The Referee
Fedal had always imagined a crater between himself and others. It had started as a dream he had one night, but it became a thought he came back to now and then when trying to think about his place in life. “Over there,” Fedal used to think, “is where the talented people are.” He had often dreamed of jumping over that crater to join the others, but it was never a thought he seriously entertained. “The gap is too wide,” he thought. “If I tried jumping over it, I wouldn’t make it to that side. I’d just fall in the crater. Not my fault, it’s just how things are. If I had been born on that side, it would have been different.”
The match raged on.
Max is a better fencer than me. He’s a world class épée fencer and I am not. Even though this world’s magic lets me improve my athleticism and learn at a much faster race than a normal person, I’m still thousands of times weaker than him. I have to accept that. Under normal circumstances, I could never beat him in a fair fight, Fedal considered.
Then, with surprising clarity, he thought, Then it’s time to make this as unfair as possible.
Unbeknown to Fedal, there was a lot keeping Max from fencing at his full potential right now. Even leaving aside the revelations of the False Carr’s true identity themselves, their sheer implications horrified him. I…I had no idea Gilder came so close to turning into that. What if he had become a Jack clone just because I wasn’t around to protect him? Dammit, I…
Guilt and concern were the first issues, followed closely by exhaustion. Though he was used to fencing for long periods of time, this was only the third time he had ever used his skills while also fencing at such a high level. His first time, in a duel against Stefanos, earning him a chance at the Vyzerworth title—and his second time in a losing effort against Estella, the World Champion. This time he had been engaged in two furious matches back to back, against Valle of Cresna and against Carr the Swordsman of Zero.
It wasn’t that his body was failing him, but rather his mind.
Max’s style of fencing was one specially reliant on mind games, and his mind was stretched to its limit right now between revelations, concerns and adapting his fencing to this new set of opponents. Valle’s style had worn him down, and Carr’s physical style had him desperately looking for a solution for that matchup. On top of that, he had a touch of disappointment in his mind right now. His performance hadn’t been fantastic thus far.
I tied with Valle of Cresna, Max thought. I went for the safe option, but we ended in a 6-6 score. I had the better odds to score the final hit…he got lucky a few times, but I was still in control of the bout. Why did I settle for the safe option? Dammit…and I lost to Carr! I have only ever lost to Carr once before, why did the second time have to be today?
To be short: it wasn’t his day. Everyone has days when they can’t give their best. Sometimes you just aren’t in your top condition, and discouraging results lower your level even further. What Carr had told Fedal before very much applied here.
“My coach used to say,” Carr told Fedal, a nostalgic smile on his face, “that your top condition doesn’t mean shit.”
“How the flying fuck doesn’t your top condition mean anything?” Fedal asked. “Isn’t the point of all this training so I can do all of this shit when I’m fencing?”
“That’s the ideal outcome, yeah. But not really feasible, you know? Most of the time you are only fencing at the peak of your strength for a few minutes…maybe a few seconds every bout. For the rest, you are fencing at around a 7 out of 10 of your max level, you know? You can’t expect to be firing on all cylinders at every second of a bout.”
Finally, to top it off, Max was—albeit unconsciously—underestimating Fedal. The Hero had beaten Katherine after she had a breakdown, but against the False Carr he only managed a single desperate hit that would never work again. Despite the fact that Fedal was faster and stronger than him, Max thought, in the back of his mind, that it would be an easy victory and didn’t manage to summon the urgency he needed to get his mind back in the game.
Meanwhile, to Fedal, the world itself had ceased existing.
Nothing existed but himself and his opponent.
And he launched himself forward, beating at Max’s blade, this time from further away than he had attempted before.
The first one of Sollee’s conjectures, Fedal thought, ‘Is it possible for the fencer with the lower technical ability to decide the technical level of a bout?’
YES!
Max didn’t disengage off the beat, but he copied Carr’s technique from earlier—letting his hand go nearly limp at the time of the strike, he took a step back and clenched his fist to recover his form while Fedal gave chase. What are you doing, Hero? If that’s how you want to play, I can just disengage from your beat every time!
The New Bladewolves:
Fedal the Hero — 2 (31)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 3 (32)
“Huh?” Max said, turning around to the ref. “I didn’t feel that!”
I shook my head. “Yet, the move landed. The top of your wrist—check the small wound. His blade made contact as you snapped your blade in position after the beat.”
Max cursed under his breath and Fedal raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected to score—but sometimes, this kind of lucky break happens. His blade had barely grazed Max with enough pressure to draw the slightest amounts of blood. Yet neither fencer’s mood changed.
I’m still worse than him, this was literally luck, Fedal thought. I can’t expect that to happen again.
That was just luck, I’m still in control, Max thought. Sometimes, this sort of shit happens. I can’t let it get to me. I can still disengage off his beats, just have to be a little bit crisper.
This theory was put to test when Fedal again stepped forward and attempted at a beat eight. Max attempted a disengage, and only lightly touched Fedal’s sword—but here the Hero’s stats came into play, and the impact was such that Max needed to retreat with a rather impressive timing to avoid getting hit by a lunge. Had Fedal trained the action more, he likely would have scored there, but his follow-up was too slow. Fedal had started the move from too far away to be able to follow it up with an attack, but this too had a point to it.
Fedal had made the right decision, but his body wasn’t trained enough to capitalize on it.
A measure of concentration returned to Max, as the man from Relampago realized he would need to put in some effort in the bout. So that’s how strong you are, huh? Fine. I’ll play around it. I learned fencing to be able to beat types like you, after all. Any amount of blade contact would send Max’s blade flying—so he intended on avoiding it entirely. Disengages were hard to do perfectly. Chances are, even if you found the right line, you would touch your opponent’s blade slightly. I’ll dodge with my feet then.
