The Referee
What is this feeling? Valle couldn’t quite place it. His heart was racing, but he wasn’t nervous. There was a special awareness about him, a sense of danger, like he was about to be swallowed whole by a hungry beast, but he wasn’t scared. His body ached, but the pain didn’t bother him. What is this?
His plan was to force Valle to guess between an attack targeting his hand or foot and overwhelm him from there. Once he got dragged into the game of prediction, Max had the advantage because he was better at predicting Valle’s next move than the Champion of Cresna was at predicting Max’s counterattack. Break it down, Valle thought. He predicts better than me? How? What is he doing that makes his predictions so accurate? I have to demystify it…turn it into a tangible target, then crush it with my steel.
It was easy to simply call it a nebulous ‘talent’ or ‘instinct.’ Looking at the man’s apparent supernatural ability at predicting the future it was easy to assume he was simply born with that skill or that a nebulous instinctual feeling within him told him the right answers. This wasn’t the case. Max’s “instinct” was a carefully honed response he had trained over the years.
Max of Relampago is making me think I have openings, Valle realized. He’s getting inside my head. Manipulating your opponent’s thoughts was really difficult when it came to minor movements like wrist pick attempts, because there are many responses to this and none stand out as purely optimal—fencers would be justified in responding differently to the move.
“That’s it,” Valle muttered. “The reason you go for that outrageous shot so often…it’s the tune to this whole dance, is it not?”
Oh, I thought. It seems like the Champion of Cresna has realized the cornerstone behind the guessing game. Now, I wonder, will he be able to do anything about it?
The reason why Max of Relampago was so good at reading his opponent was that his entire game revolved around the foot shot. To be specific, it revolved around the fact that it was incredibly unlikely and absurdly risky.
Careful approaches elicit numerous reactions. You may respond to a regular move with a ‘hm’ or by taking a step back. Perhaps you attempt to parry it or make a note not to be in that range in the future. Yet insane moves universally beckon a single reaction: ARE YOU MAD?
After Max lands a foot shot you think, surely he won’t go for it again? But then you notice the smirk, his confident, a sudden feint and you think, he might go for it! An action this insane beckons a reaction, and Max who specialized in this move, had trained himself on how to respond to his opponent’s reactions. The foot shot was a low percentage shot, true, but by training it to an absurd degree Max had elevated its success rate. While a regular fencer might land perhaps one or two such shots over the course of a fifteen point bout, Max’s ratio was…
Four points in a fifteen point bout.
It seems low, doesn’t it? For his style to revolve around a shot that only earns him four out of fifteen points? Ah! But you understand, those are four points that he scored with a foot touch. The others were scored because the opponent feared those touches. Even Max’s highly specialized game didn’t dare push the shot too often—its goal was to make his opponents fear it and change their game around it.
Valle threw his head back and laughed. “Good sir! You needn’t attempt to drag me to play your game.” Here he grinned. “I will gladly play it with you.”
Here he shifted his en garde, and both Carrs leaned forward in frightened interest. “That’s...what the hell?” Neither Carr had expected the move, and neither had Max.
Valle’s en garde had shifted slightly.
Normally, when facing against a foot sniper such as Max of Relampago one adjusts their en garde to make sure they are not exposing their foot any more than absolutely necessary. Valle had done the opposite. His foot was extended forward, long past his knee, such that you could almost draw a diagonal line from his hips, through his knee and ending at his foot.
This both made his foot into a more exposed target and reduced the speed of Valle’s retreat—it’s extremely difficult to move backwards with any reasonable speed when your knees aren’t bent and your leg is instead straight an extended forward.
The move offered no advantage regarding footwork speed or execution, of course.
All it did was send a very simple message.
Do you want to hit my foot? Go right ahead. If you can.
Max gripped his sword tightly, but did not move.
He wasn’t used to this. He had fought hundreds of expert fencers and they had all responded the same way: trying to avoid his game, not to try to take advantage of it. This was a response he often saw at the lower level, but experts quickly realized that playing his game was not the way to win the match.
Should I treat you like an expert, Valle of Cresna? Or should I treat you like a beginner that doesn’t know any better? Max tightened his en garde and advanced. There’s no reason to worry. I’m leading the score by a lot…it’s worth risking a point to understand your mindset.
