The Wise One
"That's a shame."
Tolravin had taken the first round easily against his junior, but the smile he wore as he lowered the sword he'd pointed at Philia was a bitter one, hardly the look of a winner.
Philia, still sitting on the floor, took his offered hand and rose, apologizing.
"I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice — it's because of my training."
"It's fine. I got an easy ticket through, so it works out for me."
Before the match, Philia had explained her situation to him. She had to fight with a sword style she wasn't yet used to, on account of her training. Even if she looked clumsy out there, it wasn't because she was looking down on her senior, so please understand.
Tolravin couldn't find it in himself to take issue with a junior who, despite being at a disadvantage, still took the trouble to consider her opponent's feelings. He wished her luck in the matches ahead and stepped down from the stage.
Philia descended from the opposite side, replaying the fight in her head.
She didn't know if every advanced sword style she'd never learned was like this, but the technique Selma had taught her was fiendishly difficult. Until now, she had simply applied body reinforcement and fought. Selma's swordsmanship, though, wove a body-reinforcement formula into every single movement. There was a reason she'd been told to learn how to handle formulas from Rai.
The reinforcements granted explosive power, but they didn't last long, and she had to chain them one after another. Keeping her body's balance between the moments she used reinforcement and the moments she didn't was brutally hard, and because she wasn't used to it, her casting timing kept slipping. In a situation where a single mistake could cost you your life, errors like that were no different from asking your opponent to kill you.
Still, the match against Tolravin had shown her a path.
It was nothing like the sparring she did in ordinary training or lectures. They hadn't been staking their lives, but her opponent had given everything he had to win, and once she was dropped into a fight where the atmosphere, the focus, everything was different, she had started to get a feel for how the sword was supposed to be used.
Philia stared down at her empty hands, clenched them tight, and headed back to the waiting room.
The Martial Arts Tournament wasn't over. She needed to get ready for the next round.
The tournament ran in a bracket format, but it had rules for the losers as well. A one-on-one match split the field into winners and losers each round, and that alone wasn't enough to properly evaluate anyone's skill. The first-round losers competed among themselves, splitting in half again, and those who won there faced the second-round losers' bracket. Win that, and you advanced to the third round. Even if you lost in the third, you fought among the losers once more, faced the fourth-round losers' bracket, and if you won, you climbed to the fifth — and so on.
There were academy students who stubbornly clawed their way up by alternating losses and wins, all the way to the round of 128, where the losers' bracket finally disappeared. Sometimes they even got rematches against people they'd already fought. In the end, if you wanted to keep competing, you just had to win your next match. Lose here, and the lower ranks held ranking bouts among themselves — but that was nothing more than a league of dropouts, with no connection to the Martial Arts Tournament at all.
Thanks to those unique rules, there were far more matches than in a regular tournament, so competitors fought several times in a single day. Tolravin was preparing for the second round. Philia rested, bracing herself for the first-round losers' match.
Her body was idle, but her mind was turning over Selma's swordsmanship, which had finally started to show her a way forward, when someone approached.
"Finally. I get to settle this grudge."
At the word grudge, Philia quietly lifted her head. Gilbard stood in front of her.
He had been in the same marching-training group in the first semester, and she had executed him. Now he looked down at her with a greasy grin.
"You're still at the Academy?"
"Of course I am! Who else but me belongs at Legandia?"
"I figured you'd left in shame after getting executed. You've been sneaking around pretty well, staying out of my sight."
Philia sneered at him. She wasn't wrong. Right after the dishonor of being executed during training, Gilbard had attended the Academy while ducking everyone's eyes. The same boy who had always swaggered out in front, inflating his achievements for anyone who'd listen, had sat through lectures as if he barely existed, and gone straight home the moment class ended.
His face twisted with rage at her smile, thick with mockery — but he swallowed it, glancing at the staff member in the waiting room.
"Still watching other people's faces like a little rat, I see."
"..."
She needled him again. Gilbard crushed the feeling down and endured it.
"You play the nice guy in front of everyone else, but you sure know how to show your filthy true colors."
"No. I just treat people according to what they're worth. I shouldn't say this myself, but I'm kind to most people. To me, you're worth even less than a drunk vagrant. When I see them, I at least feel a bit of concern. When I look at you, all I feel is disgust."
Gilbard's face contorted as he watched her speak with that friendly smile. He looked ready to draw his sword on the spot, but all he did was tremble. He didn't move. Whether he'd gotten ahold of himself or not, the shaking faded, leaving only a sharp killing intent behind.
"You're weak, huh? I heard you were getting private lessons from Instructor Rai — you receiving something other than swordsmanship? How'd you get this weak?"
Philia didn't lose her smile.
