Precision Disarmament
In the center of the Training Grounds, surrounded by spectators, two wooden practice swords lay on the sand. The ground had been freshly raked smooth, and beneath the stands, a scribe stood holding the Merit Ledger. Beside him, Instructor Hagen watched the cadets with arms crossed.
Morning public duel. No teammates. No formations. No one to hold a shield. All that remained in the middle of the Training Grounds was a name and a single wooden sword.
From the front row of the stands, Mark rolled his wrists. "Now that you've even got a team name, time to show what you can do solo."
A few around him chuckled, but not as loudly as before. They'd already seen Ronan in action at the main gate, the Training Grounds, the dining hall, and team drills.
Ronan walked out from the fence side, gripping the academy-issued wooden sword. It was plain—no frills, nothing flashy.
Mark smirked. "What if you drop it again today?"
Ronan tilted his head slightly. "I'd pick it up."
"That's it?"
"Yeah. If you drop the sword, you pick it up. Crying about it just gets sand in your eyes."
A few cadets couldn't hold back their laughs.
Instructor Hagen tapped the sand with the tip of his wooden sword. "Ronan."
"Yes, sir."
"Today's conditions are against you."
The stands murmured. Ronan didn't flinch. "In what way?"
Hagen drew a small circle in the sand with his sword tip. "You don't step out of this circle until your opponent charges first."
A low wave of exclamations rippled through the crowd. The circle wasn't wide—a single large step from Ronan would take him out. Mark, on the other hand, could take as much distance as he wanted from outside. First strike went to Mark. Ronan's footing was completely restricted.
From behind the stands, Dorman muttered, "Isn't that just telling him to take the hit?"
Lia didn't respond. Her gaze lingered on Ronan's wrist.
Seris, watching from a spot a little removed, overlooked the Training Grounds. Her scabbard rested on her knee. Her eyes weren't on Mark—they were on Ronan. The face of the one handed unfavorable conditions. Eyes checking for any shake.
Ronan looked down at the circle. "So I just don't step out?"
"Correct."
"What if I trip?"
"Defeat."
"What if I drop the sword?"
"Disarmed. Defeat."
Ronan nodded. "Sounds easy then."
Mark burst out laughing. "Easy?"
Ronan stepped into the circle. "Only one way to win."
The air in the Training Grounds thickened.
Mark's wooden sword was long and sleek, its hilt wrapped thickly in leather cord. It looked stylish, but his thumb wouldn't bite deep.
Ronan eyed only the hilt's end, thumb position, elbow, and foot spacing. Just the essentials.
Mark raised his sword over his shoulder. "Your team can't move for you this time."
"True."
"No line drawn by you either."
"Not drawing one today."
"So what's left?"
Ronan grinned. "My sword."
The words weren't loud, but they carried to the front rows. Mark gritted his teeth. "Let's see how long you last."
"Don't like dragging it out."
"Scared?"
Ronan glanced once toward Seris. She didn't miss it. He didn't linger. Just enough to ensure the unfavorable conditions didn't turn into a joke at someone's expense. Then his eyes returned to Mark.
"Not scared—waiting so you don't get hurt."
The Training Grounds fell silent. Mark's face flushed red. "What?"
"Your wrist."
Before Mark could process, he lunged. Circling wide from the circle's right, his sword feinted straight at Ronan's front before veering toward his left hand. A strike that would force a drop.
Lia took a step forward. Seris's fingers paused on her scabbard strap.
In that instant, Ronan drew a short breath. Pure mana gathered at his fingertips. A thin, short blade—one phantom sword—stood at his right side.
Most spectators missed it. Too small, too fast.
But Seris saw. A line too slender to call a sword. The moment it slid without cutting.
Tick.
The sound was faint—like flicking a nail against the hilt's end. The result wasn't.
Mark's sword spun half a turn in his palm. Fingers lagged; thumb failed to grip. The blade flew upward.
His arm was still swinging down, but his hand was empty. The wooden sword flipped once in the air and landed before Instructor Hagen's boot.
Thud.
The entire Training Grounds went still. Even Mark was speechless. His wrist was fine. Arm fine. Body unscratched. But no sword.
Ronan stood unmoved in the circle. Not a single step out. His sword tip still touched the sand.
Hagen glanced at the fallen sword. "Disarmed."
Mark finally spoke. "Wait, that's—"
"Winner: Ronan."
Whispers spread.
