Entrance Exam - Department of Swordsmanship - (3)
From the very first bout of Luminor Academy's swordsmanship entrance examination, Ethan had been facing his opponent across the arena in a state of considerable tension.
After all, the moment his name was called, his first opponent had turned out to be Caraham Samuel Auguste, eldest son of the Margrave of Auguste.
"I look forward to our match, Young Master Ethan."
"...Likewise, Young Master Caraham."
Though they had never crossed blades before, the two had already crossed paths on a couple of occasions.
The first meeting had been when Caraham, along with his younger sister, had slighted both Ethan and Lilith.
The second had come when rewards were being handed out for the defense of the imperial palace during the assassination attempt.
From what Ethan had heard, during the palace attack Caraham had held the line near the southern gate's stables, keeping the monsters from tearing into the horses and carriages.
Considering the number and strength of the monsters that had swarmed that position, he was very likely not an opponent Ethan could defeat easily.
Of course, Ethan himself had trained far more since then, and these days he could snatch a bout here and there even in practice spars against his father, a Sword Master — but still.
He couldn't say why, exactly, yet Ethan's instincts were shouting at him.
A fierce warning that underestimating the man before him would be a fatal mistake.
'Young Master, you must never try to block Caraham's blade with a single sword.'
'Where's this coming from all of a sudden, maid?'
'The Auguste school of swordsmanship is far too heavy a blade to deflect with one sword, the way you and your father spar. Fortunately, since he wields a greatsword, his speed isn't especially fast — so make evasion your first priority at all times. And if there ever comes a moment when you absolutely must block, use both swords and hold the line for your life.'
'...Understood, maid. I'll keep it in mind.'
Having received her counsel before the match, Ethan could only feel all the more on edge.
Even when deflecting his father's blade in practice, one of his arms would end up aching with fatigue — and now he'd been told his opponent swung a blade heavier still.
Granted, he did wonder how a mere maid could know the strengths and weaknesses of the Auguste school of swordsmanship in such detail, but he chose not to press the matter.
Ethan had benefited from her advice so many times by now that he had long since stopped doubting a word Lilith said.
As Ethan set his stance and readied himself to cross blades with the man before him, the Auguste heir standing opposite began to speak with a nonchalant air, as though the exam were already over.
"To be matched against you from the very first bout — well, consider me quite fortunate, Young Master Ethan."
"...What is that supposed to mean?"
"I've wanted to test myself against you for some time now. I may not be your equal, but I did earn my share of distinction with a blade during the palace attack. And they say you accomplished feats beyond even mine — naturally, I've been curious what manner of swordsmanship you possess."
"...And what does any of that have to do with being lucky to face me first?"
"Why, isn't it obvious?"
From the lips of Caraham — one hand reaching up to the greatsword strapped across his back, ready to draw at a moment's notice — came words that, on the surface, sounded like nothing more than confident bravado.
"If you win in the first bout, at least no one can claim you only lost because your strength was worn down from earlier matches."
"......"
At Caraham's second volley of provocation, Ethan clenched his jaw tight.
Already determined not to lose a match with Lilith watching, he now found that desire burning fiercer than ever.
Caraham, for his part, seemed entirely unaware that his words had landed as a provocation at all, calmly drawing his blade and finishing his preparations to swing it.
Into that air, thick with tension, the entrance exam referee signaled the bout's beginning.
"Ready..."
"......"
"......"
"...Begin!"
The instant the declaration left the referee's lips, both men exploded forward.
They met near the center of the training grounds — a shade closer to Caraham's side — and exchanged their first strike then and there.
With his very first step, Caraham drew the greatsword from his back and attempted a lightning quick-draw slash.
His blade carved a vertical half-arc through the air before crashing down toward Ethan, who stood directly in its path.
True to Lilith's advice, Ethan didn't bother trying to meet it blade-to-blade; instead, with a burst of swift footwork, he slipped cleanly out of the first strike's way.
—Crack!
"...!"
The blade, buried in the spot Ethan had abandoned a heartbeat before, drove straight down into the training ground's floor and shattered it.
Even Ethan couldn't help but be stunned by that raw power — splitting the stone pavement with a single sword stroke from the opening move.
'...Good thing I dodged.'
Had he tried to block that one-handed, his entire arm would have been crushed along with it.
Recalling Lilith's warning once more, Ethan lunged at Caraham while the man was still recovering his blade — but Caraham, as if he had predicted the very same reaction, ducked beneath the attack, then slammed his left shoulder squarely into Ethan's chest.
—THUD!
"Kgh...!"
That body — every bit as brutish and unbreakably solid as the blade it swung — sent Ethan skidding backward, and the moment his stance crumbled, Caraham seized his sword anew and came charging after him instead.
'Truly an Auguste — the man is a walking weapon from head to toe.'
The thought struck Ethan mid-exchange: no wonder the Auguste family had guarded the western Monster Borderlands for generations.
