Bryant Fenhal… I don’t really remember what the file said about him, and I obviously don’t have it on me. It might be safest to forfeit, but if I do that before the match then I won’t get any points from his wins. This test is only minus a hundred points by default, making it very popular, but that also means it’ll look very bad if I end up with a negative score. With my victory in the second round giving me fifty points, Bart would have to get six wins to put me over the top. Unlikely for a mundane– nearly impossible I would have said before his first victory against a squire. However, even with that in mind I don’t intend to bet on it.

So, it seems I have no real option but to face the blue lister. Besides, forfeiting now would draw attention to me, both from the examiners and Bryant. As it stands he may have forgotten me, but he might seek me out if it seems like I’m avoiding him.

So, I make my way to my square: 83. The referee from Bart’s match is hovering near by– presumably the 80’s is her assigned area– and gives me a ‘watching you’ gesture. My opponent is waiting for me already with an impatient expression that bursts into a menacing smile upon my entry to the square.

“Malichi Monhal! It’s been too long!” The medium height, medium but muscularly built youth shouts.

Shit.

“Yes… I um… It’s been years, um… I’m afraid my recollection of you is a bit foggy.”

“What!? You don't remember beating me so easily in that match four years ago?!”

Shit.

“Um… well yes that does ring a bell now that you mention it.”

His face is fuming, but he controls himself by visibly counting down. “Ah, no matter. Today I will have my revenge for that humiliation! Now that we are both squires we shall see who has advanced more. I may have lost so shamefully then, but it is what I needed to motivate me towards excellence. So, for that, I thank you.”

“Oh, um… I’m a mage not a squire.”

The wide-eyed shock on his face would be comical in another circumstance. “What!? But your talent! How could you throw it away?”

I shrug. “Oh, you know, I just thought this path would suit me better is all. You know how it is.”

“…But… my revenge… it would be pointless if you’re not on an equal footing.”

“I don’t really know about that, being a mage and all.” His face visibly twitches at the reminder. “But hey, motivation is motivation right? Does it matter that I didn’t take the path you expected?”

“…I spent the last four years pushing myself harder every day imagining how much further ahead you must have been. But for what? Did beating me mean nothing to you?!”

“…” I really have no idea what to say to that.

“Whatever,” he says, “just be quiet and get this over with.”

With that we wait in silence until the ready whistle. Just my luck. Not only does he remember me, but I’m going to lose too… But hey, what did Preston say? Something something victory heart? Who knows, maybe my experience will show me through somehow. He’s putting a lot of weight on his forward leg. Probably intends to charge the moment the whistle blows. Maybe try to use that somehow? Make to meet him but suddenly change directions? Try to trick him out.

The whistle blows. We both charge but I only get a third of the way before he reaches me. I try changing directions but he’s just too fast for me to react. I move to block the first swing, but it was a feint he turns into a thrust that slips past and into my ribs. I swing back for a draw but he turns his blade and hits my arm, knocking it aside and invalidating any future hits with it. He shifts his weight to the back foot and suddenly kicks me in the stomach, sending me flying and supining me halfway over the line.

I lie there stunned and gasping for air. Bryant’s sneering face suddenly appears over me. “Disgusting,” he says, sharply turning and briskly walking away.

Seeing no reason to get up, I don’t, and just lie here cursing my luck instead. After about a minute another face appears over me: The rebuking referee.

“You ok?” she asks, with surprising concern.

“…Yeah. I have increased healing, so I am just catching my breath… Do you consider kicking your opponent after you’ve already won to be a sporting display of skill?” I ask, with a sudden mischievous smile.

She laughs. “You are trouble. But that’s okay, I like trouble, so long as I’m not responsible for dealing with it. No, kicking your opponent, whether you’ve won or not, does not fall under sporting behaviour in this tournament. However, from what you said and what I saw he had already won, and it could be argued that it was just a spur of the moment act to create distance and avoid a draw. So, I can’t just hand you the win, but I will reduce his victory to a qualified one. Which means you get ten of his points but are still eliminated.”

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“Thanks, I’ll take it,” I say glibly.

She laughs again. “Definitely trouble. I hope you get in. It’ll be fun having a cute junior like you. Here take this.” She pulls out a nexus disk and breaks off a piece on which she writes on with a stylus then hands to me. It says ‘Vannesa Vynhal 83 Bryant Fenhal reduced to qualified win due to unsporting behaviour ten points transferred to Malichi return piece to Malichi’ there is a strange mark instead of a period. “Show this to the recorders and they’ll mark it down. Just make sure you take the piece back so you can send me a message if you get in.”

“Thanks.” I say, taking her offered hand to get up.

“Nothing to it. You made a fair argument and really I should have caught it myself. Just promise you’ll send me a message when you get into more trouble, okay?”

“…So you can help?”

“So I can laugh!” She laughs and walks away.

