The girl chose a heavy war hammer, and her opponent decided to fight with two daggers. He looked and moved in a way that left no doubts about his past. The former bandit had decided to join the army’s officer ranks. Maybe he’d been kicked out of the gang. Or they’d just decided to have one of theirs join the army.
That was something taken for granted around here. Large gangs would sometimes become official groups. They would just start to call themselves sects, and if they were organized like the mafia, they would be called family clans. One never knew whether a sect or a clan was of the ordinary kind, or whether it was an ex, or even an active, gang.
“Begin!”
The General crossed her arms. If she hadn’t been wearing so much armor, her pose would’ve probably looked a bit seductive. But at that moment, she looked completely serious and businesslike.
Ariel, after taking a deep breath, rushed forward like a battering ram. The hammer didn’t look like a clumsy pile of metal in her hands, but a rather formidable weapon. When she swung it down with all her might, the powerful impact shook the ground, scattering sand everywhere. But the nimble boy wasn’t anywhere near the spot she’d struck.
He was ostentatiously picking his teeth with one dagger, while the second one was pointed at the girl's throat as he stood behind Ariel. Most people hadn’t even seen him move.
Only a few of them had been able to discern the vague silhouette that looked like a gray shadow.
Hadjar saw more: despite how ordinary the trick turned out to be, he was still impressed. Thanks to being at the eighth stage of the Bodily Rivers, the smaller man had been able to redirect all of his energy into his legs.
That allowed for The Measured Footsteps Technique to, even if for just a few moments, gain the properties of the Mortal Technique. This helped him increase his speed, and the young man was able to win the fight in seconds.
After all, no matter how strong your enemy was, if you were faster than them, you'd always have an advantage. Unless, of course, you got hit.
“Next!”
The next pair entered the arena after Ariel put the hammer back on the improvised weapons rack and walked dejectedly back to the area designated for the new privates. The second fight was quite long. One guy was wielding a shield and a mace, and the second one had a halberd. They'd already been fighting for over ten minutes before the officer stopped them.
In the end, they both joined Ariel.
Then came an archer, who was admitted to the officer ranks as soon as he fired the first arrow.
The army always lacked good archer practitioners, so they were very appreciated and valued highly. They were so welcome, in fact, that even the General awarded the guy a private nod of her head. Apparently, a very bright future awaited him.
People chose to use the staff a couple of times. It was a weapon the people from the villages and small towns used quite often. It was usually difficult to find good iron, and thus iron weapons cost a lot of money, which peasants rarely had. It was much easier to carve out staff and learn how to swing it. However, one should not underestimate the real masters of the staff.
“Your turn,” the officer pointed at Hadjar.
A slender guy was chosen to be his opponent. Their fight was among the last ones. By then, the sand in the arena had already been scattered in places, exposing the trampled ground. Grass would probably not grow there in the next few years.
Blood stained the sand. Some of the competing people, who hadn’t blocked or dodged in time, had needed healers. They’d been taken to the large tents that served as the army hospital. Most of the time, the healers ended up dealing with open fractures and having to bandage deep cuts.
Various hammers, staffs, batons, and maces were the most popular choice. In second place were spears, throwing knives and daggers. The least popular were bows and swords. Those two were the most difficult to master and the most expensive weapons.
The two undisputed kings of the battlefield.
Hadjar and his opponent had been the first ones to choose a sword as their weapon. That intrigued all the spectators, whose number had, surprisingly, increased by that time.
The officers and soldiers alike had come to the arena as soon as they were able. Each of them, upon arrival, would kneel and greet the General. She rarely answered with a nod, mostly not noticing the people around her. She was too busy spectating the fights.
Hadjar’s opponent picked his weapon first. That immediately put Hadjar at a disadvantage, because the other combatant had had the chance to choose the best sword. In fact, it turned out that, among a dozen blades that hung by their cross-guards, Hadjar could not find a single sword of outstanding quality. They were all on the same level. Enough to swing around in a normal battle between two armies, but... no more than that.
Those blades would be of no interest to a cultivator. However, it was said that real cultivators could make do even without a sword. It was widely known that a person who had gone beyond the level of The Spirit Knight would gain the ability to concentrate energy so tightly that it was enough for them to move their index and middle finger together to make a phantom blade appear.
That kind of sword was much weaker than a real weapon but still allowed a practitioner to use sword Techniques.
Hadjar chose a classic sword. It had a narrow blade with two sharp edges. The blade was long and had an almost invisible, rectangular cross-guard. The handle, wrapped in calfskin, felt right in his hand.
Hadjar, walking around in a circle, swung his blade a couple of times, getting used to its balance and weight.
The enemy in front of him assumed a standard stance. His left hand used both for balance and to help his aim, froze in the very gesture mentioned before. His index and middle finger were pointing upward and the rest were clenched in a fist.
Hadjar stood there casually, not assuming any of the ten stances he knew.
Ignoring his skillful opponent's condescending smile, he closed his eyes and felt the east wind caress his face.
How many years had it been since he’d last fought with a sword? It was probably in his past life. In one of his many lives.
