Sparring (2): Paths of Patronage

The Academy Collapse arc marked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the branching point for difficulty levels, but the Sparring Matches were the true fork in the road for patronage. Depending on the results you achieved and the combat patterns you displayed, different patrons would take notice. As mentioned before, you didn't have to pick a patron—no problem if it didn't suit your style; you could always go another route. But the presence or absence of a patron made a world of difference. Sure, multiple playthroughs were manageable without one, but on your first run? Growth would grind to a halt.

Social status isn't much of an issue either.

For nobles, maybe, but to commoners, nationality meant little. Wherever you ate well and lived well—that was your homeland. So patrons targeted talented commoners who stood out. Luna, the top admission scorer, was the perfect example.

In ancient times, things might've been different, but the United Academy had long devolved into a battleground where countless nations vied for supremacy. At least it kept wars between countries in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠check—for now. A ticking time bomb, really. That was why the Academy Collapse arc ended with even the last bastion crumbling into chaos.

This was the calm before the storm.

If only it could evolve into something like sports. Fat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠chance.

War had always claimed half of human history. The demons as a common enemy had held things together; without them, we'd have torn each other apart ages ago. And one empire in particular preached expansionism, scooping up every scrap of talent it could find.

By now, they'd surely learned Luna was a commoner and were laying the groundwork. Not that her personality would let her go that route.

Patrons are just faction choices in disguise.

Each patron hailed from a different nation, and naturally, their fostering methods varied by allegiance. Choose a nation that prized honor and fair play, and you'd rack up honor points—but mastering techniques would come slower. Opt for a power-focused nation, and techniques came quick, but honor was a grind.

Beyond that, choices branched into myriad paths, each with its own cultivation style.

Multiple playthroughs were the real fun.

In later runs, you'd see great powers tripping over themselves to recruit you. Of course, those playthroughs were so set in stone that actual growth meant nothing—just picking options. That's why plenty of players dove into fresh saves, starting from scratch to unlock new routes along the way.

"Looks like that's the Granada Empire crew."

Lost in thoughts of patrons, I caught Lord murmuring to himself. I followed his gaze.

Unlike the rough general seats, the refined spectator stands held a few people in conversation. One stood out: a burly man with a fierce scowl.

Ah. Him.

The others I barely noted, but this guy? Burned into my memory. One of the patrons. His build screamed how he wielded strength.

Granada Empire over there, so the opposite side must be...

I turned to the stands across the arena. As expected, a totally different vibe. Where Granada felt heavy and somber, these folks exuded calm dignity and poise. Unlike strength-obsessed Granada, this was the Matra Empire—honor and justice their creed. Elvin and Grace's homeland.

No patrons here yet.

A few familiar faces, but the big ones were MIA. They'd show eventually. Other dignitaries dotted the seats, but nothing urgent.

What mattered was the sparring ahead.

I sat with Lord in the VIP section, giving a full view of the arena—unlike the general seats.

This special arena's huge.

Whenever describing its size, the cliché was always "soccer-field huge." Regular arenas weren't small, but special ones spanned a full pitch. Spectator stands matched, big enough for every academy student.

The real magic? The field itself. Right now, just plain dirt. But once the match kicked off, it'd morph into all sorts of environments.

Magic and science fused, or something.

I had no clue how; fantasy world rules didn't play by Earth's logic. Whatever.

Anyway, I sat quietly beside Lord, waiting for the matches to start.

The opener was a blockbuster: top admit versus barbarian. Luna versus Kara, first bout.

Kara takes it.

I chewed the scorched rice candy Lord gave me, biding time. Honestly, I'd kill for something else. Ice-cold beer, say.

Come to think of it, haven't had booze since arriving.

As I mulled that over, sucking on candy:

"There you are."

A deep, resonant voice from behind where Lord and I sat. I'd sensed someone approaching, so I glanced back without thinking.

"Took you long enough, old man."

"Hmph. No need to seek me out."

A casually tossed-off top, draped in a rough leather cloak. Bottoms more skirt than pants. The ancient Egyptian vibe was striking, but what popped was the bronze skin and red hair.

"You look even older since last time."

"And you're still prancing around shirtless."

Lion-mane hair and a trimmed beard amplified his intensity. A stranger might dub him "barbarian." But say that to his face? Your spine would snap.

"This one's the real deal, like I heard?"

"Close enough."

"Eyes like fresh blood—not very human. Isn't he a beast for real?"

"Looks the part, but Sivar's human."

The redhead eyed me appraisingly at Lord's reply. I stared right back.

No resemblance to Kara, but that red hair and green gaze? Identical.

Pot calling the kettle black.

I sized him up. Muscles packed every inch. Kara was tall for a woman, man-height; this guy explained the genes. Battle-scarred skin everywhere, proof of countless wars.

Kara's father, king of the nascent nation Tatar: Hector. Or, as others called him:

"No smashing on the way here?"

"Hey, old man—I'm a proper king now. Wrecking stuff draws headaches."

"Gone soft. When was it you last charged me?"

"That was over ten years ago."

Destruction King Hector. Before Tatar became official, he'd razed cities and villages, earning the moniker. As the title implied, his raw power was monstrous. Topped with advanced technique, he was a walking tank.

Combat genius aside, his "enlightenment" was low—depth lacking. Think battle-hardened brute.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Only the president sits here."

"What's that mean?"

"He's under my protection. Now scram to your seat unless you want political drama."

"Fiiiine..."

His fearsome rep clashed with the flippant chatterbox vibe. Most Tatars were secretly talkative—a cultural trait Kara shared.

Problem is, they chat while getting business done.

