Entrance Exam (3)
The Academy entrance exam had begun—the practical, at last.
The test was a duel between examinees. You were to clash with everything you had, and the professors would watch the whole process and grade it.
"Who's going to win?"
"Frederick, don't you think? He's from a count's house."
"Young Lord Rogeine's no pushover either. The rumors say he's a sword genius."
I turned my head. Examinees were packed along the waiting-room window, every one of them too busy watching the duel to do anything else. Out on the floor, a count's son and a viscount's son were going at each other hard.
"Holy shit, that's disgustingly flashy."
"They're both noble heirs. Not even the same class as commoners like us."
A glance told me they weren't wrong. It really was flashy. They were sons of noble houses—kids who would have been drilling their family mana methods and signature sword arts since they could walk—so of course it looked like that. Fire scattered and ice sprayed, and it was genuinely impressive. So the praise for Surviving the Academy's graphics hadn't been empty talk. It really was something to watch.
Frederick's taking this.
Anyway. As I watched, I realized I could already tell who was going to win. Rogeine was the better swordsman, but the gap in the mana they'd accumulated was simply too wide. A little longer and Rogeine would gas out, and Frederick would slip into that opening. Five exchanges, give or take, and it would be over...
"Knew it! Young Lord Frederick won!"
"I really thought Young Lord Rogeine had it... Here, take your five silver."
"Heh heh heh. Don't mind if I do."
The result landed exactly where I'd called it. On the fifth exchange Rogeine's mana broke, and Frederick knocked the sword clean out of his hand in that gap. Frederick took the duel.
Admiration and groans kept spilling through the waiting room. The split looked about even, which meant it had been a hard match to call.
...How did I even know that?
Obviously, I didn't know the first damn thing about swordsmanship. I'm a modern guy. You think I've ever held a sword that wasn't a kitchen knife? Those two weren't even characters from the game, either, so the call had been nothing but gut.
Trait. You the culprit?
I murmured a quiet call for my status window, and a translucent pane surfaced in the empty air. There it was, in the trait slot: Extreme Sword Physique. The thing had no shortage of abilities, but the one at its core was this.
Swordsmanship proficiency speed is increased.
"Hmm."
I'd called it a cheat trait before, but honestly, it left me uneasy. It didn't list a percentage. It just said proficiency speed increased. The other traits weren't vague like that. Only this EX-rank one was.
No help for it. I'll have to find out by using it.
Not that this was what mattered right now. The thing that actually mattered wasn't anyone else's duel, and it wasn't my trait. It was mine.
"We're already down to half."
"When are they going to call me...! I'm scared out of my mind!"
I sat there with my legs jittering, wound tight, and the waiting room started emptying fast. Duels between swordsmen simply don't run long, so the line moved quickly. The room grew sparse. I let my eyes wander over the open space, and by pure chance I locked gazes with a woman.
"...."
"...."
Radiant golden hair, blue eyes cold as an ice-bound lake, and a face beautiful enough to stop a room. Her expression was blank, and in that blankness I could read boredom and arrogance.
That was Sylvia Fiorenza, wasn't it? A heroine out of Surviving the Academy, the one they called a sword genius.
In reality, though, she's True Mediocre.
The explanation would take forever, and I don't even like her, so I'm skipping it. Short version: if Lucy is the mediocrity's advocate, that one is the genuine article.
"Ha!"
"....?"
Running through what I knew about Sylvia pulled a small laugh out of me. Sylvia's face went sly and suspicious at the sound. I looked away anyway, treating the eye contact as if it had never happened.
...No way we get matched, right? That would wipe out even the last scrap of hope.
Disliking her was one thing. Her skill was another, and that I acknowledged. Right now, take out the professors, and the people at the Academy who could beat Sylvia fit on one hand. I'd half given up on passing. I still didn't want that last one percent taken from me.
"Examinee Philip, Examinee Ivan Gustav. Please come to the dueling grounds."
"...Oh."
Three more duels went by, and then the proctor called my name. By every lucky star in the sky, it wasn't Sylvia. It was, however, still a wall in his own right—a young lord from a viscount house. The people around me looked at me with pity. I ignored them and stood.
"Choose a weapon here, then go up to the grounds."
I left the waiting room and stepped into the next chamber. It was an armory, swords of every kind lined up in rows, from a dagger no bigger than my palm to a greatsword as tall as I was. I took a two-handed sword that looked about right and started counting seconds in my head. I needed to know how long the curse waited before it started destroying a weapon.
It's already creaking just from my grip.
I hadn't held it a full second, and the sword was trembling faintly, like it was refusing to be touched by someone it hated. Around five seconds the shaking turned violent, and past ten a small cracking sound joined in.
Okay. That's far enough.
I finished the test and slid the sword into its sheath, and only then did the fit die down. Now I understood how the curse applied.
Ten seconds at the outside.
Show off with a blade any longer than that and it would shatter with a clang. Yeah. There was no way to read this except that I was fucked.
I thought I'd at least get a minute.
