Enrollment with the Fiancée (2)
She hadn't said it aloud, but the words were written across her fiancée's face all the same: The likes of you? Anyone who knew Patrick Chevalier's past would have wondered exactly that.
That, however, was neither here nor there. It gave the Patrick Chevalier of the present no reason to stand down.
"Is there a problem."
"You can't even fight properly. What on earth are you thinking…!"
"That isn't for you to decide. It's for me to judge. Besides, you've been showing me hostility ever since the entrance exam began. And now you want to fight together?"
"Th-that's—!"
Patrick shook his head.
"I wasn't asking for an explanation, so you needn't offer one. The point is that cooperating in a fight with someone we both find uncomfortable is a poor idea. I'd count myself lucky if you didn't get in the way, never mind actually helping."
"But then you'll fail the exam without accomplishing a thing!"
"That, too, is not for you to worry about. To put it plainly: I have no intention whatsoever of fighting at your side. And if you're still pushing the offer after I've said as much, Liath Reinhardt… could it be you're still that helpless child who couldn't do anything without me?"
Mana began to surge from Liath. It was the clear, unsullied mana of a Hero candidate. Where Patrick's was endlessly cold, hers carried a heat like the sun.
The barb he'd thrown out on a hunch appeared to have struck home.
"…I've shown you every courtesy a fiancée owes. Don't you dare come later and ask why I didn't help you."
"Are we finished talking? Then shall we proceed with the one-on-one spars?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Who goes first?"
"I'll go first."
Liath approached Professor Moriat. Mid-stride, she turned her head toward Patrick.
"Even if you ask me for help now, I won't give it!"
Patrick merely shrugged. Beside him, Barbatos covered her mouth with a hand and snickered. When Patrick stared at her, she cleared her throat and composed her expression.
The corners of her mouth, however, remained stubbornly upturned. He didn't bother pointing it out.
"What a honey-sweet conversation. You'll be married before long."
"Nonsense. You've seen the hostility she showed me, and you still say that?"
"I wonder. Hostility there was, but to this one's eyes it was hatred with affection underneath. What you'd call love-hate…. The more this one watches, the more curious this one becomes about what happened between the two of you."
"I wouldn't know."
"How dull. Well, this one shall let it pass for now. Then let this one change the question: how do you rate your lover's chances?"
He almost corrected her that they were not lovers, then decided it was too much trouble and answered plainly.
"She'll lose."
There was not a trace of doubt in his voice.
"And it'll be a hopeless loss, at that."
Even on the verge of combat, Liath couldn't fully concentrate. She'd resolved not to spare him another thought before the exam even began, yet her gaze kept drifting to Patrick.
She wasn't the one at fault—he was. She'd even gone out of her way, exercising real patience, to propose they fight together, and what she'd gotten in return was rejection and a taunt.
You idiot, Patrick. Have you forgotten the promise we made back then?
Liath shook her head hard. Far too many stray thoughts before a spar. This was none other than the master who had trained the Sword Saint. Focus. She had to focus.
"Your mind is elsewhere."
"I-I'm sorry."
"You're still only a cadet, so I'll overlook it this once. But you'd do well to break that habit immediately."
"Yes, sir!"
"Nervous?"
It was a different kind of tension, but Liath nodded.
"No need to worry so much. I won't even give you the leisure to be nervous."
"Pardon?"
Liath's instincts screamed danger. She reacted at once, snapping her head back. Professor Moriat's wooden sword whistled through the space where her neck had been.
"I will not use mana. I'll face you with physical ability and swordsmanship alone."
Cold sweat beaded on Liath's skin.
That's him not using mana?
She'd been using mana and spreading her senses, and she still hadn't reacted in time. And that exchange had been produced by physical ability alone. It was enough to leave her stunned.
But even that emotion was a luxury. The professor's next attack came immediately. She blocked it again, though it felt tighter than the last.
"You blocked that. Then can you block this as well?"
Liath's pupils dilated.
This attack was not fast. But her talent—the instinct that had made her a Hero candidate—sent a more urgent warning than before. She accepted it without question.
And then the wooden sword that had been thrusting toward her shoulder was, in the next instant, aimed at her leg.
A smooth, nearly imperceptible feint.
Liath gathered every ounce of strength in her body and somehow managed to block it.
"I see."
The professor twisted his sword path again, as if testing her. The cunning and subtlety of this variation was on an entirely different level from the last.
I can't even compete…
Counterattacking was out of the question. She was barely keeping up with defense, and even that was only possible because Professor Moriat was holding back.
In a languid voice, the professor appraised her.
