Sparring with Gunvar

"Le nomber es Midas…"

The boy muttered to himself; the supply of paper was limited. Smeared with ink, the leftover scrolls that Avalon had no use for were opened up in front of them; words were written all over them—some tinier, others bigger in size, most of them squeezed in tight spaces on the edges of the paper or in between words as the free space quickly ran out.

Midas's eyes slowly grazed over the symbols he had written on the paper, his handwriting inferior to Avalon's— a lot of time had passed since he last used a feather, let alone learned how to pronounce words. The last time he had done so was shortly after he met the young girl in the ruins.

Common phrases that were used to greet or describe someone were written onto the paper by Avalon for Midas to repeat by speaking or writing them down right underneath. His left thumb felt somewhat numb from holding the feather, his skin stained from the dark ink he had used.

Avalon took a quick break; the words and phrases he wrote for the boy to learn were basic—yet, most likely enough to do well in the written part of the exam. Leaning against the cold cobblestone wall as he enjoyed the shade of the building, Avalon became slightly frustrated about why foreigners like the youth accompanying him had to be tested in a language they were unable to speak.

Allowing foreigners to study in selected universities was a relatively new concept to strengthen the workforce of the water kingdom. The test definitely aimed to separate these children into classes, depending on how useful they could become for the kingdom.

His sunken head sternly viewed the darkened ground out under him, only rising as he heard distant squeaking emerging from the opened gate that led into the compound - the carriage that brought them here greeting his sight. Once he met Gunvar, he opened up the hefty wooden door—letting the sunlight hit Midas directly.

Raising his gaze from the scroll that covered his face, Midas's eyes widened as he saw Gunvar standing in front of him. Already grasping the handle of his sword, he spoke words the boy hadn't learned—approaching Midas while touching his head.

It didn't take long before Midas and the others found themselves standing outside; the old driver was busy tending to a third beast—slightly taller, its hair almost dark, sporting thicker horns. Avalon turned to the boy as he found his position between them.

"Gunvar wants to get a rough idea of how you fight… Depending on how it goes, he will give you a more detailed training."

The boy was only able to nod hesitantly at Avalon's words, grasping the handle of his rusty sickle as he saw the dimly surprised expression the water kingdom knight in front of him formed. Unsheathing it from the bandages that wrapped around his torso, he held it out at his opponent, slowly finding an optimal stance.

Raising his hand, Avalon began to speak—announcing numbers loudly as his hand sunk partially with every number he spoke. Midas knew these numbers, only having learned them mere moments ago. Upon hearing the last number, Avalon's hand now completely sunken, Gunvar dashed forward almost instantly, taking Midas's chance to engage first away from him.

Raising his blade to his side, this time refraining from using water to strengthen it, the knight general dashed towards him with a confident grin. Slashing to his left, Midas prepared to cover himself with the sickle, awaiting to block the blow.

Surprisingly, his opponent stopped his slash abruptly, throwing the sword's handle to his stretched-out right hand, aiming for his bandaged right shoulder instead. Midas's eyes instantly darted to Gunvar's sword, making his sun shard glow—his hand raising up a wall of stone to protect himself with.

Feeling his blade being stuck in the thin, uplifted stone, Gunvar formed a pleased expression. Holding onto the handle to lift his right foot, kicking the youth back with a great blow. Midas, unable to use his sickle in time, felt his body stumbling and rolling backward. His stomach contracted after feeling the knight's foot press against it; breathing became hard as Midas got up on his feet.

Using the stone to fight almost became an instinct for Midas, solving the problems he wasn't able to take care of with his rusty weapon. Shallow, he breathed in and out—still having quite the amount of mana left in him. With a stern view, he stared at Gunvar, who seemed to enjoy himself. Twisting the handle of the sword—his strength enough to make the risen stone crumble once the blade moved.

Midas refrained from moving, giving himself enough time to think of how to continue. His right hand eventually lowered; his hand produced a sharp sting as his palm touched the dry ground of the compound. Closing his eyes, Midas fed slightly into his mana circulation, something he kept up since he was awake—busy controlling it since he heard Alma speak of it.

Eventually his sunken eyes captured the glow of the stone; a slim frame of time between the emerging of the glow and the tucking of mana that resulted from it allowed him to react in time, resisting its pull.

What resulted in Midas mana flowing into the floor beneath them caught Gunvar off guard; a block of stone shot up from the ground right as he dashed towards the boy—the stone block was slightly bigger than his head, yet easily cut by his blade.

Occupied with the stone, he lost sight of the boy—his vision blocked by the faint dust the stone produced once it crumbled. Midas, on the other hand, was already dashing forward; from beneath, he struck—his sickle aiming for his unguarded left hip.

Gunvar was quick to react, switching his front leg in an instant, moving his hip away before Midas was able to reach it. Instead, he swung back his blade, interlocking it with the youth's weapon—easily pushing it away, kicking him to the ground with his knee.

The boy curled up in pain; he was already used to balling up in the dirt; this time wasn't anything new. Still urgent to at least land a hit, he quickly fed into his rune again, his eye only focused on the grinning knight in front of him as his hand began to glow.

Feeling the ground rumble slightly under his feet, Gunvar evaded Midas's sorry attempt at winning the duel. Stepping back away from the shot-up pillar of stone, his eyes widened at the long, slim object that became more narrow on the top. Pointing his sword at the youth that glared at him, Gunvar couldn't help but laugh in joy, half of the boy's face lying on the ground.

Avalon eventually joined them, briefly touching the stone spire to make sure it dissolved into powder again—erasing any trace of battle left over by the both of them except the hole that resulted in the uplifted rock.

Gunvar turned to Avalon as he came closer; Midas was unable to listen to what they were talking about, busy regaining his breathing as the boy got up to his feet again, his face displaying his aching, curling his upper lip as he held onto his stomach.

With the help of Avalon, Midas was able to get to work almost immediately, watching himself as he swung a wooden sword at one of the dummies before he could think about his pain any longer. Midas repeated what Gunvar showed him; sometimes the knight would stop him, correcting his form before he could continue hitting the dummies.

The hanging limbs of the dummy were shook lightly as his wooden weapon hit their round torso. Midas was somewhat used to holding a sword, its weight slightly lighter than his sickle. Gunvar helped with forming confidence in his strikes, something he had always lacked when fighting before.

The squeaking of the faceless dummy burned into his head; the boy's arms became tired as the sun began to reach its peak. Out of breath, Midas struck the dummy's neck with a frustrating blow, making its pole shift slightly in the ground as the limbs bounced back from his strike.

Midas knew that getting onto the same level as Gunvar would take a great while; defeated, he placed himself down onto the dusty ground, falling onto his back out of breath. Gunvar stood in front of the bright sun as he looked down at the beat-up boy, grinning at the sight.

„Already giving up…? We barely have noon, you know…"

Avalon spoke, watching as the youth grasped the loaf of bread he tossed at him—one he had bought while Midas was busy training. His leather trousers stained by the dust of the compound floor, Midas shook his head slowly as he chewed on the soft bread, its texture much softer than the crumbling flatbread he was used to.

„I'll do anything it takes to get myself a spot in this university… I need to."

Midad mumbled back, his sunken head aimlessly looking at the floor as he chewed on his meal.