"Doesn't matter. I can settle this grudge either way. I'll wreck you in front of everyone."
Apparently her next opponent was Gilbard. She had been lost in thought and hadn't even noticed the matchups had been posted. She left a word of thanks for him kindly filling her in.
"Ah — so that means you're in the losers' bracket too? With your skill, that tracks."
"I fought a third-year! I'm nothing like you, who fought some weakling!"
Gilbard had shouted it, then clamped his mouth shut when every pair of eyes in the waiting room turned his way. The room held only first-round dropouts, and there weren't many of them — but there were second-years among them. It was true that Tolravin was weak. That didn't mean a cocky first-year insulting someone from the same year was something they would sit still for.
Unable to open his mouth under those cold stares, Gilbard clicked his tongue and went back to his seat. He was putting on a show of being unfazed. The tension was obvious.
Philia let out a small sigh and started thinking about how to handle the next match.
He had personality problems and wasn't particularly bright, but Gilbard was strong. In terms of individual skill alone, he was at least upper-middle tier. With her old sword, she could have beaten him. With only Selma's technique as it currently stood, she probably couldn't. If her timing slipped even slightly while she was using that explosive body reinforcement, Gilbard would not miss the opening.
She still didn't want to lose to him. Philia spent the remaining time painting the fight in her head.
"So you didn't run away after all."
"..."
Philia took the stage, ignored Gilbard entirely, and turned her gaze toward Cesset and Rai in the stands. The moment she spotted Cesset cheering in her usual over-the-top way, a small laugh escaped her.
Watching her ignore him and look elsewhere, Gilbard gritted his teeth and swore he'd make her pay.
The instant the match began, Gilbard charged, swinging his sword in a vicious arc. Philia kept giving ground, working not to let their blades meet.
"You dared execute me with that kind of skill? You dared?!"
Whether the execution still sat in him like a stone, Gilbard bellowed as he poured on the assault. The training incident had been his own fault — but the aftermath had been far too severe. For Academy graduates, grades mattered, but as Leila had said at the time, what was written in the record mattered too. There were cases of applications being rejected over a single line. There were cases of being recruited first even with poor grades. And what was written in Gilbard's record — execution during training — was unprecedented at any academy anywhere. It was training. Most things could be overlooked. He had been executed. Just what did a person have to do for something like that to happen? Anyone in a position to decide would look at that one entry and feel a seed of doubt. In the end, it meant Gilbard's career had been twisted from his freshman year.
Without a thought for what he himself had done, he pressed Philia hard, pouring out his rage. Every time he swung, she fell back without strength, and small wounds began to accumulate across her body. Even with a practice sword, swinging it with that kind of killing intent packed a serious impact. Normally a clash this violent didn't happen unless the two fighters were almost perfectly matched.
The staff member watching from the side was wondering whether to step in as the atmosphere overheated — and that was when Philia seized an opening and thrust.
The foot she planted shattered the floor as it drove in. With that powerful stomp she shot forward, her blade slipping through Gilbard's guard and driving for his head. He jerked aside in a panic. A cut opened on his cheek. He paid it no mind and swung hard across.
"Die!"
The sword came for her exposed side. She couldn't recover her own blade in time — she let it go and rolled across the ground to get clear. Covered in dust, she put distance between them and took her stance again. Gilbard hadn't moved. A smile spread across his entire face.
"Is that all? You were swaggering around with this kind of skill?"
"..."
Philia ignored him again and looked at the stands. She could see Cesset, worried. Rai was next to her too, but he was a human she had no desire to look at, so she ignored him.
Enraged that she would look away in the middle of a fight, Gilbard swung, and she kept giving ground. She backed off so openly it looked like she had no intention of fighting at all, slipping away from him with ease, weaving across the stage as he kept charging, then picked up the sword she'd dropped and met him head-on.
After several exchanges, she couldn't hold against a blow he put real weight behind. She was knocked backward, then set her feet again. The duel ground on — Gilbard, who seemed about to win and couldn't, and Philia, who seemed about to lose and didn't.
Matches elsewhere had already ended, but because of how stubbornly she held on, no decision had been reached here. The first-round losers' matches had to finish before the second-round losers' bracket could begin, so academy students whose fights were already over gathered to watch. As the crowd grew, a smile hooked itself onto Gilbard's mouth.
"How's it feel, losing in front of this many people?"
"..."
Philia looked exhausted. She didn't answer, silently angling her sword as she watched him.
"I'm pretty happy, actually. Now I can show everyone who the real rat is. Struggle like a cornered rat. The more you struggle, the happier I get."
"Do you know what your losing condition is?"
