The Final Exam (3)
The moment I caught Frey's sword, my body was shoved backward.
Wait, hold on. What is that thing flickering along the blade of her sword just now?
'Aura?!'
'Mm. It has yet to take full form, but there is no doubt it is something close to aura.'
Frey, you absolutely broken talent-monster!
Seriously, entering that realm in your first semester of your first year at the Academy is just plain unfair!
From what Grandpa says, even he only vaguely lifted his toes without realizing it back in the day — but even so, the fact remains that she's become a nightmare to deal with.
Every time Frey's sword crashed against my divinity-forged shield, the impact sang up through my arm.
This is dangerous.
I'm still not adept at handling divinity.
I can proudly claim to cast holy magic at the level of an average priest, but that's where it ends. Nothing more, nothing less.
I've been papering over my lacking technique with the overflowing divine power unique to an Apostle, but even that well has its limits.
Which is to say: my shield, forged from divinity, isn't all that sturdy.
Until now, my shield arts had covered the shield's shortcomings, but once Frey began channeling aura, that balancing act grew precarious. When a parry succeeded, there was no problem at all — but every time one failed, cracks spidered through the divinity composing my shield.
Because of that, my attention narrowed to just keeping the shield moving, and I found myself naturally driven onto the back foot.
This was nothing like deliberately tucking myself behind my shield, the way Grandpa had taught me before. Right now, Frey was genuinely pushing me back.
'She's a straight-up monster, isn't she?!'
'You're hardly one to talk, are you?'
'Thaaat's debatable!'
'Fear not. If you simply endure, you win. That girl is exactly where you were when you first learned holy shield arts.'
Right now, Frey had unconsciously manifested something resembling aura. Naturally, she had no idea how to wield it, let alone control it. She was simply rampaging, burning her own mana as fuel.
So before long, her mana would run dry, her limit would arrive — and that would be my victory.
Enduring is the thing I do best, after all.
I'm a tank, you see.
The moment I made a show of blatantly hiding behind my shield, Frey's eyebrow twitched upward.
This was Frey, who had sparred with me practically every day since we enrolled at Soul Academy. She'd have clocked exactly what I was trying to do in an instant.
But so what? What could she possibly do about it?
There's no way you're breaking through my shield...
"Hiding behind your shield again? Coward."
Excuse me? This girl is for real.
For an instant, heat flashed through my head, but I hastily smothered it. Anger would do me no good in this situation.
Unfortunately, the brief hesitation that anger birthed turned out to be the problem.
Before I knew it, Frey's sword had closed the distance to right in front of me. I frantically raised my shield as Iron Wall guided my arm — but my own will had nothing to do with it.
No parry activated, and the divinity shield — already crumbling bit by bit — shattered outright.
Frey's sword stopped, its edge hovering at my throat.
The silence of the surrounding arena. Frey's ragged breathing. The blade's polished face catching the sunlight — and my own face reflected in it.
Everything, every last detail, testified to the same obvious truth.
'I lost.'
Ahh. Sure, my head ran a little hot and moved on its own for a moment there, but who knew I'd actually go and lose?
And now every time I call Frey a trash swordsman, I'm going to eat a comeback. Calling her trash while being the bigger trash who lost to the trash? Fantastic.
'And why, pray tell, did you charge forward like a fool? That is why you lost, you little wretch.'
'You gave me permission to, Grandpa!'
'Did I? Perhaps I'm getting old. I can't quite recall.'
'Grandpa?! What is that supposed to mean?!'
As I bickered with Grandpa in the face of my unexpected defeat, Anton stepped forward to wrap up the match. The result was plain as day to anyone watching, so I had no intention of disputing it either.
I could make excuses — I'd have won if Frey hadn't awakened aura! — but saying so wouldn't make the sword currently pointed at my throat disappear.
A loss is a loss.
I was waiting quietly for Anton's official declaration when Frey moved to block his approach.
"Wait. This isn't over."
"Lady Kent? What do you mean by that? The match is already—"
"Lucy didn't fight at full strength. That was fake."
Having said her piece, Frey turned her gaze back to me.
"Lucy. Am I still a trash swordsman?"
"Pfft. Pffahah."
The laughter burst out of me. Even with a sword hovering beside my throat.
Pffha. I see. So that's what this was about?
I'd assumed winning would be the end of it — that she'd be satisfied with victory. I was wrong.
Frey's goal hadn't simply been to beat me. Something else entirely.
She wanted me to go all out. She wanted, through that, to be acknowledged — to be recognized as someone standing right beside me.
I have no idea what about me pleased Frey so much. No idea why a girl who should be indifferent and emotionless was staring at me with eyes burning like coals.
But look. Either way, I'm the one who already lost once, aren't I? A winner's wish deserves to be granted.
"Shit-tier professor♡ Would you kindly shove off?♡ You're in the way."
"Hmm. If you both consent, then... very well."
After Anton withdrew, I committed several holy magic incantations to memory in an instant. With them, my physical abilities rose to heights incomparable to before.
Then I sheathed my remaining divinity around my entire body.
At first I'd been clumsy at handling it. I still couldn't call myself proficient even now — but I was leagues beyond where I'd been a while ago.