"Just hit the hilt."
"Not the wrist?"
"No injury."
Mark clenched his jaw. "That's magic."
Ronan nodded. "Yeah. Used mana."
"Mana shaping in a public duel— that's cheating!"
Hagen's voice was ice. "Did you read the rules?"
Mark shut his mouth.
"Mana attacks directly wounding the opponent's body are forbidden. But shaping pure mana into a weapon falls under swordsmanship."
It was in the fine print on the rules board.
From inside the circle, Ronan said, "You left too much hilt exposed."
Mark's eyes widened. "What?"
"Thick leather looks cool. But thumb doesn't grip deep. Makes your wrist swing faster."
"You're critiquing my sword?"
"Not the sword—the hilt."
Soft laughter bubbled up. Ronan didn't amplify it.
"Could've hurt you. Didn't. So you can pick it up next time."
Mark had no retort. His wrist really was fine.
From the front row, Seris rose slowly. Lia glanced her way. Seris took up her scabbard and descended the steps. Front-row cadets parted instinctively. Daughter of a knightly house. A name already marked separately on the swordsmanship ledger.
She stopped at the Training Grounds entrance. "Instructor."
Hagen narrowed his eyes. "What is it?"
"May I confirm a move?"
The stands stirred again. Hagen looked to Ronan. "Wrist status?"
Lia flinched first. Ronan rotated his wrist. "Still attached."
Lia's eyes narrowed. Ronan corrected quickly. "Moves fine. I'll say if it hurts."
Seris's lips twitched ever so slightly. "One exchange only."
Hagen nodded. Seris drew her wooden sword. Fingers gripped deep into the hilt. Fewer gaps than Mark.
Ronan smiled. "This'll be tougher."
"You dislike it?"
"No. Tougher feels more like a real sword."
Seris's eyes gleamed. "Don't treat me like Mark."
Ronan nodded. "You gave hilt end away. Seris hides her feet."
Seris's shoulder hitched minutely. Ronan hadn't just seen the hilt. Her second foot. The one pressing sand just before the sword moved. The real attack, half a beat ahead of the blade.
Seris lowered her sword. "Don't hold back."
"Holding back is disrespect."
Ronan raised his sword. "Not hurting is duel etiquette."
"Begin."
Seris moved. Not fast—or so it seemed. But as her toe pressed sand, the sword's arc shifted a beat. The tip, incoming straight, sliced toward Ronan's right shoulder.
Ronan didn't retreat. The circle remained underfoot. His collar brushed.
Then Seris's second foot came. The true attack was balance, not blade.
Pure mana gathered again at Ronan's fingertips. Thinner this time. A thread. But it held the sword's center.
The phantom sword didn't aim for Seris's wrist. No flesh, no bone. Between hilt and palm. The deepest grip point—it slid in.
Tick.
Seris's sword didn't fly. Ronan didn't make it. The hilt just twisted slightly. Thumb and index parted for an instant. The blade slipped free.
Simultaneously, the phantom sword caught beneath. The wooden sword hovered half an inch in air, then settled softly on the sand.
Thud.
Not like with Mark. No mockery. Just result.
Seris stared at her empty hand. No tremble. But she knew how to suppress surprise.
Ronan didn't laugh first. "That was your second foot."
Seris looked up. "You saw?"
"Late."
"Yet you blocked."
"So I need to see faster next time."
Seris's eyes wavered. Ronan didn't claim strength. He admitted lateness, promised a next. To her, it rang clearer.
Hagen declared. "Disarmed. Winner: Ronan."
A beat later, one clap broke. Dorman. Others followed. Applause wasn't roaring cheers, but it slowly filled the Training Grounds.
Seris picked up her sword, lowering the tip slightly. Polite concession.
Ronan lowered his too. "Rematch?"
"When?"
"If Lia doesn't chew out my wrist first, tonight works."
From the stands, Lia called immediately. "Not happening."
Light laughter spread. Hagen tapped sand twice with his sword tip. "Dismissed. Today's public duel judgments go on the Merit Ledger. Mark: defeat. Seris: one-exchange defeat. Ronan: precision disarm judgment."
The scribe took up his quill. Under Ronan's name, small script was added: Precision Disarm.
The technique that silenced Mark became, for Seris, a line of respect. The crowd noted the difference. Same disarm, but this one didn't belittle the opponent.
Seris glanced at her sword-gripping hand, then back at Ronan.