Broken Wings (7)

Looking at the status window, I couldn't help but snicker.

By now, my pouch was probably torn to shreds. Normally, no one but the knights would be able to tell whose it was — but to Flora, it would be perfectly obvious that it was mine. After all, I'd planted something in there on purpose.

─All right, everyone, regroup!

The morning-run break had ended while I was lost in thought. Not wanting to hand anyone an excuse to nitpick, I changed back into my training clothes, wiped off the worst of the sweat, and before I knew it, the knights had begun gathering one by one.

I wondered what was going on, and it turned out the knights were lining up to collect items one bundle at a time.

"Take yours too, Karsein."

"What are these?"

"Supplies handed down by Lady Claire. A provision for the knights."

Huh. The way she said it with such confidence — she had prepared this down to the last detail.

I don't know about the culture of the Empire, but by providing supplies to every other knight as well, any accusation of favoritism would never so much as leave anyone's lips.

Meanwhile, a senior knight clapped his hands twice and drew everyone's attention.

"Now, listen up! As you all well know, something unsavory happened yesterday. You've all heard, haven't you?"

Every gaze shifted toward Bruce and me.

What was there to say? The talk of cheating was one thing, but the fact that an apprentice knight had picked a fight with a trainee — and lost — was a hot potato in its own right.

"For that reason, we're changing up today's schedule and moving to sparring! Lady Arina has begun to doubt our knights' quality, so you will all show your very best in front of Lady Claire, who is here to observe! Understood?"

─Yes, sir!

At the word "sparring," some shrank back. Some nudged their juniors on the shoulder, muttering that it had been a while since they'd tested their own ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠skills. And then there was someone who—

"One special note: trainees will also participate in this sword-sparring session. As you all know, trainees don't normally qualify as sparring opponents during the Induction Period, but Lady Arina has granted a special exception."

He must have been beside himself at the thought of seizing an opportunity.

It was no coincidence that sword sparring was proceeding. No matter which branch the story took, once Arina set foot on the Training Grounds, she would hand Karsein the chance to take up a sword.

Either way, this matchup was exactly what I'd been hoping for.

"Oh, boy. Isn't that your senior? He's done for."

"Brat. I'm going to check just how much you've practiced. Thoroughly."

The method was drawing lots. Those who drew matching symbols would spar, in the order listed on the roster.

But then—

"Oh? Your opponent is Bruce, Karsein."

"That's odd."

"Isn't it just."

My opponent had been decided from the very beginning.

-Ding!

Originally, failing to hit the required Achievement Rate in the mini-game meant taking a few hits and losing some Recognition — that was all. Now it was straight-up injury. A minor wound might not trigger expulsion, but if the system says you'll be injured, getting thrown out of the Training Grounds is the natural next step.

Then again, Bruce had lost a great deal just now. Fed that kind of provocation, his hostility toward Karsein would never break.

I turned my head slightly and spotted the bastard snickering.

He's already got the face of a winner.

At this very moment, Bruce was probably picturing me flailing helplessly after a humiliating defeat in that head of his. Maybe even planning to exact extra punishment on me afterward.

Sorry, but that's not going to happen.

When it comes to swords — well, it hasn't just been Karsein holding one. I've held a few myself.

"All right, everyone's drawn? Now pair up with your opponent and keep to the order—"

Mark, who had been checking that everyone had drawn their lots, turned around and abruptly cut off mid-sentence. He was staring at the bracket.

"..."

"Mark? What's wrong?"

"Vice-Captain, did we miscount the matchups or something?"

"...No. Nothing like that."

Raising his fallen voice again, Mark forced himself to act composed and told everyone to prepare for their bouts. But inside, he had to be thoroughly rattled. His eyes kept darting furtively toward me, as if asking how something like this was possible.

I passed him a single word through the shape of my lips.

'Told you, didn't I?'

That Bruce would be my opponent.

Mark swallowed hard, doing his best to mask his alarm.

Naturally — from Mark's standpoint, this was an impossible story. Radiel's report alone had been shocking enough, and now there was match-rigging springing up inside the knight order itself. He might well have wanted to barge in right that moment and shut the whole sparring session down. Given that something was afoot at the Training Grounds, he could have launched an investigation on the spot.

But Mark held onto his composure to the very end. Which meant he understood that moving rashly would be a mistake.

In other words — Radiel had explained things well.

That's good ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠enough for now.

Without hard evidence, there was no way to drive them out. So I would have to make it — evidence they couldn't squirm away from.

"Next match! Karsein versus Bruce!"

With their hands, not mine.

Bruce stepped onto the arena with a grin stretched across his face. Keeping himself out of Mark's line of sight, the bastard drew his thumb across his own throat.

Even now he was brimming with confidence that he would win — and worse than that, it meant he looked down on me completely.

"Ready."