Rolling around on the ground for hours every single night until Grandpa was satisfied — of course I grew.
With every preparation complete, I drew the mithril shield from my Inventory and pulled Ruel's Mace from my pocket.
This is my full strength, right here and now.
"Come at me♡ you trash-tier scrub♡"
"Okay."
Frey charged, burning her own mana as fuel, a smile carved across her lips.
The mithril shield in my hands held firm. Firm enough not to so much as tremble under a sword swung with genuine conviction behind it.
So what if Frey was using something resembling aura? There was no way she could shatter a shield like this one.
And precisely because I knew that, I advanced — shield thrust forward, deflecting her blade with every exchange.
Each time her sword struck the shield, an impact ran through my arms. But that was all. Nowhere near enough to stop my feet.
The reason I'd been knocked back before was purely the shield's deficiency. Not a lack in any of my other physical abilities.
Had she seen how solid I was and changed her strategy? Frey tried to fall back — but I refused to allow it.
The instant she moved to retreat, I raised a wall of holy magic behind her.
It's a spell meant for defense, originally. But depending on the circumstances, it has uses like this too.
Realizing her escape was cut off mid-retreat, Frey furrowed her brow — and charged straight back in.
If she couldn't retreat, then break through the front? That logic might have worked on the old me. Against the current me? Not a chance.
I watched the sword Frey swung. The sword tracing a blue-tinged arc, mana overlaid upon the steel.
I moved my shield first, and Iron Wall's suggestion followed right on its heels — because my judgment and Iron Wall's aligned perfectly.
The moment Frey's blade met my shield, the parry activated and its force plummeted — so drastically that I could shove her sword aside with my shield alone.
A shield bearing real mass and weight is, in itself, one magnificent blunt instrument.
With a solid thwack, Frey — struck clean through her own sword — staggered back. Even through the shock she desperately gathered herself, but by then I had already slipped inside her guard.
Close enough that our breath mingled.
This wasn't sword range.
It wasn't mace range either.
It was hand range.
I smiled at Frey's bewildered eyes and seized her by the collar. She thrashed desperately — but there was no slipping out of my grip.
I hoisted her up and swung her down toward the ground, full force—! And then I stopped myself.
This is a friendly match, after all.
No need to pulverize the poor girl, right?
I arrested her descent a hair before she'd have been driven into the floor, and Frey landed lightly on her feet. She stared at me blankly for a long moment, then raised both hands.
"I lost. Lucy really is strong."
I'd braced for at least a little frustration, but Frey's expression was as placid as ever. How much longer would it take before this emotionless girl finally let her real feelings burst out?
'Good work out there, Frey.'
"Not bad. Dummy swordsman."
"...Huh? Dummy?"
I couldn't answer Frey's echo. The most shocked person of all was me — the one who'd said it out loud.
Dummy swordsman?! What? Why did the nickname suddenly change?!
It can evolve?! I thought once a nickname stuck, it was forever!
But this was good news.
It meant all the other aliases I currently couldn't say aloud might someday change too.
And of course they might — mesugaki-skill nicknames mostly exist to manufacture problems and conflict!
Remember how much grief calling Arthur "Pitiful Prince" caused?! And imagine what'll happen when I inevitably start calling Cecil "Moron Prince"! Way too horrifying!
But if I can change what I call people, that changes everything.
It's not like I want to call anyone by their actual name. A nickname light enough that we can both laugh it off is plenty.
Look at Joy, even. Calling her "Airhead Lady" causes zero problems.
Honestly? It's cute! Calling an airhead an airhead is adorable!
If I could bring everyone else's nicknames down to that level, then surely...
'I hate to say this while you're practically glowing with joy—'
'Then don't say it if you're sorry, Grandpa.'
'Hear me out, lass. Is "dummy swordsman" really so different from "trash swordsman"?'
Grandpa. Could you please not poke the sore spot?
I'm running my hope circuit at full capacity right now — do you really need to wedge your personal opinions in there?
Let me have my happy little delusions in peace.
And so what? "Dummy swordsman" is cute, okay?
'Besides, lass. Has your way of addressing people not changed before?'
'Has it?'
'Ahh. Right, it has. You used to call that Phoebe girl not "Trash Saintess" but "Lewd Saintess," if I recall.'
Ah. Right, that piece of dark history exists too. That was back when the Trash Perv Chief God buffed the mesugaki skill, wasn't it?
...Mmm. Though that particular one was probably just the Trash God tormenting me.
Still, it does mean these nickname shifts don't always trend in a positive direction.
Haaah. Complicated, so complicated.
I was sighing inwardly at the sudden development when Frey — already back on her feet at some point — tugged at my arm.
"Lucy. Lucy. One more round."
'Another what, exactly?'
"Another round, dummy swordsman."
"...I didn't mishear it, then. Dummy. Not trash."
Did she think I'd acknowledged her? Frey seemed deeply satisfied with her promotion to "dummy swordsman." Whether she was conscious of it or not, the fact that the corner of her mouth lifted even slightly said she was over the moon.
Haaah. Fine. If it makes you happy, then all's well that ends well.