Like splitting skulls mid-convo. Not always noisy, though; dead serious when needed. Recall that Destruction King title—his power was legit.

"Fine, off to Granada then."

"Matra too good for you?"

"They look down on me as a barbarian. Miracle if my fist stays put. Oh, before I go..."

Hector locked eyes with me, curiosity gleaming in those green depths. He flashed pearly whites, pointed at me, and spoke.

"Give my girl a good fight. I'll watch with both eyes wide open."

"..."

He turned, lumbering toward the stands. Back as broad as his build demanded. How was that even human?

"No need to mind him. Just a greeting."

Pretty rough greeting.

I thought that as the stands filled with students and officials. Figured it'd take forever to pack out, but it neared capacity fast. Top student versus barbarian princess? Impossible to ignore.

Wonder how Kara and I rate.

As that crossed my mind:

"Here they come! Here they come!"

"That's her, right? Top admit. And over there..."

"Barbarian princess. Skin gives it away."

The already buzzing crowd amped up. I focused on the arena—yep, Luna and Kara entering, geared up.

A translucent barrier enveloped the arena as the broadcast echoed—shock-absorbing wards activating for safety. Once fully enclosed, it turned transparent.

The field shifted inside the barrier. Hard-packed dirt glowed blue, terrain morphing gradually. Nothing rose up, though—staying mostly flat.

The blue glow faded, revealing Luna and Kara's field: lush green plains. Standard stuff, dotted with small rocks that wouldn't sway the fight much.

Down to basics, then.

Plains minimized variables. Rocks and walls as wild cards, maybe—but the field's size made wall-pinning tough.

The big event was on. Popcorn? No such luck. I scanned around futilely—the crowd already munched on snacks.

The announcement blared, but no blind rush—they'd probe first. Priority: snacks. No dice.

"Looking for something?"

Lord noticed my weird fidgeting.

I nodded. "Snack."

"Snack?"

"Mouth. Bored."

I pointed to my mouth. Lord's face twisted oddly. Fair—he never expected that phrasing from me.

Prime entertainment? Can't skip snacks.

"Didn't I give you candy earlier?"

No. Not that. I shook my head. "Other."

"Something else?"

Yeah!

Hope sparked—then Lord pondered sternly.

"Can't do that."

"Why!"

"No means no."

Bad habits? Plausible.

Ellie did it too—treating me like a kid sometimes.

Not that I don't get it...

I glared, protesting fiercely. No words, but intent clear. Lord scolded back, stone-faced.

"Focus on the match. Snacks later."

"No. Want."

"Tch. No's no."

"Snack."

"What's with him?"

Mid-bicker:

Claaaang!

Steel clashed viciously, piercing the air—from the arena. I dropped my protest, whipping around.

...Why's she down already?

Luna sprawled flat. No knockout announcement, so not out—just overpowered. Or ate a hit.

Even from afar, her confusion was plain.

"Whew... missed it. Looked like a key exchange..."

"..."

Guilt hit; I clamped my mouth shut.

******

Top admit and early prodigy Luna brimmed with confidence. Kara was strong, sure—but swordplay over fisticuffs? Her win.

Sivar was an outlier, off the charts; Kara wasn't. Winnable.

Can't wrap my head around it.

Why so sure of Kara? Why'd Sivar pick her over me?

Incomprehensible—but this bout would enlighten. Change his view. Admit his gut failed.

Not trying to teach, but...

Blind faith in instinct wouldn't last. Her master warned: vital for warriors, but blind trust spelled doom someday.

Sivar, wild-raised, leaned hard on it. Time to fix that.

"Whoa, Academy's got tricks like this? Wild world."

Across, Kara gawked, circling the changed field—from dirt to verdant plains.

Luna agreed, but this was combat. She scanned Kara playing in the dirt.

Lighter gear than free training, midriff bare as ever.

Armed with... sword and one-hand axe.

Curved blade: Tatar saber. Axe as off-hand—leveraging her strength.

Bracelet barrier on blackout.

She glanced at her wristband. Auto-shield on unconsciousness or vitals hit. Free fight.

This was for showing skill, after all.

I'll win.

Luna gripped her sword two-handed. Bring your choice.

Kara, meanwhile, mapped the field, grinning ahead.

Kara relaxed; Luna tensed visibly.

"Why so wound up? It's sparring—have fun."

"...Only you think that."

"Really? In Tatar, sparring's play. Comes from real fights, natural culture."

Who asked?

Luna narrowed her eyes. One dead serious, the other yapping idly. Showing off composure.

Irritation bubbled.

"Talk too much."

"Hm? Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Sorry, sorry. Bad habit. Cultural thing."

His carefree grin evoked a rascal. White teeth stark against bronze skin.

Luna's anger peaked—then Kara lunged, smile intact.

Thud-thud-thud.

"Anyway, I warned you—ignore grappling at your peril."

"..."

"I'll show you real combat. First..."

Kara closed in, raising her saber high. Luna anticipated, lifting her sword—bracing the flat with one hand for easy block.

Claaaang!

Predictable. Kara smashed down. Steel screamed, ringing ears.

Easy enough. Luna smirked, countering per master's teaching.

Or tried.

Wham!

"Guhk...!"

Kara's crisp side kick slammed Luna's gut first. Pivoting on one leg, body twist natural. Exploiting the counter's lax guard.

"Urgh...!"

Luna flew back, tumbling comically. No time to react.

How'd that kick flow so seamlessly?

Prone, Luna raised her head through pain—eyes locked on foe, per training.

There: Kara strolling over, unhurried.

"How's that? Oh. Right."

Still grinning.

"Hasn't sunk in yet?"

Plenty to rattle Luna.