True to a bloodline that had tempered their very bodies with internal mana since childhood, even that brief collision let him feel iron-hard muscle across every inch of the man's frame.
With a physique that rugged, of course the man could fight with a greatsword so slow and heavy no ordinary swordsman could lift it.
But Ethan, too, was the heir of House Blackwood, trained in his family's mana swordsmanship by his father.
When it came to reinforcing his body with mana to swing a blade, he was hardly lacking himself.
Deflecting that greatsword head-on with his own strength was impossible — but redirecting it, guiding its arc elsewhere, that much he could manage.
In their second exchange, the instant Ethan evaded Caraham's blade, he drove both of his swords simultaneously toward the man's throat.
"...!!"
Caraham had been winding up to smash his sword into the ground with crushing force, and the sudden attack flying at his vitals forced him to wrench his blade off course in a hurry.
Fortunately for him, the greatsword turned just in time, knocking Ethan's blades aside before a fatal wound could land.
The young Blackwood's twin swords, losing the contest of raw strength, had no choice but to stall.
—CLANG!
The impact of three blades colliding birthed a small shockwave of mana, and in the same instant both men sprang apart, putting distance between them.
At roughly five paces apart, Ethan and Caraham stood gulping down ragged breaths.
They had barely managed two exchanges, and already sweat was pouring off both of them as though they'd run a marathon.
"Haah, haah..."
"Whew, whew..."
"Y-you're... quite good indeed, Young Master Ethan..."
"...Whew. Likewise, I assure you."
The moment that brief respite and exchange ended, the two silhouettes were charging at each other once more.
Their bout stretched on for twenty exchanges after that.
Caraham, stolid and unshakable, swinging that unblocable greatsword at Ethan with slow, mountainous blows, one after another.
Ethan, weaving around Caraham's blade with nimble footwork and the agility of twin swords, probing for openings to strike — or, when evasion failed, blocking with both blades and breaking away to reset the distance.
Unlike the earlier examinees whose matches had been decided within three minutes, this duel dragged past the fifteen-minute mark and showed no sign of ending.
For Ethan and Caraham alike, the fatigue of spent mana — burned away with every wild, desperate swing — was creeping over their bodies bit by bit.
'The next exchange will probably be the last.'
Ethan could feel it in his bones: if the bout dragged on any longer, he would be the first to collapse from exhaustion.
He had no idea what caliber of stamina Caraham possessed, but expecting that stolid ox of a man to keel over before he did would be pure arrogance.
Which meant the deciding blow had to come from him.
Somehow, he had to tear open an opening and slip in the killing stroke — that final, all-or-nothing gamble.
—Whoooosh!
'Here it comes...!'
Another slow, ponderous blow came hurtling toward him.
Squeezing out the last of his mana to accelerate his body, Ethan evaded Caraham's blade one final time — and his twin swords flashed toward the man's neck once again.
"...!"
Caraham remembered this attack — the very same gambit from their second exchange — and just as before, he twisted his descending blade to deflect Ethan's strike.
With that instinct-borne reflex, Caraham moved to bat away both of Ethan's swords — but the last thing he registered before the blades met was a single sword held in Ethan's left hand, and nothing more.
—KRAANG!
"...!!"
Worse, that lone blade didn't seem to have been properly aimed at all — Ethan simply let it fly from his left hand with effortless ease.
At that infuriatingly calm reaction, Caraham frantically searched for where Ethan's other hand had gone.
But by the time his eyes found the remaining sword, he already knew, with sickening certainty, that he was too late.
The blade in Ethan's right hand was already a hair's breadth from plunging into his heart.
"...Halt! That is enough!!"
"Ghk...!"
"...Haah."
Caraham, rigid with the certainty that a blade was about to punch through his chest — and Ethan, frozen mid-thrust by the referee's call, stopping his sword at the last possible instant.
With only the tip of that sharp black blade, etched with the Blackwood crest, having shaved a sliver from the front of Caraham's tunic, the referee delivered the verdict.
"The winner — Ethan Richard Blackwood!"
"H-haha..."
—Thump.
The moment the referee's report ended, Caraham dropped the swords in his hands and sank to the ground where he stood.
Ethan watched him in silence for a moment, then sheathed his own blade back into the scabbard at his hip.
"A fine match, Young Master Caraham."
"...You have my thanks for the lesson."
After their brief exchange of courtesies, Ethan retrieved his thrown sword from beside Caraham and slid it into the scabbard on his opposite hip.
Truth be told, he would have loved nothing more than to collapse onto the ground and rest just as Caraham was doing — but there was a reason Ethan simply could not afford to.
"Well fought, Young Master Ethan. That was a truly splendid bout."
"...Mm. Thank you for watching over me, maid."
After all, the desire to strut just a little harder in front of the woman he loved was a craving shared by every man in the world.