The Rhythm of Battle (2)
Medeia swallowed her tension as she headed for the sparring arena. Her opponent was Fadiol de Matein, the noble brat who constantly picked fights with her. I have to win. No matter what.
Medeia’s midterm ranking was fourteenth. Matein’s was forty-second. By rank alone, the odds were heavily in her favor.
She checked her gear. No debris in the barrel. She loaded an empty magazine, dry-fired, then distributed spare magazines across her body and confirmed the backup pistol was secure in the hip holster.
“Since you’re all freshmen, I’ll go over the rules one more time. You brought only the weapons issued by the academy, correct? We’ve already inspected them once, but if anyone tries to sneak in a holy relic or similar contraband, you won’t just be expelled—you’ll face criminal charges. Consider yourselves warned.”
The supervisor’s lengthy explanation boiled down to this: no holy weapons, no artifacts, no targeting vital points, absolute obedience to the supervisor’s instructions, and awareness that the supervisor could intervene at any moment.
“Ready to begin?”
The moment the supervisor finished, a sharp beep cut through the air.
“Hup—!”
Matein exploded off the ground. His weapon was a spear. Longer reach, but still no match for a gun. Medeia drew a breath and took aim.
The instant his foot touched down and he pushed off again—right in that split-second gap in his awareness—she fired.
BANG!
“Huh?!”
Matein sucked in a breath, but there was no dramatic reaction. The bullet that struck his left shoulder only froze his momentum for a heartbeat. Yet the moment rage twisted his face and he tried to charge again—
BANG! BOOM! BANG-BANG-BANG!
Bullets flew with deliberate, staggered timing. Matein ground his teeth and whipped his spear around. Two shots pinged off the shaft, four more slammed into his body. So he ignored the pain and lunged—only to meet the exact response she had predicted.
Two more rounds hammered the same shoulder. Then—
THUD!
“Aaaagh!”
The mana-infused bullet punched through the thinned barrier and smashed into his shoulder. The follow-up shot was just insult added to injury. Matein clutched the throbbing wound.
Medeia smirked, swapped magazines with a smooth click, and raised the pistol again.
That was the end of it. Staring down the barrel leveled at his face, Matein could only grind his teeth.
“Sparring concluded! Winner, Medeia.”
Lapien, who had been watching the match beside Zeron, tilted her head.
“Why couldn’t he do anything? Guns are fast, sure, but if he can use mana it shouldn’t be impossible to block or dodge, right?”
Zeron let out a low chuckle at the innocent question.
“That’s what happens when you shoot straight and honest. When a little brat shoots like that, it’s surprisingly hard to deal with.”
“Like Medeia… How exactly?”
“How? You match the timing perfectly, aim for the spots that are hardest to defend, and steal the opponent’s rhythm while you’re at it. Simple.”
“Uh… hmm. Doesn’t look easy at all.”
“Obviously.”
As Medeia’s victory was officially announced, Zeron clapped a few lazy times and continued.
“If it were easy, everyone would just use guns.”
“True enough.”
Lapien nodded, freshly impressed by the girl’s skill. Zeron gave a vague nod of his own and turned his gaze to the little brat.
She had offered a handshake, only to be completely ignored as the rude bastard turned his back on her. For a second her eyes flashed with fury, but she quickly smoothed her expression into a bright, harmless smile.
That’s exactly why she’ll never make it in politics or business. No manners? Punch the bastard in the face. If you just keep smiling like that, you’ll die of stress someday.
“Uncle, did you see?”
Any trace of anger had vanished. The little brat trotted over with a wide grin. Zeron swallowed a sigh and mussed her hair roughly.
“Yeah, good job. Even though you didn’t use a damn thing I taught you about swords.”
“Kyaa!? I told you not to touch my hair! Sheesh… And it’s not that I didn’t use it—I just didn’t get the chance! I only used one magazine!”
She pouted, quickly fixed her hair, then thrust out her flat chest with a confident smirk.
“And that’s who I am.”
“Yeah. That’s you, all right.”
Elena had a pretty impressive chest. Why the hell are you so flat?
“…What the? I just got a really bad feeling.”
“Perhaps because this defective instructor was staring at you with filthy eyes?”
“Pfft, really?”
The little brat—who had somehow grown chummy with the rude young lady—gave Zeron a sly look. He almost snapped back, then simply sighed and jerked his chin toward the arena.
“Dead-fish-eyes match is starting.”
“Hey, stop changing the subject!”
“Sigh. Nothing worth watching anyway.”
“What?!”
The little brat stamped her feet in outrage. Zeron pressed down on the top of her head and turned his full attention to the newly begun spar.
Still, he had taught the kid. There ought to be some results.
Colhuer steadied his trembling breath. His midterm rank was 112th. It had improved, but he remained in Class C. That was nowhere near enough for his goals.