Philia, who hadn't said a word until now, opened her mouth. Gilbard's face twisted at the implication that he'd already lost — but she spoke before he could.
"You love showing off, so you've displayed your swordsmanship too much."
"So?"
Gilbard wanted people to keep looking at him. That was why he inflated stories of things he'd done, and why he showed off his swordsmanship. It was a fact he knew perfectly well about himself.
"Your attacks won't get through."
"Ah? You're saying that looking like that? That's not even funny. Sure, you're holding out well enough. So? Are your attacks getting through? I don't feel a~nything from those shitty attacks of yours. Aah — my cheek got a little scratched. Amazing. Just amazing."
Gilbard mocked her. Philia didn't answer. She just looked at him. He met those eyes — still bright, still strong — for a moment, then charged, and the exchange began again.
"Yaaawn~"
The other students were watching the more intense match with real interest. Rai yawned as if bored out of his mind and stretched out across the empty seat beside him.
"Wake me when that's over."
"What do you think you're doing, Raikkang? Your prized disciple is in the middle of a match, and her so-called master is falling asleep?"
"She's not my student. And that thing's gonna drag on forever."
Cesset tilted her head, not following. Rin answered with a kind smile.
"Lady Philia is aiming for a war of attrition."
"A war of attrition?"
"Yes. At her current level of mastery, if she attacks rashly she'll surely be countered, so she's committing entirely to defense."
Even Cesset, who didn't know that much, could see that much. From the start, Philia hadn't even properly attacked — only evaded and defended. Her only offensive move had been a single thrust. She had put enough force into it to shatter the floor, but Gilbard had dodged, and Philia had barely slipped the counter. That was all Cesset had seen.
"I don't know whether to call it luck, but Lady Philia has met a good opponent."
"I don't have the knowledge to get it when you talk in circles. Rin, do you enjoy it when I talk in circles explaining magic?"
Cesset puffed out her cheeks, sulking at the continued incomprehensible talk. Rin laughed and apologized.
"I'm sorry, miss. I mean it literally — a war of attrition. Lady Philia intends to hold out until Gilbard's stamina runs dry."
"If it's stamina, Philia's the best there is. Anyway, that means she's going to win, right?"
"We'll have to see it through to the end to know."
She didn't rashly call the result, but there was no worry in Rin's voice. She, too, seemed to be betting on Philia's victory.
As she'd said, Philia was playing for a long fight. She had taken stock of every condition available to her and brought the strategy with the highest chance of winning. Her swordsmanship was clumsy — but unlike attacking, defending wasn't that hard. Attacks could be countered, so the formulas that were so difficult to time held her back. For defense, she just had to watch her opponent and move. And defensive methods shared a lot of the same fundamentals across sword styles, so there was no awkwardness there. That was why she had decided to fight with defense alone.
Fortunately, Gilbard held a grudge. If she kept provoking him, he would come after her on his own. Ignoring his words and looking at the stands over and over had been to wind him up. Even that one heavy attack had been for the same reason — to make sure he kept coming. She hadn't planned on the rest, but matches elsewhere had finished first and drawn a crowd, and given Gilbard's love of showing off, his attacks only grew fiercer.
"Honestly, I can't tell if she's stubborn or smart."
"She understands the weight of a promise and keeps it. That means she has strong convictions. She's wise."
"That's usually how they dress up the dumb kids."
Even at Cesset's praise, Rai was unimpressed. He rolled over and tried to sleep.
After a long, grinding battle, Philia eased her stance. Her body was a wreck.
"Is that all? You were swaggering around with this kind of skill?"
"..."
She repeated Gilbard's own words back at him. This time, he had nothing to say.
The first omen that something was wrong had come when his legs gave out mid-attack and he stumbled. His heart had dropped at the same instant. And in that same instant, Philia — who had done nothing but defend — suddenly launched a fierce assault, pressing him hard, and the cheers of the crowd washed over him.
He couldn't be humiliated in front of people. Gilbard gritted his teeth, knocked her sword aside, and switched to offense. The fierce assault unfolded again, and Philia endured his attacks by a hair's breadth, seeming about to fall and never quite falling. Just a little more, he thought, and he attacked again and again — but she held to the end. Eventually, the only person standing properly on that stage was her.
Gilbard, panting roughly from mana depletion, glared up at Philia looking down on him. He tried to stand. The legs that had been holding him up through body reinforcement no longer obeyed.
She looked down at him for a moment, snorted a quiet laugh, and turned around to leave.
The match was already decided. Philia, the winner in tatters. Gilbard, the loser without a single scratch.
The staff member who caught her glance declared her the winner. The match was over. The academy students who had found the fight exciting at first and then, as it dragged on, merely tedious, got up one by one and left.