand, pivoting with surprising grace to launch a crushing downward swing aimed directly at Arthur's skull.
Arthur noticed the rhythm of his opponent's footsteps had ceased. He didn't hear the heavy compacting of sand behind him at the expected interval. The boy's heavy breaths, filled with rage, sounded quieter than before—until Arthur turned his head, and the sound roared in his ears like a gale.
Their faces were inches apart.
Move!
Arthur twisted. The wooden blade whistled past his ear and slammed into the sand, missing his right shoulder by a hair's breadth but tearing the cloth from the lateral side of his arm.
The boy looked up. Arthur stood over him, a menacing smile stretching across his face, his head eclipsing the blinding sun. Above him, his left arm was raised, poised to hammer down a follow-up strike.
But the blow delayed. And in that fraction of a second, the opportunity was seized.
By the time his arm reached the halfway point of its descent, the sword of the boy below had already traveled horizontally, slamming straight into the boy's ribcage.
CRACK.
Physics took over. Arthur's body was thrown backward by the recoil, skidding across the ground to land hard on his right side, three feet from where he had stood.
The sword flew from his grasp. Saliva sprayed from his open mouth as his diaphragm seized, yearning for oxygen it could not pull in. He curled into a fetal ball, an instinctual attempt to shield his injury. Sand plastered itself onto the red, sweat-drenched skin of his bare arm and face.
But as the shock faded and the sweet rush of air returned to his lungs, Arthur smiled a dirty, broken smile.
He wanted to laugh, but his body wouldn't allow it. So he lay there, covered in sand, rock, and bodily fluids, grinning even as he saw the skin of his stomach turning a deep, violent purple.
I had the opportunity for total victory, he thought, euphoria masking the pain. And I wasn't even using my full power! I can already see my power growing, even on my second day here. I'll be able to reach Cedric's level in no time!
"Try not to overexert yourself for the rest of the day."
A man in white robes, bearing a gold Sun-crest around his neck, knelt beside him. A soft light enveloped Arthur's midsection. The angry purple bruise faded, and the sharp agony was replaced by a dull, buzzing numbness.
As the priest moved on to the next casualty, the Sword Instructor sat down on the bench beside Arthur.
"Are you sure you want to continue taking this course?" The instructor asked, watching the other students. "I don't think you're going to pass if your sword is that slow. There are many other students in this class that are more skilled than your dueling partner."
Arthur wiped the grit from his mouth and watched the two duels raging in front of him.
Should an Instructor really be saying that to one of their students? Arthur wondered. I know I won't be able to control my magic spells; it would take too long. At least my sword goes in the direction I tell it to.
"I'm going to continue taking this class," Arthur said.
"Well, I admire your dedication, but I really don't think you're going to pass."
Arthur imagined himself rolling his eyes, but kept his gaze forward.
"Come to my supplementary classes," the Instructor sighed. "An hour after class every weekday, free of charge, just for you. I can't guarantee you'll become the best in the class, but you'll be able to pass at the very least if you give me your effort."
Arthur turned and looked at the man for the first time in the entire conversation.
"How kind of you, Instructor. I gratefully accept your offer."
The Instructor's face retracted slightly, surprised by the sudden formality. "Uh… Alright. I guess you can watch the rest of the duels on the bench instead of on the sand for today. This shouldn't become an everyday occurrence though. You'll sit with the rest of the class tomorrow, and I'll switch your partner to someone with more control of their strength."
Arthur stood and made his way to the circle of students, limping only slightly.