“Begin!” came the familiar command.
Unlike the others, the swordsmen didn’t run around the arena like rabbits. They didn't yell at or taunt each other.
Hadjar remained in the same spot, enjoying the cool breeze blowing across his sweaty skin. He was standing with his eyes closed, having dropped his sword to the ground.
The enemy was approaching him slowly. Amusingly enough, he looked like a crab as he moved around on widely spaced legs, staying in his previously adopted position. His right hand was extended forward, exposing the blade of the sword like a scorpion’s sting. His left hand was raised above his head.
His opponent thought that he was facing an upstart peasant. Admittedly, one that had mastered The Measured Footsteps Technique. Apparently having some middling talent, he’d been able to learn it by spending time catching snakes. Probably considered himself a genius, after doing well in fights against the other villagers. That was the reason why the poor peasant couldn't even hold a sword properly.
He was different, however. He’d spent the last ten years attending the best fencing school in Spring Town. The Master there had even praised him and said that he was talented with the sword!
Hadjar’s opponent didn’t notice the spectators' mocking glances at all. They had already named him Crab in their minds.
Crab, as he’d been taught in school, moved his center of gravity to where the sword’s pommel was and immediately lunged forward. The tip of the blade whizzed through the air, flying at Hadjar who was still standing with his eyes closed.
Chapter 34
Crab could already see the blade slicing through the rags that served as clothes for this stupid peasant. He felt like he could sense it as it crushed the weakling’s bones. In his mind, he’d heard the enemy take his final breath.
Most of the other examinees had left the arena with
minor wounds or fractures. But in a battle of swordsmen, death was commonplace. The weapon was too cruel and served only one purpose—murder.
Sword wielders could die even while training with blunt blades and the battle for an officer's position was a much more serious affair.
Crab would finally be able to help his family move out of their tiny home on the outskirts of town when he won the fight (he had no doubts he would). They'd buy a nice house, right in the center of town, to live in. His sister would find a good husband. His father could stop working in the market and his mother could stop sewing. And, well, he himself would finally be able to enjoy plenty of female attention. He’d be an officer in the army, after all.
The dreamy smile that had adorned his face immediately faded when the enemy opened his eyes.
He saw a coiled, fierce beast in that blue, bottomless gaze. It was like staring into the abyss.
Hadjar didn't even move from his spot. He only turned slightly, letting Crab’s sword pass an inch away from his body.
The attacker flew past, but, managing to right himself, he planted his foot and turned. Using the momentum of his rotation, he swung his blade in a vertical arc at Hadjar, hoping to split him in half, right down the middle.
If Hadjar had been a little slower, he might’ve even succeeded. Unfortunately for Crab, Hadjar seemed like he didn’t even know what the word “slow” meant. He remained in place, tilted his body back, and after the blade whistled through the air harmlessly, he pushed the attacker in the chest with the hilt of his sword.
Crab lost his balance and landed on the ground. He rolled to the side immediately, got up, and swung his sword once more. This time, Hadjar swayed back to avoid the impact as gracefully as a branch in the wind. Once he was back in the safe zone behind the center of Crab’s blade, Hadjar again threw him to the ground with a casual push.
The Prince stood there, looking quite calm and serene.
Preoccupied with the fight, he didn’t notice that the audience couldn’t take their eyes off of him. The hillbilly who had, until recently, appeared even more ridiculous than Crab had changed suddenly. After taking up the sword, he’d gained... no, not greatness. Something far more terrifying than greatness.
Many people gripped the hilts of their weapons involuntarily. Someone had, without realizing it, began checking if their armor was properly adjusted.
It seemed to them like something other than a man was standing in the arena. A wild beast, dangerous and ferocious. Ready to tear you apart if you dared encroach on his territory. An area that was almost plainly visible to all.
It was a circle, about a yard in diameter, in the center of which stood a tall man wearing a ragged coat instead of robes. It was a boundary which very few of the spectators would’ve dared to cross.
“What's your name?” Crab asked as he was getting back on his feet.
He took a strange stance. It was as if he were trying to parody a sleeping heron, his leg bent oddly.
“Hadjar,” came the quiet answer.
“Then pay your attention, Hadjar. The best swordsman in Spring Town taught me this Technique. However, in your village, you probably haven't even heard about Sword Techniques yet. Let me show you how vast this world is, and that your Steps are nothing more than child's play.”
Crab exhaled and a blue glow surrounded his blade. It shook as if trying to get away from the blade but still remained in place. The audience almost took a step forward to get a better look at what was happening.
Ten years ago, this kind of Mortal Technique would’ve been considered something incredible and even mystical in the Kingdom of Lidus. Nowadays, thanks to the Empire, even schools in backwoods like Spring Town had access to them.
But, judging by the intensity of the glow and how the blade was acting, Crab wasn’t all that good at it yet. Maybe he was still at the initial levels of the Technique. All the same, not all of the officers in the lower ranks could’ve boasted about mastering a Mortal Technique like that, not even its most basic form.