Max threw himself forward with a lunge to Valle’s foot. While he would have loved to score, it wasn’t his primary goal—instead, he wanted information. If his opponent was merely bluffing by exposing his foot like that, then his lunge would land and it would end in Max’s victory. But if Valle had some sort of plan, then this would reveal it quickly. There was no need to spend a long time in hypotheticals when a thrust of steel would reveal the truth.
It turns out neither option was quite right.
The very next point felt ugly—he connected his blade with Valle’s foot, but Valle managed to land a hit on his arm at the same time.
The New Bladewolves:
Valle of Cresna — 2 (7)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 4 (13)
Without missing a beat, both fencers readied themselves for the next exchange. This time Max went for the arm. Valle didn’t have any highly technical plans prepared to beat him. There were no special parries or fancy footwork there—instead, he merely put his sword arm forward in a stop-hit aimed to stop the arm hit, and he managed to stab Max’s wrist before he connected the attack.
The New Bladewolves:
Valle of Cresna — 3 (8)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 4 (13)
This wasn’t a particularly clever move—Valle had merely won the prediction war.
That’s fine, Max thought. I can’t predict correctly a 100% of the times. There will be times when he lands the move.
But in a sport like fencing, this single move had massive implications for the remaining of the fight. Max had won the last few points in a dominant fashion, and had he landed another Valle would have found himself in a crucial situation, where he truly would not be able to afford any mistakes. More than the score itself, the oppressive atmosphere would have come from the fact he would have been driven there by his own mistakes more than anything else.
However!
Now the situation had changed. Valle had proved to himself that he could outpredict Max, even if only once. High percentage fencing means it can still fail, Valle thought. I will show him—I can do this seven more times and turn thescore around!
Again the strange feeling had visited him. He knew his back was to the wall, yet he didn’t feel distraught. Cornered he was, but there was something else there too. A feeling he had never quite experienced before. What is this?
Meanwhile, Max’s mindset had changed little with the point. While most his opponents chose not to engage him in his game, he wouldn’t have made it to the world level if his mentality was so easily shaken. True, he hadn’t expected Valle to read his attack, but he could adjust for this. His frustration was minimal and professional—he had learned on Earth to channel it into improvement. On some level, I must have been looking down on Valle of Cresna. I must have thought that no one from this world could beat me in these circumstances and lowered my skill level unconsciously. I can’t let it end like this.
Again Valle took a step forward and exposed his foot, the implicit challenge laid down—“Will you take my bait?” Valle’s action seemed ask.
“Gladly,” Max’s action responded.
Max took a step forward, but smaller than the last one. Control your distance! Max told himself. AIM FOR THE VERY EDGES OF HIS FOOT!
The reason foot shots are low percentage touches isn’t just because the shot is easy to counter. It’s also an incredibly difficult target to hit. Not only is the foot a small target in motion, but no two fencers stand with their foot the same way—some point their foot at a slight angle while others point them straight forward. Some, the bouncy sort, barely expose their toes during a step. To land a proper foot shot, you must be aware of your opponent’s footwork style, but looking at their feet telegraphs the attack too much.
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It takes supreme skill to land one of those in a high level bout.
MORE, Max thought. THE VERY EDGE OF HIS FOOT—!
Max lunged forward and low, his lunge extremely low and his shoulder nearly over his knee. His blade reached forward toward the very tip of Valle’s foot—and missed. His distance was ever so slightly off. At the same time, Valle’s counterattack missed, just centimetres away. It is an inconvenient fact that when aiming for where your opponent’s arm will be, you will miss fairly often if they happen to come up short.
Here Max’s unorthodox style shone through again.
Normally, after missing a lunge, the orthodox followup is the following: you bring your front foot backwards, arm still fully extended, then lower it into a regular en garde, followed by your knees adjusting to the regular stance as well. This is to prevent someone from chasing after you when you take your step back and attacking. Think about it: if you pull your arm back (instead of starting with your legs) then your opponent’s fully extended blade can catch you in relative safety, yes? A bent arm has less range than a fully extended one.
But Max behaved differently.
He remained in that extended lunge state, and merely pulled his arm back. Had Valle given chase at that point, he would have scored an easy point. But you were trained enough to know I would know better, Max thought. You think someone of my level wouldn’t do a risky move like this, right?
From that position—where his shoulder was nearly over his knee and he was still in a fully extended lunge, Max’s pulled back arm extended again toward Valle’s foot.
And again it missed, as Valle managed to pull it back into safety.
The next point would be critical.
