Chapter 56: The Swordsmanship Tournament 2: Grand Finals

"Let us begin our next and final match; Prince Sion, Prince Abel, please step into the arena."

The two princes slowly made their way into the dueling area. A large number of students had gathered to watch the match. As the crown prince of a great kingdom who was widely known to be a prodigy with the sword, Sion naturally attracted a lot of attention. Abel, however, was no slouch. As a first-year student, his relentless streak of victories made him rather magnetic as well.

Geez, who'd have thought it'd end up like this. I have to say, I wasn't expecting to become the center of so much attention.

With a wry smile, Abel bowed to Sion. Then, he raised his unsheathed sword high above his head. It was the first stance of the style of swordsmanship passed down through the Remno royalty. In contrast to Abel's extremely aggressive stance, Sion held his sword loosely in a low one, the point far below his waist.

Sion's swordplay reflected his genius. Through masterful use of deflections and parries, he would wear his opponent down, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His style was one of counterattacks; his sword stung through the riposte. Each strike was fatal, as he attacked only when his opponent was completely vulnerable. With their weapon parried and their balance lost, they had no way of avoiding the single, match-ending stroke of his sword. It was a style that was impossible for all but the most brilliant of swordsmen, as it demanded absolute confidence in one's ability to withstand every form of attack the opponent might thrust at you. It was, therefore, impossible for Abel.

Abel Remno was an ordinary person. He'd been aware of his mediocrity from the day he was born, but it had been a vague recognition. That all changed one day when he'd crossed swords with Sion. The experience taught him many things: that geniuses existed, that some were just born better, and that it was a gap he'd never close. He'd seen it first-hand — felt it through his sword — and he knew himself to be inferior. It was the day he accepted his mediocrity in full.

And so, he gave up. It seemed to him the sensible choice. Some people just had more talent. He could try all he wanted, but he'd never catch up. Therefore, he'd stopped trying. It was a perfectly rational decision.

Then he came to Saint-Noel Academy, met Mia... and something changed. A raw desire began to grow within him. He didn't want to lose to Sion. He wanted to win, and by winning, show that Mia was right to believe in him.

Alas, reality was cruel. The cleft between their talent was as deep as ever, and it swallowed his desire whole. Had his opponent grown indulgent in his genius and stopped putting in effort, he might yet win through diligence and hard work. Unfortunately, Sion was no such slouch. Though he was born with a gift, he never rested on his laurels. Abel practiced, but so did Sion. Faced with a prodigy who put in as much work as the everyman, no amount of improvement would ever be enough. The gap would only get bigger...

A normal approach would never work. Therefore, Abel threw away what was normal. In hindsight, it was simple. If he'd never be a better swordsman, he just needed to be a better something else. He had to pare his training. Narrow his focus. Throw away defence... Throw away feints... Throw away spins... Throw away thrusts...

He focused every ounce of his efforts on one single thing. He raised his sword, and he swung it down. He repeated it. Then he did it again, faster. And faster. He devoted all his time to honing the motion. Ever since the night of the dance party, he'd done nothing else. Day after day, he poured his heart and soul into practicing that one swing. And now, after all the sweat and fatigue and pain, it was time.

He swung.

Today, he would conquer genius.

Today, he would slay a god!

Ker-chiiiiing!

A harsh, grating sound filled his ears. Half a second later, his hands felt the reverberating shock. He knew. Metal met metal; his attack had failed.

It still... wasn't enough.

Despair gripped him. The world went dark. He waited for the end. He waited, and waited...

But the end didn't come.

The world came back into focus. Their swords were still clashed, and he... was winning? Suddenly, he noticed that they were at the edge of the arena, and Sion was a step away from exiting the ring.

"Didn't you say you weren't going to hold back?" said Abel with an angry grimace.

Sion responded with a pained smile.

"I apologize for not living up to your expectations, but circumstances," he said through gritted teeth, "seem to be forcing my hand."

"Are you mocking..."

Abel had taken the remark as an affront, but he reconsidered when he saw a drop of sweat roll down the side of Sion's face.

"Or maybe not. Well, whatever the case..." Abel took a step back and reverted to his overhead stance. "It doesn't matter to me. My repertoire is rather limited, after all."

He swung again.

"Ugh!"

Sion narrowly dodged the strike; the blade missed him by a hair. He wasn't trying to show off. The swing was simply so fast that a narrow dodge was all he could manage.

Damn, I certainly wasn't expecting this...

He'd never discounted Abel's abilities — he was fully aware of the dangers of underestimating an opponent. Nevertheless, Abel's swing was ferocious, coming at him with a speed and power that vastly exceeded his expectations. He barely managed to wedge his own sword between the oncoming blade and his own face. There was no time to parry, resulting in his arms bearing the full force of the brutal impact.

I can barely feel my arms. The last time they went this numb was when I trained with Father.

This one strike had left him in a terribly disadvantageous position. He could barely keep his sword in his hands, never mind trying to counterattack. However...

It bears repeating that Sion Sol Sunkland was a true genius. One strike was all he needed to grasp the range of Abel's swing.

"Haa!"

Abel's second swing came. This time, he evaded it purely through footwork.

Still, it's a good thing I only have to deal with the overhead swing. Otherwise...

It quickly dawned on Sion that he could dodge the overhead swing solely because it was the only thing he needed to watch for. If Abel mixed any other motions into his repertoire... They didn't need to have the same force. So long as they provided a tiny bit of variety and kept opponents on their toes, they'd create openings for his match-ending power stroke.

The thought sent a shiver through Sion. He saw the potential within Abel, and the danger.

Anyway, I have to wait for my arms to recover. I don't know how many more seconds it's going to take, but...

A question occurred to him, and he decided to ask it.

"Tell me something, Prince Abel... What is it that makes you so strong? Is it, perhaps... Princess Mia?"

"That's correct. It's her. She believes in me. She wishes for my victory. Therefore... I cannot afford to lose."

"I thought so..." Sion let out a quiet sigh. "I wish I were in your shoes." Then his eyes narrowed and he held up his sword. "However, I cannot afford to lose either."

They both remained motionless. He felt the numbness in his arms receding. A little longer, and he'd be ready. As he — and the whole arena — waited with bated breath, a drop of rain landed on the point of his blade.