Hadjar, while outwardly calm, was now on edge. Well, he knew a Mortal Technique, too. The Technique he’d named "Fried Sparrow.” Unfortunately for him, Primus was no fool, and all his agents already knew about it. That was why Hadjar would never use it before the time was right.
The Technique that his opponent was about to use was indeed beyond the realm of the Footsteps. Raw speed couldn’t always counter overwhelming force. This Death Technique was exactly that kind of force when compared to the conventional Technique of movement.
“Awakening Heron!” Crab cried out, confirming Hadjar’s guess.
Awakening Heron:
Energy Points
0.32
Threat Level
Medium
His adversary swung his sword and the people heard the cry of a heron. It pierced their ears, and then a blue blade flew toward Hadjar. Crab hadn’t reached the level of ‘One with the Sword’, rather, the Technique allowed him to hit a target at a distance of seven steps. Even if Hadjar had been in full armor, the attack would’ve still gone through him like a hot knife through butter.
The attack was fast. So fast that it left a ghostly, blue afterimage in its wake.
Someone was already calling for a healer.
And then there was silence.
For the first time since the fight began, the hillbilly used his sword. However, he didn’t use the blade itself, only the crossguard and the hilt.
Faced with the Mortal Technique, Hadjar remained as calm as if he were reacting to a pillow thrown in jest.
Well, Hadjar did end up having to step back. Without lifting his feet from the sand, he drew his right leg back, leaving a wide arc in the sand. Putting the crossguard and the hilt forward, Hadjar clasped his right wrist with his left hand and took up a defensive stance.
The strike slammed into his sword like an ax trying to split a log.
But instead of splinters, it produced some sparks and a few drops of blood. Those scarlet drops shot into the sky and then fell to the sand. The cuts on Hadjar's wrists were bleeding, but the wounds were negligible.
And, more importantly, that was the only damage the Technique had managed to do.
Crab couldn't believe his eyes.
That Technique had helped him win the tournament at the fencing school. Using it, he’d become famous as one of the most talented swordsmen of his generation. It was supposed to have been the foundation of his legend. And it had been absolutely useless against some random hillbilly.
“What the hell!” Crab screamed. “He's using some kind of artifact! He must be cheating! Check if he’s cheating!”
Crab tried to approach Hadjar but tripped and fell face down in the sand. He didn't even have the strength to stand back up. And so, unable to comprehend what was going on, he sat there, looking at his own trembling hands.
“Hadjar Traves,” the senior officer’s voice sounded.
“Yes, sir?” the young man turned and bowed, lowering his blade.
“Why didn't you use your sword? Do you have any bodily Techniques? Or are you just skilled in the ‘Footsteps’ Technique? That alone is not enough to become an officer in our army.”
Hadjar turned to his opponent, who still seemed unable to comprehend what had happened to him. Why hadn't he used his sword? The answer was very simple.
“I don't know this man. He hasn't done me any harm. Why should I kill him?”
“Kill him?” The surprised officer asked again. He even awkwardly adjusted his animal skin cloak. “You think you're so skilled with a sword that you would’ve killed him?”
“I wasn't sure that my opponent could survive even a single strike, sir,” not straightening his back, Hadjar continued the conversation. “That is why I only defended myself, waiting for my opponent to tire himself out and lose his will to fight. I think my approach was the correct one. It seems to me that I've won fairly and deserve to be an officer in our army.”
The officer had started to reply w
hen a cry full of disgust and arrogance sounded, cutting him off.
“Who are you, you bastard, to make any kind of decisions around here?”
Hadjar, still bowing, turned around and saw the screaming man through his long hair. Even if he hadn’t been able to see him, he’d recognized his voice easily enough. It was the son of general Larvie. Wearing expensive clothes, polished armor and carrying a blade that must have cost as much as the whole of ‘Innocent Meadow’ had once been worth.
“Officer Colin,” the senior officer spoke in a fawning voice but with hatred in his eyes. “The fact that you've become, for reasons unknown to me, an adjutant, does not give you the right to interfere in the exam.”
“I’ll intervene when I see fit, and where I think it’s needed,” Colin chuckled. Hadjar was delighted to find out his name. “And you, officer, should be punishing this miscreant. Didn’t you hear? He dared to tell us what we should do with him.”
Hadjar remained silent. If he’d been a Prince, the whole army would’ve been kneeling before him. But he was a ‘hillbilly.’ Someone who had no right to even breathe in the presence of the esteemed officers. He couldn’t even think of trying to influence his own future.
Only powerful men and women could forge their own destiny in this world. The rest had to rely on the decisions and will of their superiors. It had been like that even during the reign of Haver and Elizabeth.
“This young man is right,” the senior officer stood his ground.
It was unlikely that he was worried about Hadjar's future, he probably just wanted to annoy Colin. Or maybe he was doing this out of envy-he'd been serving as a senior officer for half a century, but that eighteen-year-old boy had already become an adjutant.
“Are you braindead, officer? A fraud is standing right in front of you, and you want to make him a junior officer in our grand army!”
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