"You possess an absurd talent. You react despite insufficient skill and experience. You likely have an instinct that predicts the future by half a beat. A fine gift. A fine gift, and yet…"
The sword path changed again.
No—rather than changed, it twisted—
"You've relied so heavily on talent that you've neglected the essence of the sword. Allow me to teach you a lesson."
Liath's gaze locked onto Moriat's wooden sword. It wasn't a conscious act. Her body had reacted on its own, telling her to watch it, to take it. But the scene that followed erased any such thought.
Professor Moriat's wooden sword began as a point.
The points gathered into a line.
And the lines gathered once more, forming a single solid.
Professor Moriat named it thus:
First Form: Crescent Moon
A shearing whisper cut through the air.
"Applicant Liath Reinhardt. I have seen enough of your sword. I hope to see a more refined version of you next time."
Liath couldn't answer. Faced with the phenomenon unfolding before her eyes, her mind simply gave up trying to understand.
Behind her, a crescent-moon-shaped scar had been carved into the floor of the training ground.
"Applicant Patrick Chevalier, step forward."
Professor Moriat studied Patrick Chevalier at length.
Liath Reinhardt had not strayed far from his expectations. If she grew steadily without going astray, as he'd heard, hers was a talent that could surpass the Sword Saint. It was because he'd seen that talent that the professor had deliberately used excessive force.
She was standing there dazed from the shock now, but she would likely get back on her feet soon enough and try to grasp what she'd witnessed. Even if she couldn't attain it immediately, it would surely help her someday.
At the very least, Liath Reinhardt had had her reasons for requesting a spar with the professor.
By contrast.
I don't understand.
Seeing Patrick Chevalier up close confirmed it. Whatever his talent might be, his vessel was a wreck. With a vessel like that, even outstanding talent couldn't be put to use.
And even if he did use it, it would amount to nothing more than shaving years off his life.
The professor made a low sound in his throat and asked Patrick again.
"Even after watching that bout, you still intend to spar?"
"Don't look at me the same way you look at that woman."
"…I gave you a chance. If that's what the applicant wants, I suppose I must oblige."
Professor Moriat intended to finish the spar quickly, so the intensity of it would leave the applicant unable to move. Perhaps Patrick had read that intent.
A chilling voice spilled from him.
There was no time to ask what. The instant Patrick's words ended, he was already at the professor's throat. When Moriat looked at him again, he doubted his own eyes.
The vessel that had been unstable only moments ago had been restored. Fine cracks were still visible, but it was enough to move his body with real violence.
He's only just turned twenty, after all.
Even Liath, called a Hero candidate, was still immature in many respects. A man named Patrick, about whom there hadn't been so much as a rumor, would be even more so. Even with the vessel somewhat repaired, the outcome shouldn't change much.
Then their swords met, and he had to revise that thought.
"You'd do well not to take me lightly, Professor. If you don't, rumors will spread that you lost to someone who isn't even a cadet."
"Quite the confidence."
"I have grounds for it."
It was an entirely different picture from Liath Reinhardt. Neither could mount a one-sided assault.
Patrick Chevalier was exchanging blows, head-on, with Moriat—the man who had trained the Sword Saint.
As the endless clash of steel gradually became a single rhythm, the spars around them had, at some point, come to a halt.
Instructors and applicants alike were no exception. The applicants were astonished by the mere fact that someone was trading blows with Professor Moriat at all, while the instructors were stunned for a different reason.
Even without using mana, Moriat's swordsmanship was of a caliber that made even the Sword Saint take a step back. That was why, even among the instructors, only a handful could hold a proper spar against the professor when he wasn't using mana.
And yet here was an applicant—younger than they were, not even an instructor—clashing swords with the professor on equal terms. An applicant who, during the measurements, had received the lowest possible grade.
As the atmosphere ripened, Moriat decided to bring it to a close. He intended to end it by displaying once more the swordsmanship he'd shown Liath. Perhaps Patrick had read that intent as well.
Rather than charging in, Patrick chose to watch and wait, ready to respond.
First Form: Crescent Moon
A moon unfolded from a single blade.
The difference from Liath was the clear aggression—an attack with the explicit purpose of neutralizing Patrick Chevalier. Everyone watching the spar judged that Patrick would lose then and there.
"Swordsmanship in the form of the moon. A fine art. It dazzles the eye, yet its presence is as quiet as the moon itself, making it hard to detect. That's what makes it troublesome."
But, Patrick added.
"But didn't I tell you, Professor?"
A sharp clang rang out as a sword was struck aside, filling the training ground.
"If you take me lightly, you'll lose."
Patrick Chevalier's sword surged toward the professor.