Should I give chase? Or is that what he wants? No…he wouldn’t go for this shot again. He knows I—
Max stayed in the extended lunge position, hunched over his knee with his back leg stretched out, pulled his sword arm back and attempted at his foot again, falling short one more time.
NO—he won’t try again!
But he did try, and he did land.
The New Bladewolves:
Valle of Cresna — 3 (8)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 5 (14)
“BOUT POINT!” I announced. “If Max of Relampago scores one more point, it will be the end of the bout!”
I’m done second guessing myself, Valle told himself. That’s always been my issue, has it not?
Valle was something of a perfectionist, and this trait birthed a certain paranoia in him. To ensure that the crowd always got the best show, he would often go to absurd lengths, going over the smallest off details. This naturally fed the monster inside us all that says, ‘What if things go wrong?’
There is a lot of pressure on a strong fencer during a team bout. The implication that you expect them to pull through regardless of the difficulties they are up against can suffocate them. Valle knew his team expected him to, if not win, at least not lengthen the other team’s lead, and this had caused him to hesitate slightly. What if his risky moves led to a loss?
HESITATION WILL COST ME WORSE THAN ANYTHING ELSE!
It’s a difficult realization. When faced with overwhelming pressure, people often default to waiting their opponents out, hoping for a mistake rather than attempting to force one. Passivity is not a plan, however. It is difficult for the human mind to understand, but trying to make something happen is statistically better than waiting out a mistake if you are letting your opponent have their time to set up their move.
Valle had never been under pressure before in a professional bout, having always known when he would win or when he would lose.
No, that wasn’t quite true, was it?
There was one man he could’ve beaten but that he had lost to.
Carr…until I face you again…I’M NOT GOING TO LOSE TO ANYONE!
“Intimidated?” Max asked, smirking.
Valle glared at Max and shouted, “The Champion of Cresna will not be intimidated by anyone!”
They both launched themselves at each other.
It took time for someone to get used to pressure, of course. But some people were better fit for it—they thrived under it. Valle was one of them. Raised in a world where his stats prevented him from truly experiencing the thrill of a close match, despite his best attempts, he had been denied the opportunity before. But now he could finally place the feeling.
I am enjoying this.
Give me more.
Let me show you that I am the best.
Let me show the world—
Let me show myself that I am Valle, Champion of Cresna!
Max feinted low, then raised his tip and extended his blade at Valle’s arm—He has to be traumatized after those foot shots. He’s going to be watching for the low line now!—but the Champion of Cresna had been ready for this. You wouldn’t go for the low line again. You wanted to be cheeky, didn’t you? Valle thought, as he brought his blade back in a counter-sixte parry and delivered a blow to Max’s chest.
The New Bladewolves:
Valle of Cresna — 4 (9)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 5 (14)
“Bout point remains!” I announced.
There was an explosion of cheers from the New Bladewolves’ side of the piste. “THAT’S IT VALLE!” Carr shouted. He was the loudest of the bunch, and for a good reason—the man had practice with this type of setting.
Max drew a deep breath. He predicted me again.
A certain hesitation had started to catch up with Max. An uneasy feeling that his opponent was becoming better the longer the match went, that his style was being downloaded and understood. This was unusual for him, usually his style led people to become more confused as the match went on. No…that’s not true. World class fencers can become better at understanding my feints and mind games near the second half of a bout. He looked at Valle. I have no choice but to treat you like one of us, it seems.
You weren’t trained on Earth.
You have discovered proper fencing not too long ago.
You should by all rights be little more than a beginner.
Yet you have been working hard, with both your [Skills] and your past history to make up for it. You’re perhaps the only noble to ever focus on fighting against people with similar stats as yourself, and you never neglected your exercise routines. Your [Skills] allow for learning at an astounding speed. Your hunger for winning makes your improvement all the more noticeable. Combined with your naturally high stats, it shames me to admit it, but…
You really are a World Class fencer, Valle of Cresna.
The realization brought about both a renewed wave of uncertainty and a measure of relief. If he was to treat Valle like an opponent from Earth, then things would be much easier. But the respect he had given him meant he would hesitate more with his attacks.
“Move,” Valle demanded. “The clock is ticking.”
Max frowned. Of course Valle wanted him to attack, he was trailing behind! But if that’s the case…why is he fighting me on my terms? Why not just bring the fight to me? Max thought. Then it dawned on him. This insane bastard…he wants to beat me where I’m best at! Is he that arrogant? He considered the possibility. No…I’ve already established that he’s world class.
