Without a method of contacting the others in real time, Donovan had no idea that he was the first of his squad to go fight. If cell phones or radios had been something they had easy access to then maybe the news of his victory, someone who by all means had no right to win, would boost the confidence and self esteem of a certain individual who did not take kindly to public places.

Len Kerr was reclusive, but not necessarily antisocial. If his status in a party was to be described, then it would be that of a wallflower. All his life he had been ignored by other nobles, even the children he was supposed to make friends with, on account of his social status. Len was adopted, and he wasn't an heir to anything. In the eyes of the nobility he was worth less than a bastard child, because at least a bastard child would have some noble blood running through its veins.

His brother was courteous to him, as was his sister to some degree, but every single one of his acquaintances around his age in the Bulsarz Empire either ignored him or harassed him. Some amongst the older generations acted pleasantly towards him, but he felt like it was only the oldest of those people that were ever genuine with him, everybody else was just currying favor with his adoptive father.

This treatment had led to a pretty big behavioral problem, especially when interacting with other nobles. It was part of the reason that he was sent to the academy in the first place. Here, his father hoped, he would be able to act freely, make some friends, and maybe even find a wife. Len, ever the obedient child, grew scared of what his father might do with him once he found out he had failed to find his way into any of the armies. His real father was a warrior! How could he not be one as well?

Unfortunately, Len found that his anxiety in the presence of other nobility also applied to those with no knowledge of his illegitimacy. He always froze up during the exposition matches, not scared of his opponent's physical strength but of their social status. Naturally one could imagine his relief upon finding that he had been given a lifeline in the form of Donovan. His squad mates also didn't give off the vibe that most of the other nobles did. They were all approachable, even if Titanyana might be a little uptight and distant.

There was still one very scary element of the squad though, something that terrified him so much he couldn't really let himself loose the way his father wanted of him - Donovan.

He had spent most of his time before sleep in his bed staring up at the ceiling, wondering what exactly it was that made his commanding officer so terrifying. Titanyana seemed to have felt it too, and the other two had also picked up on it, so he knew he wasn't crazy and imagining things, but that only made his confusion grow more. It meant that he wasn't afraid of Donovan because of his status.

Len didn't know it yet, but he had picked up on the same danger that Doctor Helmsguard had diagnosed in Donovan. Donovan would not hesitate to kill Len if it became necessary for one reason or another, even if he felt some sort of emotional attachment to the boy.

This fear was paralyzing at times, especially during their training sessions, but it seemed to have had a benefit. Right now, sitting in the armory surrounded by nobles, Len could actually bear to sit somewhere besides the corner.

He was still incredibly fidgety, his breathing labored and his eyes flashing from one face to the next, but he was coherent. He could make out what they were saying, even if he didn't like it.

"Hmmph!" One of the more aloof individuals brought a hand to his mouth. "What drivel!"

It hurt to hear that directed at him, but he didn't break apart.

"I don't think most of these guys would last three strikes." One of the more serious people murmured his opinions on the crowd under his breath.

"That seems to be a pretty generous assessment." Someone that could only have been his acquaintance followed up on his remark, evidently not impressed with today's showing.

That was fine. Len knew he wasn't as strong as the more well-regarded noble houses. He would normally be nothing but a peasant in their eyes after all. His training was something that would break them down. At least he was superior in some regard, no matter how niche.

"You good kid?"

A voice from his direct front shocked him out of his silent tremors. Len was shocked to find he was sweating, even now his grip on his weapon was slipping.

"I-I-I-I'm fine. It's just my first tournament, that's all. . ." It wasn't a complete lie, but he would have to be a total idiot to think that was all.

"Performance anxiety, huh?" Thankfully for Len, this newcomer seemed to be playing along. "It happens to the best of us. I seem to recall a time when I couldn't even breath when I fought. I think it was my first official duel, in front of my parent no less. You'll get over it someday."

Len alternated between supporting the lance and drying his hands off, both to stop the lance from slipping and to prepare for a handshake. He could follow the proper rules for decorum, he usually just didn't get the chance. "I-I-I hope so."

"Mind if I take a seat?" This newcomer gestured to the spot next to Len, his sword held in hand.

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"G-go ahead?" How else was he supposed to respond, with a no?

"Thanks." He didn't even hesitate before slouching over. Len had to say this was probably the least 'noble' noble he had ever laid eyes on, though that title might belong to Wall. . . "So, uh, where in the Empire are you from? Your belt has the Bulsarz Imperial crest on it, so unless you looted it off some battlefield you are probably one of my countrymen."

"Ah, uh," Len was once again caught off guard. He didn't anticipate that someone from the empire would be in the armory with him, much less someone who could tell he was also from the empire. "I-I'm from Slaphitori."

"Slaphitori. . ." The young man older than Len drifted off into thought, trying to remember who that belonged to. ". . . is that old man Arrelois' planet?"

Len flinched at the disrespect his father was being given. "Y-yes."

"Oh sweet! I've been meaning to check up on that old fart. How has he been?"

"He's been well." Len remembered the private send-off he had been the recipient of. His father seemed so distant despite his departure. "I think he is probably still working on a new strategy."

