Tiber was a normal man, and he was indeed getting old. He wasn't exactly 'old', he remained physically active and flexible, still mostly black in the hair and healthy, but he was past his physical peak and must've been in his late 40s or early 50s by now. Tyr hadn't reached his peak yet, and he was much stronger in comparison. On paper, it was an incredibly unfair match-up. The equivalent, literally, of a knight approaching the twilight of his career to face a true awakened monster. That's exactly what Tyr was, he felt it in his bones – just like those kobolds and kappa, they had a lot in common. The imprint things left on the world, he considered Okami more kin to him, spiritually, than any human.
Tyr was a force to be reckoned with by now, and he knew it. He'd earned it through toil and all of the blood he'd spilled, he was not Iscari or any of the others. Born mighty. Tyr had grasped his destiny and throttled his weakness until it had ceased to stop his ascent.
He wasn't the best, but one way or another he'd found a way to win over all sorts of enemies and most of the time it had been easy. Almost boring. Growing far beyond the strength he'd possessed when he butchered all those damn villages of bandits and pirates in Asmongold. But Tiber was Tiber. He was a true master of the panther style, and from a mechanical standpoint, one of the best knights in the palace at one point. Suffice it to say that the younger of the two was far from confident of the result, but he'd try. His arrogance and pride had faded on the march towards the arena, feeling a vague foreboding at the thought of engaging a living legend. Tiber wasn't just a swordsman, he was an artificio, a mage killer and one of the greatest assassins to ever live.
Tyr's point of view was defined by a constant sense of tunnel vision, lost in the chaos. But Tiber had walked into that astral gate, participated in the final fight, and lived. This was proof of his ability.
But I Tyr would always try, or he'd never forget refusing the challenge.
“You are sure about this?” Tiber asked. “I know that you're strong, and I'm proud of you, but if you want to go through with this you should know that--”
“You're going to use everything for the first time in years. Drop the weights, so the speak, this monologue is so exciting. I don't care, old man, let's get this over with so I can get back to work.” Tyr tried to bait him, but Tiber barely reacted to the taunt, calmly nodding. Not surprising, since the old knight had taught him to act in such a way. To win when you weren't confident in taking your enemy head on, mind games and pushing men into a specific mental state, baiting out mistakes. Honor and glory were often less important than the concept of duty, and surviving, both of which ran in tandem.
People couldn't call you knave or craven if they were dead.
“Understood.” Tiber said. He wore his old black lacquered armor as a safety precaution, whereas Tyr had opted to go bare chested so as to not ruin another perfectly good shirt. The only rule was that all magic must be personal and internal, no combustion or emissions, like in the arena battle. Only swords, with Tiber using his equally old, barely enchanted blade of carbon steel. The details on the crossguard were so worn at this point that they could barely be made out, and the blade was slightly warped toward the tip. Just by a matter of millimeters, but Tyr had inspected it up close and could see how close it was to deforming once and for all. Something only a reforging could fix, and Tiber wouldn't allow for it. “I am ready when you are, student.”
Tyr nodded, loping forward at a relaxed pace with a training sword in hand. Made for sparring duels against men in armor, it was all metal but blunted at the edges, with no tip on it. Comparatively, though, despite its nonlethal construction – it was a much stronger blade that Tiber's own. They began in the panther style, loose hips and constant pivoting at the waist, with the footwork that never stopped, the trademark of the blade school.
Wheeling around one another in clashes of sparks and clanging steel. Tiber's blade might've begun to lose its edge, but the man hadn't. Tyr was faster, and far stronger – even without the use of magic. By all considerations, he should be able to quickly overpower the man.
Except he didn't.
Tiber was fast, and wildly talented. It was easy to forget that, in a world of monsters, gods, and primus', mankind were the masters of the continent. There were those among them who stood above through no force beyond raw effort and talent.
Intelligent and calculative, avoiding a locking of blades and guiding the tip of his longsword with incredible precision to turn away Tyr's weapon. To use the momentum of a stronger opponent against them. People watched. The group, random Hunter's that yet remained among the living, servant staff and citizens walking by. The internal training facility was built like an open air arena, with a small bleacher stand for observation. Small and compact, about twenty meters squared, it was plainly visible from the street, and people often came to watch adventurers spar. Something about marketing and public perception.
People clapped, cheered, ooh'd and aah'd. As they do, obsessed with the idea of a blood sport, something violent and raw.