He forced down his nerves and studied the opponent before him—Jason van Torion, ranked 98th. Since the top hundred entered Class B, he had chosen someone whose rank would create the right ripple effect. If 107th beat 99th, the original 107th would rise to 99th and the former 99th would drop to 100th. This should be sufficient.
Assuming he actually beat Torion first, of course.
“Haa… I don’t know why I have to waste my time on the likes of you, but whatever. Come quickly. Let’s finish this and rest.”
Torion flicked his sword arrogantly. The pistol in his off-hand was already aimed at Colhuer’s forehead.
“Huu…”
Colhuer ignored the taunt, kicked off the ground, and cut diagonally across the arena.
Torion aimed casually and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The bullet came. Colhuer tracked its faint trail with desperate focus and twisted. It grazed his shoulder. At the same moment he aimed and fired back.
BANG!
Ting! Torion deflected it with his blade.
“Tsk. How pathetic.”
Colhuer ran with everything he had. He still couldn’t infuse mana into his bullets, so his only path to victory was dragging the fight into close quarters.
“Insolent worm. Fine.”
Apparently amused, Torion tossed his pistol aside and gripped the sword with both hands.
An opening. Without a thought for pride or honor, Colhuer yanked the trigger repeatedly.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BANG!
It didn’t accomplish much, but one grazing round made Torion’s face flush crimson with rage. At the same instant Colhuer hurled the gun itself.
Torion raised his sword to block. In that gap, a vertical slash came crashing down.
THUD!
It was heavy.
“Kuk…?!”
Startled by the unexpected power, Torion tangled their blades. Nobles trained in swordsmanship from childhood. In a brutal, close-range brawl, he should win by default. Which was exactly why Colhuer immediately retreated.
“Huh…?”
The confused Torion. Colhuer charged again and brought the sword down hard.
THUD!
“Ugh…! You rat bastard!”
Torion twisted his face and flung the blade aside with raw power. Superior mana translated into overwhelming strength that shoved Colhuer’s sword away, followed by a wide horizontal cut.
But the motion was too big.
Colhuer remembered Zeron’s lesson. The only technique he had been taught was the vertical slash. Yet Zeron had said:
Dodge what you can dodge. Deflect what you can’t dodge. Block what you can’t deflect. If you can’t even block it, get hit somewhere that hurts less. That’s all there is to it. The rest is just hitting them well enough to win.
Obvious advice. But the reason he had practiced the vertical slash until he was ready to die was that his sword was slowly changing—cleaner, faster, stronger, straighter. At the very least, he could believe his blade was superior to one that simply got pushed around by brute force.
Whoosh—!
The heavy horizontal cut whistled past his head. Colhuer crouched low and glared at the flustered Torion.
What noble…
You couldn’t even protect your own family.
Colhuer rammed his shoulder straight into Torion’s solar plexus.
“Keuk!”
Torion staggered. Opportunity. Colhuer stepped in deep, raised his sword, and brought it down in a vertical strike.
THUUUD!
But another blade intercepted it. Colhuer glanced sideways at its owner.
“Sparring terminated. Winner, Colhuer.”
The supervisor had stepped in, blocking the strike. He added, “Colhuer, you are awarded one demerit point.”
The reason was aiming for the head—a vital point—while the opponent was defenseless. A fair judgment.
“Little brat, you saw that? All thanks to my excellent teaching.”
“What teaching? It was obviously another professor.”
“Keep looking down on me and you’ll regret it later, you know?”
Zeron smiled strangely. The little brat snorted and curled her lip.
“Regret, my ass.”
Zeron delivered a firm head-press punishment and narrowed his eyes at Colhuer. A sword steeped in rage. He didn’t know what grudge the boy carried, but the obsession was unmistakable. Guys like that usually caused one hell of an incident later. Well… not his problem.
Zeron chuckled and stretched the little brat’s soft cheek until it was comically long.
…Insane texture. So fucking soft. To think I never noticed before… Feels like I wasted half my life.
“Ow, that hurts! Let go!”
“Hey, you… Never mind. Anyway, you’ve got another match to prepare for tomorrow. You’re challenging the top rank, right?”
Medeia, finally freed from Zeron’s demonic hands, rubbed her stinging cheek.
“…Yeah.”
“Number one is that guy. The gloomy bastard.”
“Ed? What’s so gloomy about him? I honestly don’t get it.”
The little brat grumbled, but Zeron remained adamant.
“No, that bastard is seriously fucking gloomy. And… suspicious.”
“Then at least explain why.”
“Gut feeling.”
“Gut feeling, bullshit.”
The little brat snorted. For a second Zeron was speechless.
“…Hasn’t your language gotten a bit too rough lately?”
“Who do you think is responsible?”
“Me, obviously.”
“At least you know.”
Then there was nothing to be done. Zeron gave a small nod. He had always been very lenient with himself.