"Bah. I should visit and kick his ass once I graduate. He's always got his head in those damn battle maps, has he been keeping to his training regimen?"

"I think so. . ." Len had no way of knowing if he was still going at it now. He had yet to receive a letter back from him. Still, it would be hard to imagine his father of all people forgetting something like that.

"Eh, shoulda guessed you wouldn't know for sure. I'm Rashtvice, but you can just call me Rash, nice to meet you Len." Rash thrust forth his hand in greeting, which Len found himself shaking before he had even registered what just happened.

The gears were definitely spinning though. ". . . h-how did you know my name?"

"Hm? Well you're one of Arrelois' brats, right? Well you aren't a girl, and you sure as hell ain't her big bro, that could only mean you are the adopted one doesn't it? I swear, he wouldn't shut up about you when we trained together. He went on and on about how you were the spitting image of your father and how he hoped you'd be just as good a man as he was. It was kinda creepy actually." Rash cringed as he remembered their mid-fight conversations. "I talked to your brother about it, seems like he didn't really mind it. If anything he also seemed curious."

"Len Kerr!? Len Kerr?!"

"Oh, shit. Looks like you're up Len. Good luck."

"Once again, calling for Len Kerr!"

"Here! I'm here! Coming!"

- - - - -

Len trudged up into his ring, pile lance hoisted across his shoulders. Right now his mind was racing. Just who was that? Rashtvice? Did he know that name? It sounded so familiar, but he couldn't place it. Surely he would remember someone his father trained with, he just needed to think about it.

"All ready?"

Well, now wasn't the time for thinking about that. With a tinge of apprehension, Len looked towards his opponent.

Great, a lancer. There goes my range advantage. . . Here's hoping he plays cautious.

His opponent was standing across from him with a big lance. This person appeared to be closer to fully grown in comparison to Len, so the fact that his lance stood another half of his body length above his head did not bode well for Len. If this guy didn't let Len approach, he had no shot at victory.

"Ready sir."

"Ready."

"Keep your extremities inside the ring . . . good. Now, prepare to fight on my mark. Three, two, one, GO!"

The instant the ref let his hand drop down, the two shot off at each other.

Or at least that was what he would have expected. Instead Len and his adversary began to circle. There was a little bit of distance being closed, but for the most part they were maintaining their distance. The one with the long lance had an immense advantage thanks to its range, and he was planning on using it to the fullest. It was the only real reason to use one this long, seeing as he lost most of the lance's ability to be used as a staff at this length.

The same could not be said for Len, who used the pile lance more like a staff from the start. However, his father had demonstrated to him a few of the tricks his real father had used to overcome this disparity in range.

Slowly, carefully, keeping an eye on where the limits of this person's range should be, Len advanced. He wasn't yet at the level of being able to sound range out from sight alone, so he would have to bait out a few short thrusts. Still, he made sure to move in a circle around this person, towards their back, so they couldn't settle in a stance. A few feet from where the tip was being pointed at Len, he stopped, removing his pile lance from his shoulders and letting the tip rest on the ground.

It sank in a little, there was nothing he could do about that, but it was important that one of the tips be on the ground for this part. He wasn't strong enough otherwise.

Grabbing it with both hands and using the ground as a sort of support to bear weight, he advanced once more, keeping the lance off to the side. In an attempt to demonstrate his controlled space, his opponent made a few short thrusts. They were quick, but they didn't have much power behind them. Len could probably take one from neutral at the extent of its range and not suffer too much damage.

Maintaining a slow circling speed, Len began to make small feints towards his foe. This wasn't the first time he was executing this strategy against an opponent, but it was his first time fighting such a long lance. Hopefully he would be able to make it in time.

This circling and feinting went on for some time, when all of the sudden Len found himself just a little bit too close. At least, Len's opponent found him to be too close. For the first time this man thrusted with the intent to kill, straight towards Len's chest. Nothing fancy, but a solid blow would open Len up for more damage if nothing else.

Unfortunately, Len was just a little to fast for that. See, with the weight of the lance he was slow, however he could move somewhat freely when the ground took the load. All of the sudden, Len was no longer on the side of the lance his opponent had lunged at.

All of the sudden, Len was moving a lot faster.

Keeping the tungsten rod between himself and the enemy's polearm, Len charged his adversary after knocking the lance away. Now not only was he off balance, but there was a heavy metal object between his weapon and his target he had no way of breaking, and he couldn't pull his weapon back fast enough to recover. He was screwed and he knew it.

In a desperate last ditch move, he tried swinging his lance all the way around his body to strike Len from the other side, but all Len had to do was change which side of his pile lance he was running along. The side of the lance met metal, weakly striking and bending quite a bit before falling out of the man's hands. It was like he had just hit a solid wall, and he felt like it.

Len didn't take any chances, dipping the top end at the last moment and driving it through his opponent's chest before sliding out and bringing it around his body to slam the head with the other tip.

It wasn't long before he was back outside the circle.

"Oh no. . ." Len had screwed up somewhere. "I forgot to greet him like Sir Donovan said I should!"