The tension was palpable as Gabriel lifted the wooden sword from the rack. He deftly maneuvered it in a figure-eight pattern, assessing its balance before extending it to feel its heft. Glancing around, he took in the audience's anticipation, some hungry for a spectacle. The coarse sand beneath his feet served as a tangible reminder of the present, anchoring him firmly to the unfolding moment. A gentle breeze caressed his face, briefly causing his eyes to moisten. This is it. This is the moment that determines my future. I need to be at my best.
Gabriel stepped into the sparring circle with his head held high, feigning confidence he didn’t possess. Opposite him, the Grandmaster's presence was almost overwhelming; an undeniable aura of strength and authority emanated from him, every muscle speaking of seasoned prowess. The depth of his near-black eyes ensnared Gabriel's. "You won't defeat me. This is a test of your skill, your mettle."
"Yes, sir," Gabriel responded, his voice unwavering despite the rapid beat of his heart. Securing the hilt of his sword, he fine-tuned his grip, his hands embracing it as though his life depended on it. He knew acutely that to confront this behemoth he would need to would tap into every reservoir of ability and tenacity.
From the periphery, Gabriel caught Galland’s gaze as the man offered a discreet nod — a silent gesture of encouragement. In that fleeting connection, Gabriel saw the parallel between the commander and his fallen protector, Janus. No matter what side of the border Galland was born on, he was his ally. A soft smile tugged at his lips at the thought. Galland's silent hopes intertwined with Gabriel's ambitions, forging an indomitable will to prevail.
The Grandmaster's command sliced through the tense quiet. "Attack me."
Inhaling deeply, Gabriel felt his lungs fill with the cool air, as if drawing in the very essence of the moment. In, out, in, out. Each exhale pushed away the turmoil of doubt and anticipation in his mind. With focused intent, he moved towards the towering figure opposite him.
With a measured slash, Gabriel cautiously probed the Grandmaster's defenses, attempting to gauge the man's skill. Unfazed, the Grandmaster effortlessly sidestepped his following jab. But Gabriel was far from discouraged; unleashing a flurry of strikes, each aimed at piercing the Grandmaster's seemingly impenetrable guard.
Each wooden clash reverberated throughout the courtyard, hinting at the lethal confrontations they might face in actual combat. Using his shorter stature to his advantage, Gabriel adopted a low stance and lunged, targeting the Grandmaster's knee. The seasoned fighter, however, cut across the attack, stopping the blow, and responded with his own measured sweep of the sword's broad side. With milliseconds to react, Gabriel parried the swift counter. Persisting, he directed a cut towards the Grandmaster's opposite knee, hoping his low stance would grant him an unexpected edge.
With meticulous precision, the Grandmaster trapped Gabriel's blade under his foot, anchoring it to the ground. Gabriel was torn between trying to pull free the blade or scurrying to safety. The choice was taken from him. The man unleashed a powerful punch aimed at Gabriel's head. Acting on pure instinct, Gabriel let go of his ensnared sword, ducking just in the nick of time to evade the fist. Yet the man had expected this, swiftly following up with a kick to Gabriel's midsection, which sent him tumbling backward, gasping for air.
"Is that the best you can do?" the Grandmaster challenged, flipping his sword back to him. As Gabriel clutched his throbbing chest, his mind flashed to the last man who had dealt him with such a kick— the Paresh soldier who had died by his sword. Gripping the hilt tightly, a surge of fury engulfed him. In his mind's eye, the Grandmaster morphed into the embodiment of his deepest fears and anguishes: The Demon, the man who took his mother, Janus’s assassin, the Paresh. They all merged into the foe in front of him.
Something stirred within him. A strange energy enveloped him. The feeling that he had yearned for and feared for so long was rising inside him. But he beat the feeling down like a hammer to an anvil with the force of his will, suppressing the power. Why had his magic started to gather? He couldn’t use his abilities. What if they see me? What if I hurt him? Taking a step back, he drew a deep breath, waiting for the rush of anger to subside. Detecting Gabriel’s momentary vulnerability, the Grandmaster transitioned from defense to a sudden offense, his blade swiftly aiming for Gabriel's torso. Surprised by the swift change in tactic, Gabriel narrowly deflected the strike. In that split second, he realized he needed to put some distance between them. Defending against this man at close quarters would only result in a quick defeat.
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Gabriel charged with a renewed intensity. Gone was the caution of earlier exchanges; now, his strikes rained down in a torrent, both high and low, each delivered with a fervor that screamed of desperation and resolve. The man’s blade danced with an elegant ease, deflecting each of his aggressive moves as though brushing away a twig.
