Relay Sparring (2)
At first, the unfamiliar name had thrown me for a loop, but there was nothing particularly special about relay sparring. In a standard spar, the professor pairs up the students and watches to see who wins and who loses. But in relay sparring, there were no pairs—instead, if A beat B, A would immediately face C next.
“Wouldn’t the one racking up wins and fighting nonstop eventually run out of stamina?”
“Spot on. Stamina is one of the metrics we evaluate. Of course, if you’re too exhausted to continue, I won’t stop you from throwing the match or surrendering... but keep in mind that factors into your evaluation too.”
“What kind of criteria are we talking about?”
“Willpower, of course! A true warrior can rise even when their stamina is spent and they can barely stand on their own two feet—as long as their spirit holds! If you think that’s impossible, this professor will beat that notion out of you!”
Every time Professor Perkin bulged his eyes in that savage glare, the students trembled like grass in a windy field. A few wore resolute expressions and exuded confidence, but they were few and far between. Still, it was clear Professor Perkin had his eyes on exactly those types.
As for me...
Hmm, this puts me at a disadvantage.
To preempt any excuses before things got serious: this format was especially unfavorable for me, even if others might handle it fine.
Between fighters of comparable skill, stamina’s the real decider.
In this life, I’d been at odds with stamina since childhood. Sure, my brain retained all the assassin’s combat experience from my past life, but my body hadn’t always kept up, which had been a hassle. The gap between knowledge and physical capability could be bridged with repeated training, but stamina? That stubbornly refused to improve.
Thanks to my status as the count’s son, I took all the stamina-boosting herbs money could buy and exercised consistently, yet nothing changed.
If I think of it as trading stamina for magical talent, does that make it better?
I chuckled inwardly at the silly thought, but on the other hand, I was confident no one here could match my combat prowess—not the students, not even Professor Perkin. My older sister Luisa, the top combat student a year ahead and the count’s heir, had basically been my sandbag back home. No matter their talent, students were students; unless they were a freak case like Elfin, none could take me one-on-one.
I need to make a quick, decisive impact.
The most promising approach was a blitz: gauge the opponent with my senses, assess their level, then fight efficiently to conserve energy. Sure, moving at all would drain me eventually, but it was the best option I had.
While I was deep in strategy, one woman nearby shattered the mood.
“In a world where anyone can learn magic, and yet they cling to blades? Hmph. How utterly barbaric.”
“Don’t you like swords or spears, Yuz... or fighting with weapons in general?”
“Of course not. Why haul around something heavy when I can enchant magic onto anything and make it better?”
“Fair point, but... isn’t a weapon like a warrior’s other half?”
Meanwhile, Yustina scanned the heated pre-spar atmosphere with cold eyes, tossing out cynical remarks.
“Weapons can be dropped in battle. And get this—the fools who avenge the dead by retrieving their lost blades? Hilarious.”
Her gaze made me shiver, as if she were overlaying me with my past self. But first off, that was unfair—I hadn’t died from dropping my weapon. I’d just taken an arrow, dropped my dagger, and...
Is she doing this on purpose??
Did she really not know, or was she deliberately dredging up something to get a reaction? My heart raced more than when sneaking into a corrupt noble’s castle for a hit.
“Why not watch this time? Mages have their ways, warriors have theirs. I’m not saying you have to get it, but it won’t hurt.”
“Hmph...”
“Besides, you picked this class yourself. No one forced you, and you didn’t just tag along with a friend, right?”
“W-what’s that supposed to mean?! As if this Yustina-sama would blindly follow someone without her own will!”
My teasing hit home. Yustina still sucked at hiding her emotions. Her face flushed crimson as she yelled and flailed punches at the air. I pretended to catch them, chuckling.
“Fine, fine, you’re right.”
Finally calming, she crossed her arms and side-eyed me.
“Very well. This Yustina-sama shall graciously witness your clownish display.”
“It won’t be that clownish. I’ve got confidence.”
Assassin style was optimized for speed kills: eliminate fast, escape faster. No dragging things out.
...Wait a sec.
A chill ran down my spine, goosebumps rising.
I’m not the only one who knows assassin combat.
More precisely, my style. Plenty knew it back then. But 500 years later, my comrades were dust, and my victims couldn’t talk. Except those three girls from the mountain hideout, training with me ten years before my death—they’d remember.
Yustina joined sometimes too.
Elfin was my main sparring partner as master-disciple, but Liwin and Yustina had tagged along or watched plenty.
If Yustina remembered my style and wanted confirmation in combat class...
...Crap.