Do you recall Fedal’s match?
When, once he had fallen into a panic, he resorted to his favourite move and went for a stats clash?
This happens to all sorts of fencers. Even world class ones. When under pressure, they fall back on their favourite move, as if begging for their thousands of hours of training to bail them out when most desperate, the only god that will listen to their prayers while trapped on the solitude of the piste.
This pressure doesn’t have to come from a sudden move like the False Carr had done.
Every single one of Valle’s actions had been building up in Max’s head since the start of the match.
Max thought, In stats, he’s better. He can force a double with flèches—in a pure clash, he’s statistically going to win more points than me. I can’t stop-hit all of his moves.
He read me once.
No, he read me twice!
If one’s concerns are water, and their fortitude is a dam keeping it from flooding their mind palace, then Valle’s actions had slowly but certainly built a small crack in that structure. Not enough for all of all of Max’s concerns to flood into his mind. The barrier still stood. But the crack was there, and some droplets had made it to the other side.
And it was enough to make Max go for a toe touch next point.
His blade flew in the air at top speed—there was no disguising the attack. If Valle was out of position, he would be hit. If he was ready for it, he would easily counter it. This move would appear ‘random’ to untrained observers, but experts knew better. The entire bout had been building up to that point; both fencers had been trying to get the other to make a mistake.
Steel met flesh and I raised my hand to signal the point.
It had been beautiful.
The New Bladewolves:
Valle of Cresna — 5 (10)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 5 (14)
“I knew it,” Valle said. “I knew you would try to win with a toe touch.” He was breathing and sweating heavily, but his exhaustion didn’t interfere with his grin. This feeling…is the best. I want to enjoy it more. The thrill of the point. Give me more, Max of Relampago!
It had been a wonderful prediction. From the en garde stance, Valle had kept his blade aimed at Max’s bellguard—when he went dove for the foot touch, Valle hardly needed to do much, he merely angled his blade down and let his opponent run into it. It had been too forceful of an approach.
Shit, Max thought. I had the closing point for a while, if I let him catch up…
Suddenly it occurred to him—he could no longer guarantee a greater score than this one.
If he and Valle were having an individual fight, he would hunker down for a long match and try to capture him even further with mind games. However…in a match like this… .
Max was a professional.
I’m truly sorry, Valle of Cresna, he thought, as he approached him.
What is it going to be? Valle thought. Foot? Arm? Counter?
But to his—and everyone’s surprise—Max’s next move was a flèche.
With his stats powering his move, it was a mighty flèche indeed. But from that distance, and with Valle’s superior reflexes, it was hardly any surprise that he managed to put up his own arm in response. Both fencers locked eyes when Max’s foot left the ground and the attack could no longer be taken back, and they had a wordless exchange.
Running away? Valle asked.
Unfortunately, Max replied.
From that distance, with both fencers going at each other with high stats like that—there was only one result possible.
A double hit.
The New Bladewolves:
Valle of Cresna — 6 (11)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 6 (15)
“THIS BOUT HAS CONCLUDED!” I announced. “6-6 individual score! The Real Bladewolves lead 15 to 11!”
“Why?” Valle demanded. “We were having such an amazing match, how could you deprive the public of our show and go for the tie?”
Max regarded him curiously for a moment, a mixture of admiration and exasperation going through his face. Finally, he relented into a smile and said, “My team was leading. It would have been really selfish and greedy of me to try to extend the lead at that point when I could have ended the match right there—especially considering how difficult of an opponent you were being. It would have been far too greedy to try to score points there, I could have lost us points instead.”
“So?” Valle’s question was so innocent it invited an underlying horror in it. His confusion was genuine. “What’s wrong with being greedy? You should always want more.”
Here Max stood speechless for a moment before he threw his head back and laughed. Then, he extended his hand out of respect. Valle grasped it. “We will settle this on a much larger stage, Valle of Cresna,” I told him. “For the world title.”
This gesture of respect between the two was met with applause from both teams. Both Carrs, real and fake, respected the sport more than anyone else and found it quite touching. Their teammates followed, some more hesitantly, some more vigorously.
No one was more hesitant than Fedal.
He admired the gesture, truly. But his mind was elsewhere.
There is nothing wrong with being greedy…with wanting more, he thought, tightening his fist. Last bout he had scored only a single point.
And he was up next.