With a guttural cry, Gabriel aimed a thrust at the Grandmaster's midsection. Predicting this, the man deftly sidestepped and, seizing the moment of Gabriel's overreach, struck the flat of his blade hard against the young fighter's back.
The force of the blow sent him sprawling face-first into the sand. But even as he fell, his instincts took over. Using the fall to his advantage, he swiftly rolled, propelling himself out of the Grandmaster's striking range, recovering to his feet. He re-assumed a defensive stance. His gaze locked onto his opponent, sword at the ready for the next clash.
The Grandmaster advanced, his blade thrusting toward Gabriel's torso. Using his nimbleness, Gabriel evaded the sharp edge, twisting his body with precision. However, this sudden movement left him momentarily finding his balance. Seizing the opportunity, the Grandmaster's heavy fist connected with Gabriel's nose.
Sand scraped against Gabriel's palms as he slid, the coarse texture stinging his skin. His face pulsed with a combination of numbness and pain. When he touched his nose, he felt slick warmth. Blood flowed, its metallic taste tainting his mouth. But surrender was not an option. He had to press on.
Rising to his feet, Gabriel swung his sword. With each subsequent clash, the Grandmaster retaliated with increasing ferocity, each blow sending Gabriel sprawling into the sand. "You can't continue, boy."
Pain coursed through Gabriel's body: throbbing ribs, a tender shoulder, and unsteady legs. His breathing was uneven and labored. Every fiber of his being urged screamed for surrender. Yet he refused.
Twice more, he rose to meet the Grandmaster's relentless assault, and twice more, he found himself knocked to the ground. With every fall, a fresh bruise formed, a fresh cut appeared, and his mounting frustration intertwined with a growing sense of defeat.
Gabriel used the sword as a makeshift crutch, forcing himself upright. He held the hilt with both hands, drawing strength from its solidity, and met the Grandmaster's gaze. He was battered, but unbroken.
"Do you yield?" The Grandmaster's voice sliced through the tension, as cutting as any weapon. Gabriel's face tightened. A singular determination consumed his mind. Shaking his head as though dispelling a daze, he yearned for the power he had so long suppressed. Like a surging tide threatening to engulf him, he let it wash over. But just as he embraced its tendrils, the Grandmaster struck. Before Gabriel could even raise his sword in defense, a crushing blow against his midriff.
His knees buckled and Gabriel collapsed, desperately gasping for breath on hands and knees. The surge of power had left him. The Grandmaster was standing above him. I don’t need magic. This is my chance. In a sudden motion, Gabriel reversed his blade and swung towards the Grandmaster's knees. He thought that the man was too close to avoid the blow, but somehow, almost miraculously, he leapt up, evading the blade's arc by mere inches.
"Cheeky bastard," the Grandmaster said, a smile revealing itself beneath his wild beard.
Rising to his feet, Gabriel wiped the blood from his mouth and offered a defiant, toothy grin.
“You don’t give up, do you?” asked the Grandmaster.
“No sir… I want this,” Gabriel answered, between his panting.
"You stood no chance, but your determination tells me you belong here. We'll train you."
Gabriel reverently placed his fist against his open palm and bowed. "Thank you, Grandmaster." This time, to his quiet satisfaction, the man returned the gesture.
Turning, Gabriel caught Galland's eye and saw a grin stretch across the man's face. He then scanned the crowd that had gathered to watch his performance. He'd grown used to expressions of scorn and derision in the training yards, but the looks he saw now held a unique quality. Could that be respect?
“Your technique needs a lot of work, but we can bleed that into you.”
"I'm not afraid of blood," Gabriel responded, chuckling internally at the profound irony of his words. The sight of blood still terrified him to his core. Yet, just as Ser Rodrick had predicted, he had gradually built a tolerance—enough to keep his body from betraying him, even if the fear still lurked in the depths of his mind.
The man chuckled, “Keep that spirit, pup. Soltis, induct Orion to the Academy.”
“Yes, Grandmaster.” Came the response from a seasoned warrior that was close to Atlas’s age. I did it. I can’t wait to tell Atlas and Avis, even Olaf.
Gabriel let out an exhalation, all his pent-up nerves released in that single breath. He stood up straighter, despite his aching body. I made it. I’ll be the finest warrior in Valandor. Then I’ll make them pay. They will all bleed for what they did.