A 17-year-old knowing ancient script was suspicious enough, but assassin techniques? No escape.
Did Yustina plan this?
I racked my brain for an out from her trap. Her words in the dagger’s memory were sincere. If caught, I might never see my family again—Charlotte, Liwin, Elfin...
“Huh?”
Wait. Elfin?
...That could work.
A faint light pierced the storm clouds.
***
Konet Martinez, tapped first by Professor Perkin’s finger, gripped his axe tighter. He eyed his trembling opponent—no, prey.
I’ll prove myself here.
Son of the desert, warrior of the sun god. He didn’t belong in a pinnacle of civilization like Denebergen Academy. Not that they’d reject him—the south’s sun-worshipping warriors turned down invitations. They lived for survival, clashing with strong foes in real battles to prove themselves to the tribe.
The tribe’s too small.
But Konet was the new generation. Blindly following outdated tribal customs didn’t suit him. Talented warriors flocked to academies. Beating second-raters in a backwater tribe meant nothing.
Nothing. Just a frog happy in its well.
Prove his strength among geniuses. Show civilization the desert sons and southern warriors weren’t to be mocked. Return home, bring civilized tools, spark reform. The proof-mad Konet swung at his foe, reaffirming his goals.
“Gahk!”
To avoid serious injury, his axe struck the metal armor over the belly, sparking on friction. A normal guard would’ve meant internal damage, but the training gear’s embedded protection spells softened it. The magic student rolled across the grass, ruled combat-ineffective. Next up.
“Insane...”
“What kinda strength is that?”
“That’s really protected, right?”
Insecure magic specialists regretted the class; even cocky ones grumbled if this was beginner level. As Konet downed one, two, three, four... five in a row for a 5-win streak, complaints turned to awe.
“Ecosystem destroyer...?”
“How do you even beat that...?”
“Five wins and not even winded?”
“Southern breathing technique?”
Like the whispers, Konet was fine.
I could go all day.
Students were weaker than expected—comparing to veteran tribal warriors had skewed his view. At 17, even talents were green. Unless world-shaking genius, unavoidable.
Though these were scrubs so far.
No complacency. Most foes: magic students or tense newbies lacking experience. Peanuts compared to his real target.
Prince Yozef...
The empire ruled most continents, but as a desert son from old independent lands, beating imperial blood sounded thrilling. Really, though... the muscled build just screamed strongest, fueling his proof-lust.
Random matching, so timing unknown, but he hoped to clash.
“Uh... next, Deneb. Deneb Lehinar. Weapon ready?”
“Yes!”
New foe. Konet sharpened his gaze, axe ready. But seeing the face, his grip slackened unconsciously.
Another magic student.
Judging by looks was risky. Deneb shone in basic magic, but his build was average next to Yozef or Konet. Maybe sword-and-sorcery type... but Konet sensed zero presence.
Hidden tiger claws? More like no claws or paws at all.
Desert beast-slayer, Konet was killing-intent sensitive. Even the last kid had desperate resolve. Deneb? Literally nothing.
Made him suspect instant surrender and dropping the class.
And a sword, too.
For mages vs. fighters, spears outranged axes for pressure. Clueless mages picked safe swords often—Konet’s suspicion hardened to certainty.
“Please go easy.”
“You too.”
Deneb smiled back at Konet’s curt greeting, then glanced oddly at the pretty girl—Yuz?—whom rough desert warrior Konet hadn’t dared approach.
What? Not focusing?
Disappointment flared to anger. Not jealousy. But Deneb changed too. As he drew his sword, killing intent surged—Konet startled.
“Wh-what?!”
Assassin flashed in his mind. He’d heard imperial assassins hid intent until the draw. But Konet missed one thing: Deneb hid it past the clean throat-slice.
So this surge was...
“Raaahhh!”
Deliberate.
Clang!
“Grrgh...!”
Konet roared back at the charge, barely parrying in shock. But...
Why so straightforward?!
No footwork, no flanking—just bull-rush, heavy frontal smash. Assassin? Gone. One clash told Konet: not assassin style.
More like...
Dumber barbarian than desert warriors. Or berserker ignoring self-preservation. Preconceptions shattered; Konet panicked.
Exactly 30 seconds later, he desperately blocked Deneb’s relentless barrage.
...Meanwhile, though sparring like Konet, Deneb’s mind was elsewhere.
This should fool her, right??
Deneb wasn’t sparring. Acting. Sole audience: Yustina. Fail, and trapped.
I have to win...!
I have to fool her...!
Konet and Deneb clashed weapons, each dreaming different dreams.