I'd set my minimum buffer at one minute. Reality handed me ten seconds, nowhere close. What the hell was I supposed to do in ten seconds? Crossing blades was a later problem. Just closing the distance would eat the whole ten.
"This is hopeless."
I hooked the sheath onto my belt and let out a long sigh. I'd known from the start there was no hope. Now it felt like even the last sliver was gone. The curse was far stronger than I'd expected. I was seriously wondering whether I ought to forfeit and go home.
I came all this way, though. Turning around feels wrong.
I'd waited an hour in that room just to take the practical. Walking out now would sting. Even if I got clowned up there, I might as well fight once. With that thought, I left the armory and headed up to the dueling grounds.
"You are Examinee Philip?"
"I am."
"Good. Move to the position opposite Examinee Ivan."
A floor two hundred meters to a side, tiles laid out like a go board. The proctor serving as referee spotted me and guided me to my place. Once I was in position, Young Lord Ivan stood out on the far side. He'd drawn a one-handed sword and was glaring at me with a razor-sharp look.
"A pleasure, Young Lord Ivan. It's an honor to duel a swordsman of your caliber."
"...."
I had no idea who he was. Not a main NPC from Surviving the Academy, and not the heir of any powerful house. Even so, one day into this possession, I could tell he sat impossibly far above a commoner like me. No harm in leaving a good impression.
"To be made to face a commoner. How humiliating."
"Pardon?"
"Shut up and raise your sword, commoner. I'll see that you have a wretched time."
My goodwill, it seemed, never reached him. This was a world where rank was real, sure, but people pickled that deep in a chosen-blood complex weren't all that common. Watching him, I felt baffled—and angry.
If it weren't for the curse, I'd flatten this little shit in a heartbeat.
I was already stacked with stress from eating two curses off the transmigration. Then some extra I'd never even heard of starts scratching at my nerves. Of course I snapped. The original plan had been simple: jog over, clash once, look at the broken sword, admit the gap, and lose. Seeing the way he carried himself, I decided I was going to land one hit, no matter what.
But how?
A curse I could never undo was sitting on me. Hold a sword past ten seconds and it breaks, and just running from the waiting mark to the middle of the grounds would take longer than ten by itself. So how was I supposed to land one on him?
"The duel will now begin."
"Three, two, one."
I was still turning it over when the countdown started. Ivan set his stance, ready to charge. I hadn't even drawn, and the referee eyed that like it was strange, but he didn't stop the count.
"Begin."
"!"
And so the duel finally began. Ivan shot toward me like an arrow off the string. Ten meters, twenty, thirty. A swordsman burning mana—the farther he ran, the less he tired, and the faster he got. Any moment now he'd be in front of me, cutting me down with his house's own sword art.
...Do I even have to?
Watching him come, the thought hit me out of nowhere. Did a sword really have to be swung up close? What if I threw it from range? The ridiculous idea set every circuit in my head on fire. However you looked at it, it was bullshit. And still, right now, I felt like it might actually work.
"....."
—Shing!
The instant Ivan crossed half the grounds, I finally drew. It was a draw so clean you'd never believe this was the first sword I'd held in my life. I took a reverse grip and set my torso a little back.
Target: Ivan's right ear.
My eyes locked onto his head, dozens of meters off. I lifted one foot a fraction, stamped into a driving step, and twisted my upper body, hurling the sword the way you'd throw a baseball for distance. A sword, of course, was never made to be thrown, and it had no business flying well.
Load it with mana, though, and that's different.
I couldn't say since when, but mana had taken root in my body. It was inside me. I could use it whenever I wanted. I packed the throw full of it, and the sword shot toward Ivan's head with the speed of driving rain.
"What?!"
He hadn't expected me to throw it, and he panicked. He was still a trained swordsman. Even caught off guard, he worked his footwork, killed his momentum, and swung to intercept the blade coming at him.
—Clang!
A clear ring, and the sword was knocked aside. A victorious smile was just hooking onto Ivan's face when I drove my senses out to their limit.
Please—connect!
I pushed the mana still in my body into the sword. Most of it would have scattered in flight, but a little ought to remain. I was certain manipulating that remainder wasn't impossible. And sure enough, I was right. My senses, keener than they had ever been, showed me a thread strung between the sword and me, and I hauled on that line the way a fisherman yanks a rod.
"Huh?"
The deflected sword stopped dead in the air, then whipped around at my pull and flew again. The mana lodged in it burst and added speed. Ivan saw it a beat too late, and a stupid sound jumped out of his mouth.
—Crack!!
"Gack!"
The sword came straight in and cracked the back of his head, and Ivan went down face-first. A long while passed, and he still didn't get up. The referee, who was supposed to check his condition, did nothing at all. He just stood there, blank.
"Referee, aren't you going to make the call?"
"Ah—ah! Right, the call. The winner of the duel is Philip! Examinee Philip!"
He came back to himself late and declared my victory at the top of his lungs. But no answer came from the waiting room, or the grounds, or the judges' seats. They just stood there, staring at me in a daze.
What's wrong with all of them?
Was a swordsman throwing his sword really that shocking?