“What amazing swordsmanship!” Someone cried aloud, laughing. The republic was dangerous and always had been – the noncombatant citizenry constantly spoke of the guilds, adventurers, etcetera. A past-time all its own, they had no sports beyond gladiatorial combat or the related Elemento, both of which were incredibly popular here. Displays like this in plain view of the public were rare these days, and before they knew it – the viewing stands were full and people were crowded all around the edge, resting their arms on the wall. “I wonder who will win?”
“Ha! The White Wolf of course, I like the look of that old man but c'mon, be realistic!”
Tiber's focus was incredible, sword and body and mind become one. Everything was an extension of the self, wrought and tempered through decades of experience, raised from the age of 5 years old to kill.
Whereas Tyr was assaulted by the noise and sensations of so many people crowding around and babbling, Tiber was calm. It wasn't an excuse, just a lack of discipline that needed correcting. Tyr knew very well that Tiber was just putting on a good show, progressively getting faster and cleaner with his strokes as time passed. It was foolish, contextually, considering the fact that one man would tire while the other would not – not any time soon – but Tiber was just that good.
Skilled enough to draw the fight on, and considerate enough to still engage himself in the act of making the younger man better. There was love there, everything Tiber did was for his ward and junior, always. To him, this was a learning experience like any other, still dedicated to bringing out the best in the boy, going easy on him...
Their dance little more than Tyr attempting time and time again to grapple and lock blades while his stony faced mentor sidestepped gracefully. The younger of the two fought like the panther their school was named for, with instinct and wild swings. In comparison, Tiber was more of a pack predator hunting a larger beast, flitting in and out and harass Tyr, picking and prodding at him. Fencing, a master of nine styles of swordsmanship blending them all together to make for something greater than the sum of its parts.
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A wad of blood shot from Tyr's mouth followed by the sensation of a tooth loosening, Tiber's gloved fist responsible. He spat and followed through with a blistering series of cross slashes, weaving an 'x' between the two men and hammering it down on Tiber's guard with all the force he could muster. The mentor could see the students frustration, and that had always worried him. To an outsider, Tyr didn't seem to care about much – apathetic to most things. But Tiber knew, as did a few others, that the young man hated losing more than anything else. In his younger days, he'd grow sullen in the face and sometimes sulk for days after a 'failure'.
There was little consideration for learning through defeat back then. Tyr simply hated the fact that he could be bested, given the insane expectations that had become a burden on his young shoulders.
Tyr had become something new. He'd changed a lot after all that had happened, and that sullen melancholy had been replaced by anger and raw refusal. Losing his form and battering Tiber with strength enough to jar his arms and pit his sword with every clashing of blades. Swords were not axes, even with the power of magic – they weren't designed to be abused like that, edge to edge. They were weapons of skill, grace, and precision – and Tyr wielded his like a butchers cleaver.
Tiber was a skilled opponent, but skill alone could only take one so far. Even the finest knight would be a poor opponent for a raging bull, in the face of absolute strength, he was poorly equipped to handle what was coming for him now.
People began to cheer with greater intensity, slapping their hands on the half-wall surrounding the arena, calling out Tyr's name. Sharing in his budding lust. Their support and compliments made him feel like a balloon, slowly inflating, and he found that he enjoyed this feeling. Like a man who hadn't eaten in days, giving him goosebumps – pupils dilating in ecstasy that went far beyond the natural. To be celebrated in the sincerest of ways, to be considered the victor even before the conclusion of a thing.
Tiber danced around him, always in the right position, sending counters and ripostes back at him with lightning speed. He was caught once in the eye, always the eye, and another time in the exposed flesh of his throat.
Tyr caught the next in the torso, which was a mistake – but not on his part. He clutched the blade hard in his free hand – shooting his head forward to smash into Tiber's face. Sending the man sprawling before Tyr leaped forward to follow him, both hands on his blade to smash him flat – already having forgotten the context of the spar.
He wanted to kill the man, lost in the hot emotion and completely unaware of the significance of what he was about to do.
Tiber was an old dog, but he had his tricks. That amount of skin that was visible grew taut, the veins on his neck standing out and darkening to a shade of blue. Enchanted implants were rare, and their use was illegal in Haran, but not here. Knowing how deeply flawed Tyr was as an individual, after the poor excuse for a childhood he'd lived, it was time to end it. To use this as a stepping stone to begin forging him into a better man, if such a thing were possible, Tiber was as much at fault as Jartor. But unlike the latter, he'd take responsibility for his actions.
Temperance.
Pushed down to a knee from the wild overhead strike, Tiber pushed back, locking the crossguard of his blade with Tyr's own and twisting. Enough to drag the other mans momentum to the side and leave him open. Hammering his pommel upward with the blades still interlinked and catching Tyr on the jaw – his head shooting back on a limp neck. Broken, Tiber could feel the vertebra snap, frowning at the idea that he might've gone a little too far, but he didn't stop.