At the sparring instructor's signal, the bastard squared into his stance. His upper body was pitched forward, his weight centered dead ahead. His lowered stance was perfect for exploiting any imbalance in his opponent and charging straight in the moment the match began. He gripped his wooden sword in one hand rather than two, apparently planning a big, sweeping swing — he clearly meant to rush in at the start and snatch victory in a single stroke.

This world was clearly different from anything else. It must be far removed from the knowledge I carried.

But even so, this much I knew.

That bastard was a textbook street thug.

Unlike those with genuine strength, he was the kind I'd seen more often than any other — all bluster and nothing behind it. Truthfully, he wasn't even that strong. He was merely the sort who saved face by standing beneath the strong, picking only opponents who looked weak so he could play the powerful one and crush the powerless by force.

Which meant I could analyze him.

Men who sneer at others and laugh while bullying the weak are predictable. They underestimate. They sneer. They strut — trusting only in their own petty strength, which looks pathetic to everyone else's eyes.

Ting—!

A crisp ring of metal on metal. The coin that had been flicked out of the arena hit the ground, and the moment it did, the match began.

"HRAAAAAGH!!!"

Bruce came charging with a bellow loud enough to rattle the ground, eyes narrowed to slits.

He was certain of it. Certain that I couldn't parry this blow.

How many months had it been since Karsein last held a sword? Forget months — you'd have to count in years. And Karsein's slight frame? So weak he could barely keep up with the morning jog. Karsein's swordsmanship? He'd probably never even seen it. To him, I was the picture of the weak.

And that was exactly why I could handle him.

Crack!

"!!!"

"That guy...?"

"He blocked Bruce's sword clean?"

Bruce's eyes went round. Even the ones who'd curled their lips in anticipation of watching me get knocked flying in one blow found their expressions freezing over in an instant.

Men like this are predictable. If an opponent looks weaker than them, they assume they can win even fighting half-heartedly. That's why it's all bluster.

An empty can — hollow through and through.

'...How? How can this be happening?'

Mark had taken Karsein's words yesterday as mere bravado. Offering his arm — he'd understood it as a declaration that Karsein had steeled himself for the worst.

But after learning the truth, he found himself shaking. The old letter. Radiel's counsel. Rocked by the weight of it all, Mark had needed a long while to collect himself before he could return to the Training Grounds. No one could hear such things and act as if nothing had happened. He didn't want to believe it was a lie — no, if anything, he wished it had been a lie.

"Oh? Your opponent is Bruce, Karsein."

"That's odd."

"Isn't it just."

Yesterday, Karsein had spoken those words with utter certainty. That his opponent tomorrow would be Bruce.

Mark had denied it. How could anyone single out one name and predict the outcome of a random lottery? He respected that Karsein had resolved himself for danger — but this was, no matter how he sliced it, hard to believe.

And yet that impossible thing had unfolded right before his eyes. Karsein had named his opponent with eerie precision, as if he'd seen the future — the result of a lottery drawn at random. And not even today; he'd known a full day in advance.

When Mark heard that Karsein already knew his opponent yesterday, he'd checked the lots one more time, just to be safe. The lots used to assign sparring partners all this time were perfectly ordinary — nothing hidden about them at all.

'...But the one who prepared them—'

Theo Ramstair. The probationary knight Radiel had marked as the one who framed Karsein that day.

Mark clenched his fist.

"Captain, we should stop this. Right now."

The Bruce-versus-Karsein matchup, too, must have been engineered. And within such an unfair pairing, who knew what might happen?

"There's no telling what they'll do to the young master. Stopping the sparring and reverting to sword drills is the right call—"

"...But Mark, we never received any such orders."

"Then did the young master say he accepts this matchup as-is? What do you think happens when you pit someone who's been training for months against someone who's only spent five days building up his stamina?"

He might win once in a hundred bouts. Radiel knew the gap as well as anyone.

But—

"No. The young master wouldn't have accepted this pairing without a reason."

"Captain...?"

"Look at him. He's gripping that sword properly."

Hadn't Karsein said it himself? That he was confident this time. That things ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would be different from before.

"This, too, may be part of a plan the young master has laid out. Perhaps..."

"He knew Bruce would come at him — and prepared for it?"

"Yes."

Radiel nodded, confirming it. She was right. Knowing all this and accepting the match anyway meant he wasn't grimly resigning himself to defeat — he had most likely made preparations.

And in fact, he had.

"The young master's sword stance is a little... unusual, isn't it? Ever seen anything like that?"

"...No. I couldn't say I have."

He had come prepared for something — as if he'd never even entertained a future in which he got beaten black and blue by Bruce.

"Both fighters, ready."

Meanwhile, one of the knights stepped forward and gave the signal. The two squared up, and the coin marking the start was flicked into the air.

And then—

Crack!

Karsein deflected Bruce's opening strike as if it were nothing.

