Relay Sparring (3)
The moment Elfin's name crossed my mind, I knew exactly how to fight.
Elfin was something else.
I'd fully intended to mold her into an assassin. Assassination was my specialty, after all—the only skill I could teach without a second thought.
But Elfin cherry-picked the essentials from those techniques and forged her own unique battle style.
Her brilliance stemmed mostly from raw talent and relentless effort; my guidance was just a nudge in the right direction.
What was it... a berserker? A barbarian? No clue.
Elfin defied categorization, a walking contradiction. A necromancer's gifts in the body of a pure-blooded elf who cherished life above all. A face made for archery, trained in the shadows of assassination—yet she threw herself into battle like a berserker, heedless of her own body.
By her late teens, I was the one learning the ways of a warrior from her.
I remember it well. Elfin's fighting style.
There were countless things I knew that Yustina didn't, and Elfin's combat approach was one of them.
Yustina often tagged along with Liwin to watch our training sessions, but only in the first half of those ten years. Toward the end, when Elfin's style had fully crystallized, she'd skip them to play with Liwin instead.
If I borrow Elfin's way instead of my usual...
But it wasn't flawless. As I'd said, Elfin's style was pure berserker—throwing caution to the wind. Mine was stealthy, measured swordplay. Polar opposites. And this body? No Elfin-level stamina or strength. I'd drop one foe at best, then surrender.
I'd have to shelve my greed for thirty straight wins, rationing energy my way.
Shelve it. I have to.
No time for ego or pride. Today could be my last glimpse of sunlight in this life.
Even so, I couldn't fully shake the urge to shine amid these students like a cut above the rest. I watched the ensuing matches intently.
That kid's got some bite.
One boy stood out: Konet Martinez.
Five hundred years ago, the southern desert warriors dubbed themselves sun warriors, radiating fearless valor. This kid had the skill and guts to match.
In that instant, I knew where to stake my one shot.
An assassin always targets the strongest foe.
Toppling twelve green rookies pales next to felling a general. The pay skyrockets, your rep as a killer soars. Sure, fame has downsides, but bagging a big fish always packs the biggest punch—whether in the assassin's underworld or a school full of teens.
If Elfin's style limits me to one fight, might as well take down the toughest-looking bastard here.
That was how I ended up facing Konet.
Of course, Professor Perrin might've skipped me till the end, picking others until someone exhausted wore him down. But fortune favored me—no such luck for him. I drew my blade against a fresh Konet.
"Haaaaap!"
I unleashed the killing intent I'd kept leashed, perhaps a tad too much, and charged.
He had real combat miles compared to the others, but against me? Less than a drop in the ocean. He barely parried with his axe, a flicker of panic crossing his face.
He hadn't sized me up at all until our weapons clashed.
Can't be helped.
Know your enemy, know yourself: a hundred battles, undefeated. He might know his own measure dimly, but me? Zero. I'd scouted him thoroughly from the sidelines.
Unfair? That's Professor Perrin's design—to make streaks hell.
"Ngh!"
For all that, Konet handled my strikes admirably. Keen eyes spotting gaps, countering with axe-head pokes.
Steel kissed steel, sparks flew, stoking the pyre of battle hotter, fiercer.
The fiercer it burned, the faster my thrusts came.
The faster they came, the heavier the toll on my body.
"Ugh..."
Joints screamed like they might pop.
My brain's commands lagged behind flesh.
"Gah—grrrk?!"
But Konet screamed first. His head and body couldn't keep pace either.
Right foot rooted like an anvil, left thrust forward—advance, advance, one more step.
Swing, slash, thrust, thrust, thrust.
Relentless, needle-sharp strikes stitched him up. His broad axe blade strained to block hundreds of invisible needles, failing here and there. Shallow cuts bloomed inevitably across his frame.
This isn't how I'd normally fight.
Non-lethal hits piled by volume, begging for a counter? An assassin's nightmare.
Every strike must kill. Every move must end in death.
This style? Disqualified for a killer who lives for the fatal blow.
But Elfin, who thrived on battle's thrill, would've grinned:
—'Kyaa, this is way more fun, right?!'
Elfin didn't swing for slaughter alone. Unlike me, chained to hate, revenge, resentment.
Weapons held emotions for her; combat was dialogue.
Looking back, maybe just addicted to the rush. But it rocked me then.
Grind—
Whoops. Got lost in Elfin thoughts, nearly missed it.
Sight first, then sound. Teeth grinding hit my ears—I arched back.
In this chaos—clashing steel, nature's din, students' cheers or jeers—picking out that grind? No easy feat.
But my hearing filtered ruthlessly, honing in.
From fragments, I rebuilt the scene, forecasted the flow.
Big swing incoming.
Teeth grinding mid-fight? Could be mere frustration.
But tie it to Konet's profile? More.
Konet Martinez, desperate to prove himself. Would he just eat hits?
No—even if self-lacerating, he'd roll the dice on a big play.
Grinding teeth + axe + hothead temper = verdict.
The losing side grinds teeth when they're done playing defense. Reckless counter ahead.
Sure enough, he ate a thrust bare-skinned, then two-handed his axe in a mighty arc.
Whooooosh!
The blade's wind howled impossibly fierce, cleaving air two handspans from my face.
But big swings birth big openings. Torso twisted wide, gut defenseless.
Thrust kills, right?
Casual death-calc. Occupational hazard. Just where to stick it.
If he were a mark, no hesitation—gut him, spill guts and blood.
But warrior-sparring now? Different.
Thwack!
"Hngh?!"
Kick to the belly instead. Arched back, one leg lifted—prime for tumbling.
Unless mastery of balance. Near-horizontal, one foot down: I held.
"Grah!"
Konet flew back on impact, groaning, staying down.
Professor Perrin watched seconds tick, then raised my hand.
"Deneb Lehinar wins!"
Victory buzzed sweet, but my body? Wreckage. Joints ground like rust, limbs leaden. Fingertips, toes: zero grip.
Our prolonged exchange triggered the stamina crash I'd foreseen.
"Hm, relay rules: Deneb Lehinar faces the next. Your opponent is..."
No surrender yet, so despite eyeing my state, Perrin called next.
Pride stung, but pushing? Collapse guaranteed. Best to tap out smart.
"...Hrm."
Then my sharp ears snagged a peculiar snort. Tiny amid the crowd, yet deafening.
Maybe from someone too colossal for me to fathom.
Yustina?
She stared, expression inscrutable. Low gaze, fluttering lashes—like appraising, dissecting me.
If she'd clocked me as Dane, eyes alight with glee. Not this ambiguity. How'd she buy it?
...What the—?
Then it hit: magic. Not standard spellwork, mind tricks, or debuff.
A rare echo from past life. Teammate mage's blessing on mission...
No way?
Strength surged back, vitality brimming head to toe. Ten more bouts? Easy.
Not raw power or speed. Just stamina. Pure endurance blessing, or fatigue purge.
Obvious what I could do with it.
And the caster? No doubt.
One fight wouldn't sate. She'd probe more, till certainty. Hunting Dane-traces.
Creak, crick, creak...
Recovered, yet neck grated like rust. I glanced Yustina's way.
Again.
Her blue eyes seemed to whisper it.