Bryant is pacing impatiently at the results table. “There you are!” he snaps. “What took you so long? They won’t let me record my win without you.”

I ignore him in favour of the recorder, another student a few years older than me. “83, victor Bryant Fenhal. Reduced to qualified win by referee due to unsporting behaviour.”

“What?!” Bryant shouts furiously. “Absurd! What games are you playing Monhal? You couldn’t beat me, so you make up lies instead?!”

I ignore this new vitriol and just slide the disk fragment to the recorder who reads the message on it.

“It checks out,” he says, “that’s Vanessa’s mark, and the disk’s colour is right. Qualified win. Ten points are transferred from Fenhal to Monhal.”

“What?! How did you manage this Malichi?”

“I didn’t manage anything. The referee simply found your behaviour… disgusting.” I smile with relish as I use the word he spoke over me only a few moments ago. The fact the referee also used the same word about me only makes it more fitting.

“This is an outrage! Do you know what this means?!”

I glance at the recorder. “What does it mean?” I ask, having only skimmed through that section of the rules since I doubted I would get enough wins for one to be qualified.

He shrugs. “Not much. Besides the points which are miniscule, a qualified win only affects him if he gets two more or a draw. Since two draws equal a loss, as does a draw and a QW, or three QW’s.”

“Not much? I’m a draw away from elimination now!”

I shrug. “No problem, just transgress no more.” I say, but somewhat regret my actions since while I’m getting points now, I may end up with less in the long run if it causes an early elimination.

“…You must have colluded with the ref… what did you do? Bribe her? This entire tournament is corrupt!”

“…If you continue insulting the staff and the tournament like this, I’ll reduce you further to a draw,” the recorder says completely unperturbed by the angry squire.

Byrant looks like he wants to say something, but thinks the better of it and storms off instead, causing me to smile despite my worries of an early elimination.

“Now, is there anything else you need?” The recorder asks.

“Yeah, the disk piece,” I say, noting that he slipped it off the table during the disturbance.

“Hmm, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t play coy. The message said to give it back.”

His eyes shift as he visibly calculates how he wants to play this before landing on a conniving reasonable sounding tone. “Oh, come on. What use will it be to you? It’s not like you’ll get in after being eliminated so soon.”

“All the same, she gave it to me. If she wants you to have a piece she’ll give you one.”

His expression immediately shifts to annoyance, his approach to the faintest suggestion of a threat while keeping the words friendly. “Well, if you’re going to be like that, why don’t I do you a favour then and give you a medium gold for it?”

I scoff. “If you’re offering a medium then it’s worth a large to you.”

“…All right, a large.”

“…Just the same, I think I’d rather have the piece.” I say, tempted for the briefest of seconds before I suddenly feel insulted at the ‘paltry sum’. As if I couldn’t earn that much whenever I felt like it. Slightly absurd since this ‘paltry sum’ would have seemed lavish merely two months ago, but that is my new life.

Besides, if he wants it the contact will be valuable and is exactly the sort of thing I should be spending coin to get, not the other way around… Unless he just wants the piece to court her, though in that case I oddly feel stronger about not letting him have it.

“Fine, be that way.” He suddenly flings the piece out of nowhere at me, which I surprise him by catching with catlike reflexes. “Now please, others are waiting to record their results.”

I look back and see that his statement is false, since Byrant and I were among the last of the round, and there is only one other pair making their way to us. But I certainly don’t wish to stay here after that interaction and so quickly go back to the contestant seating where my two friends are waiting.

“You lost. No matter. I don’t need you for points. I shall win plenty on my own.” Bart greets me as I get back.

“Hello to you too.” I half mutter. “Make sure you do that…Although, I actually only need you to win one more at least.”

“What strange math is this? I’ll need to win twice more to guarantee you positive points.”

I shake my head. “My loss was qualified. I got an extra ten. Though, feel free to get me as many as you want.”

He scoffs. “A qualified win? What use is that? I don’t get points for it do I?”

“No.” I smile and turn to Preston.

“Bad luck facing a squire,” he says.

I shrug. “It’s fine. Might even be better for me.”

He nods understanding and we sit there watching the bouts until lunch. They each have two more matches in the meantime. They both face squires, and surprisingly win again. I get the impression that Preston focused his training on the technical aspects of sword fighting rather than negotiating magical boosts, or possibly just narrowed his focus on coordination like Alan– ironic if true given his earlier criticism of his duels.

In the fourth round Bart finally loses, and Preston draws hitting his opponent simultaneously. I wish I hadn’t been so efficient in my scheduling so I could stay and see how far they go. Odd since I made the schedule with a belief that it would maximize my chances of success, and there is no reason for merely watching them to have precedence over that. Still, I feel like I would schedule things differently if I could.

No matter. This line of thinking is useless. All I can do is steady my mind for the written tests now.