Altair’s expression was a mask of composure as his gaze traced the coin’s arc across the arena. Inwardly, however, he found himself uncertain.

Functionally, there was only a finite amount of training an eight year old child could effectively imbibe. That logic had held true, at least on Earth. Altair was keenly aware of the possibility that the son of an Aura Master would have access to techniques that defied his assumptions; the books he had access to via mother’s library hinting at the possibility of paths to power beyond the limitations of one’s bloodline.

Regardless, he had chosen to accept the challenge, two reasons guiding his decision. For one, Altair was certain that the school would not be callous enough to leave an entire class of future Mages and Aura Masters unobserved and overlooked. They were almost certainly watching, likely keenly observing their every move and students issuing duel challenges was most definitely encouraged considering the layout of the Mess-Hall; duels that would otherwise struggle to gain traction under the watchful eye of a teacher.

Altair’s second reason was a far simpler one. He was merely nescient when it came to the consequences of ignoring an official challenge in a world where one’s prowess as a Mage or Aura Master decided their stature in society. Would he be flooded with requests until he relented? Or would they circumvent him and goad Nocturne into accepting a challenge? Would the school’s administration interfere?

None of those outcomes were acceptable to Altair, so he had decided to fight.

Perhaps it was true that he had never held, much less wielded a sword before in his life. But at the same time, Altair possessed a profound understanding of his own body; one that, from his interactions with Hilde, likely surpassed the gentle healer’s realm of understanding.

Simple biomechanics allowed him to infer the correct way to grip his sword— a firm grip with a little leeway for flexibility to allow for efficient impact force distribution while avoiding muscle fatigue. Holding the sword too loosely would send it flying while a rigid grip, while tempting, would only end up transferring the bulk of the shock to his wrist.

A clink interrupted his strategizing, as the coin bounced off the arena’s surface. Almost simultaneously, the boy who had been standing at the edge of the wooden elevation stepped down, having fulfilled his duty.

Altair bent his knees to lower his center of gravity while his eyes were trained upon Feran’s lower body, specifically his legs.

He took a long, deep breath, letting the din of excited whispers and hushed exchanges fade away along with the air of anticipation that had reached its crescendo. There were two essential requirements that were required of one wishing to pursue the life of a surgeon— a steady hand that was a product of superb hand-eye coordination and the ability to remain calm under a very visceral sort of pressure.

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Fragments of memories flashed through his mind, the penetrating bright light of the operating theater the common thread that tied them together. Anesthetized patients lying before him, carefully calculated incisions running across their bodies made in hopes of healing them. The warm blood that clung to his surgical gloves as Ryan Kimura did what he had trained for years to do. The ones he saved. And the ones he couldn’t.

The crucible he stood in seemed to make a similar demand of him.

So Altair chose to do what Ryan Kimura had trained to do all those years ago— keenly observe.

He caught onto the controlled manner in which Feran bent his knees, his calf muscles tensing as he shifted his weight onto his front foot. Altair precisely caught onto the moment his back foot kicked him into motion, charging forth with surprisingly graceful footwork— a sequence of fluid steps that bounced off the ground with near minimal contact.

Time seemed to slow down as Altair noticed the swiftness with which Feran’s right arm unfolded outwards, his elbow gradually tilting upwards until it was held above the shoulder line.

Altair had just about grasped Feran's intentions when a shout from the outside world breached his focus, only because the inflection of the voice was familiar to him. It sounded like the purple haired girl he had met earlier and she was telling him to… move?

His eyes widened in surprise and time began to flow once again. Altair realized that he had lost himself in his observations— even though he knew a slash was coming, there was no time left to dodge.

The gap between theoretical knowledge and practical experience— he had just gotten to experience it for the first time.

It was only the quick reflexes of a surgeon that saved him in the end. His hands moved to intercept the trajectory that he had calculated; the resultant clash that followed almost sending the sword in his hand flying away.

The momentum behind Feran’s blade flagged a little, as if he were stunned that Altair had managed to block his opening blow, only to redouble the force he was applying a moment later.

Altair let out a groan in protest as the taller, sturdier boy used the difference in body weight against him, feeling himself being pushed back. A thought flashed in his mind and he resolved to use his opponent’s impatience against him— a long sidestep accompanied by all the strength his aching arms could muster was exerted in the opposite direction.

He escaped to the left, while Feran was sent stumbling forward; buying Altair the few moments he needed to catch his breath.

He couldn’t deny that part of him hoped that his opponent had sent himself flying out of the arena and was thereby disqualified but... as he pivoted to face him again Altair found that hope crushed.

Barely a meter, if even, separated Feran from tipping over the arena’s edge but he had managed to find his footing in time.

Far more agile than Altair, who had never received formal training in combat, Feran slowly turned his gaze to meet his gaze as he positioned himself closer to the center of the arena— not wanting to have the same strategy used against himself.

This time, Feran adopted a more measured charge, a mark of what seemed like begrudging respect reflected in his gaze.

Round two began.