"His stance... hasn't wavered at all?"

"As expected...!"

There was no longer any room for doubt.

Flustered by having his opening strike so thoroughly shut down, Bruce grew desperate. Unable to master his emotions in a situation he hated, he began swinging his sword wildly. Everything fell apart. The restraint he'd failed to hold poured raw into every stroke. Whatever advantage his body held, his eyes were locked not on the blade but on Karsein's face. His sword was all fury and no line — his form already in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shambles. His breathing was a mess, and because he never managed his tempo, he was burning through stamina even on the attack.

And the young master? He was calm. As steady as the thread of reason he held fast, Karsein's movements were fluid. Despite the inferior body, his eyes never left the blade's path. Though the stance was one he had never seen before, it held its line without break. A smooth rhythm settled into his breath and footwork — meeting each attack with minimal movement, parrying and answering in turn, defending with ruthless efficiency.

Under opposite conditions, the two men were walking opposite roads.

"Mark, it's been a while since I've watched a bout, so correct me if I'm wrong... but could it be...?"

"You're reading it right. The young master has the advantage. He should be at a disadvantage in every respect... so how?"

By every measure — physique, experience, time in training — Bruce should have held the upper hand. Yet the moment the match began, it was Karsein who looked to be in control. They could already roughly guess where this contest would end.

Bruce's sword never once touched Karsein, swinging again and again into empty air. His stamina drained, the blade slowed and his strokes went pale. And Karsein did not miss that opening.

Wham!

"Kghaah...?!"

Crack! Thud!

After parrying the opening strike, Bruce's wooden sword had come slashing down at me savagely. It was clearly different from the swords of my old world — and yet, the blade spoke all the same.

Perhaps it was resentment at being forced onto the back foot, but I could feel Bruce's fury radiating off that sword in full. A blade swung by a man drowned in rage was truly, magnificently terrible. Enough to make me wonder what he'd spent all this time learning.

Those wild, flailing strokes — barely distinguishable from beating a straw dummy — kept letting slip tiny openings. The moment his panicked right hand took over from the left he'd trusted most, sketching out a sloppy diagonal cut—

I wedged into that split-second gap once more and drove the pommel into his solar plexus.

"Kghaah...?!"

Bruce staggered back several steps, clutching his midsection with one hand. He glared at me like he wanted to kill me, hacking and coughing. Forced back a step and struck down on top of having his attack turned aside, the bastard gritted his teeth.

"Ngh, you little—...! HYAAAAH!!!"

With bloodshot eyes and a shriek closer to a beast's howl than a battle cry, he came at me again.

A sword carrying nothing but scattered focus and raw emotion was worse than a club. It was obvious even from a glance alone exactly where a strike would fell him.

"Ugh!" — one blow to the flank.

"Agh! Ugh!" — one each to the thigh and shoulder.

And then—

-Smack!

One blow to the wrist of his sword hand.

That was the finisher.

-Clatter.

Bruce's wooden sword fell to the ground.

This was a bout fought with wooden swords, yes — but it was still a sword match. A blade leaving its owner's hand meant defeat, plain and simple.

But the bastard refused to concede. No — he went far beyond refusing.

"DIE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!"

Glaring at my defenseless back with murderous eyes, he tried to pour his rage out through the blade — infusing it with mana itself.

"Bruce!"

"Th-that bastard—!"

The regular knights rushed forward desperately to stop him. The amount was small, but mana had entered that blade. An opponent who could handle mana in kind might manage it, but an ordinary person would not walk away unscathed.

But they didn't need to step in.

-Thwack!

With a clean, sharp impact, something went sailing through the air. A moment later, a wooden sword landed far, far outside the arena — and its owner—

"Kghhaah..."

-Thud.

—collapsed face-first where he stood, the breath knocked clean out of him.

"Ha. Bruce may be a worthless piece of work, but that was still a mana-laced sword..."

"Laced or not. He dropped his stance low and parried Bruce's wrist with perfect precision — lifting it clean off the blade."

"Hard to call that luck. Knocking the sword out of a mana-infused grip — that was remarkably calm, surgical judgment."

"...And with a wooden sword, no less. He completely overcame that gap in power."

Applause and cheers rippled through the stands. From most of those clapping and calling it a fine display, the gray boxes had all but vanished.

'So I've taken care of one of them.'

Before long, the presiding knights and the regulars stepped in, hauling Bruce off to mete out his punishment. Every gaze toward me had shifted. Like those vanished gray boxes — the eyes of men who would never have doubted someone might break the Training Grounds' rules were now sending applause of praise and recognition.

Even so, I had to turn my head and check one reaction. One person only.

Because his face would not be a pretty one.

Just as I thought.

Almost certainly the one who had ordered Bruce to drive me off the Training Grounds by any means necessary.

Theo Ramstair.

Don't worry. You're next.