Tiber pushed, bringing his leg up like a crane and sending his boot flying into Tyr's sternum. Everyone grew silent at the sudden display of ridiculous might – watching as Tyr shot across the arena and into the wall near the door. Implants were rare because the small boost in performance they offered was almost never worth the risks, complications, and threat of lifelong pain.
Despite that, Tiber had completely turned the tables on someone superior to him in physicality, all in the span of a second. Bending over and grabbing at the sword Tyr had released, he planted the blunted tip against the ground and shattered it with his boot.
“Well fought, kiddo.” Tiber smiled, no small amount of pride in his tone. “You've improved so much. One day, you're going to truly surpass me, but you need to focus less on your strength. It's time to get back to the basics, you've forgotten what it means to use a blade. You'd be better off with an axe in hand, fighting like that.”
“No.” Tyr groaned, dragging his crumpled body from the wall and facing his mentor again. He felt a wave of nausea, could hear everything. All of the disappointment and doubt. Every time he moved these days he felt like he was awakening to something, and rarely was this 'something' of benefit to him. He hated that feeling so much, and it was worse than ever this time.
Disappointment. More disappointed, hearkening him back to his childhood where Jartor would stare at him with a frown. Shaking his head at the perceived weakness of his son.
Tyr was not weak. He was strong, there was nobody that could stop him once he wanted for something, and he railed against the insistence that he was at his limit. What limits? He had no such thing, there was always more, some place higher. Every lesson he'd ever learned from his various mentors was once again thrown out the window in that moment.
“This is the guy representing us in the trials...? Beaten by an old man?”
“I thought the White Wolf was supposed to be really good...? A blade master?”
“Maybe the old man is just very skilled...? He's so young, don't be so hard on him, it was still a good showing!” Someone whispered, but the woman's voice voice was full of such doubt that not even she seemed to believe it.
“I thought gold ranked adventurers were supposed to be... Better? I guess?”
“Maybe he's just tired? His injuries must be troubling him, that has to be it! Don't worry, White Wolf, we believe in you!”
“Alexandros picked him personally, so... I just expected more, perhaps he'll make for a better mage. Yeah, that must be it. Pretty good swordsmanship for a mage! Great work!”
They weren't insults, people didn't trend that way in the real world. There was doubt, but still they believed in him. Some of them.
Many recognized Tiber's shocking display of skill and noted that he too was probably on the team representing the republic, based on the others present. Daito was well known and well regarded, but not as a warrior. Tyr, on the other hand was a fresh and new adventurer, and very little was known about him. Only that he had one of the highest contract completions in the last year among all the guilds, and had rocketed to that position quicker than anyone else. Stories abounded about his valor and heroism. A monster slayer, but that didn't mean he was up to the task of defeating a skilled opponent, it was just common sense.
Just honest and sincere disappointment, a very understandable emotion at that.
“We've never won the trials before.” Someone muttered sadly. “There's always next time. Oh, look! He's getting up.”
“Tough kid, at least! Maybe there's a chance!”
Like... Bouncing. Back and forth between streams of emotion, something cracked inside of his mind. An endless pit that needed filling, despite knowing such a thing was impossible. Tyr couldn't stop the impulse, and didn't want to.
“I want it back.” Tyr limped across the arena. Tiber stared at him with a hard frown, picking the broken sword from the sandy ground and tossing it to him. But Tyr just kept walking, ignoring the blade offered him by an honorable opponent. “I want it back.” He repeated.
“...Want what back?” Tiber asked, but Tyr kept approaching, muttering that same phrase over and over again. Something was strange about the look in his eye, like a man half starved, full of lunacy. Fortunately, their voices were low enough where none around could hear them, save Daito and Goroshi with their incredible senses.
Tiber watched in grim interest as Tyr's skin stretched and writhed in places where his bones popped back into place and repaired themselves. Separated muscles moving like worms just beneath the surface to reattach. He'd never gotten used to the noise it made, nor the appearance of flesh knitting together before his very eyes, like the sound of meat gristle being chewed apart. Observing it as he did against a weaponless foe, Tiber wasn't ready for the fist that lashed out and caught him directly in the chest.
Crumpling his breastplate and sending him flying the same way he'd sent Tyr, impacting into the wall, broken in more ways than one. The force propelling him off his feet was ungodly, unexpected, and tyrannical.
People paused in their critiques, jaws hanging on slack hinges. What was happening? They couldn't see...