Fedal again attempted at a beat eight, again from that increased distance, and this time Max took a step backwards to dodge rather than attempting to stand his ground and move his blade. There was a sound of discontent from Fedal, and Max smirked—unaware of the situation.
True, by any measure of the situation, Max had won the exchange; with only a single step, he had defeated Fedal’s attempt at a beat eight and moved to a safe distance. But looking at it another way: Max had limited his responses here. Earlier in the match, he had scored on Fedal by hitting his wrist—this was something that could be done from a beat position, but not so much if he was taking a step back. It was feasible, but much less likely.
Just because I’m worse doesn’t mean I can’t dictate the pace, Fedal thought. Actually fencing can be hard, but keeping YOU from fencing is pretty easy.
Fedal was correct.
The classical fencing paradigm—the one Duartes was trained on—meant to respond to expectedly executed actions with expertly executed counteractions. A lunge to the inside line—meaning your torso and side of your sword arm closest to your chest—should be met with a parry four, where you bring your arm from right to left to push the blade. This makes sense in theory, does it not? When your opponent executes their attack, you should show them the perfect counter!
Not so, says modern fencing.
“Nonsense,” Classical Fencing replies, huffing, “there is no better defence against an attack to your inside line!”
“There is,” Modern Fencing replies, with a condescending smirk, “you just don’t let them attack your inside line at all.”
Modern Fencing would say that instead of parrying the lunge to the inside line, you should damn well be aware that they are going to try to do that—because that’s their best move—and thus close your inside line from the start. By which I mean, bring your blade angled closer to the left so that your opponent would have to clear your blade in order to attack.
“But,” Classical Fencing protests, “If you just close your four line, aren’t you, by definition, opening your six line?”
This is true. By protecting your torso by moving your sword to the left, slightly, you are by nature exposing more of your outside line, the six line. However, what Modern Fencing proposes is simple: this is still a better situation than before.
Why?
Very simple. Because your opponent’s best move is an attack to the inside line, not the outside line. People are not magical creatures that can perform every move evenly—they are better at some, and worse at others. The modern paradigm is focused around a simple idea: once you know what your opponent is best at, don’t let them try it. But don’t merely take away the option, make it feel like you’re about to give it back to them so they keep looking for an opening that will never be there and waste time.
Every fencing action has a prerequisite.
To parry, your opponent needs to lunge.
To stop-hit, your opponent needs to move forward.
To disengage, your opponent needs to parry.
To lunge, your opponent needs to show an opening in your preferred line.
Executing all those actions with any degree of competence takes effort. But merely taking away the prerequisite from your opponent? Now, that was easy!
Fedal was aware of this.
He knew he couldn’t execute as many complex actions as Max could—and that if Max tried them again, he wouldn’t be able to stop it. That disengage to the hand was a cruel attack, but it necessitated two things: for the two of them to be standing close to each other, and for Fedal’s hand to be raised.
Fedal was still raising his hand for a beat, but by standing far away from each other, he had made it harder for Max to land an attack underneath his hand. Though Max had successfully neutralized Fedal’s beat, he had done so at the cost of throwing away an opportunity to score.
This is how I’m going to win, Fedal thought. I know I don’t have any chance to beat him if he does his fancy shit that I’m not good enough to counter. So I’m just not going to let him do it!
“You can’t do this forever!” Max shouted.
Though this increased distance reduced Max’s chances of scoring a hand hit, it was still his ideal distance for his foot-arm-counter guessing game he had used against both Valle and Carr. Neither of them could actually fully defeat that game, so Fedal knew it was pointless to try something along those lines.
This led straight into the second one of Sollee’s Conjectures: Can the fencer with the shorter fencing distance control the distance in a bout?
YES!
“HIT MY FOOT IF YOU CAN!” Fedal declared, as he took a step forward. “I DARE YOU!”
Can…can I do this? Can I really force him to fence in my distance? IT DOESN’T MATTER IF I CAN OR NOT! I HAVE TO DO IT!
Here Fedal did something no one was expecting: he took a step forward. It should be noted, however, that he did not attack. If he had lunged, Max would have countered him. Instead, he took a step forward, and now both fencers were in a range where they could both reach each other with a lunge.
From the stands, Carr observed this and let out a low whistle. “Not a bad choice, kid,” he said, a wide grin across his face. “You just might have some talent.”
Had Fedal taken a small step, he would have walked back into the distance where Max could punish his amateurish, too wide blade movements with angled attacks to the hand—but with his stat-powered speed, he quickly stepped past that distance and moved even closer to Max.
The issue this created for Max was that this distance lessened the effect of his guessing game. From this distance, they were close enough that if he lunged at Fedal’s foot or arm there was a chance that just by standing there Fedal would score a double hit.
I have four options, Max thought.
1) I can still risk my guessing-game-roulette from this distance. My margin of error is just going to be a lot tighter at this distance when I consider that his stats make him incredibly fast.
2) I can abandon the guessing-game-roulette and engage him with something else. I can take his blade or focus exclusively on counters, from this distance if he tries to lunge at me I should be able to counter easily.
3) I can take a step back and refuse to fight from this position.
4) I can try to use disengages and other high-skill moves to nail him, like I did in the first point in the match. Those moves are going to get a lot more difficult to execute under pressure and when he’s so much closer to me, so it could backfire on me.
Max was more than well aware that he wasn’t at the top of his game. His draw against Valle and loss to Carr weighing on his mind, for a moment he considered the state of his technique and hesitated.
It was important to remember that like Carr himself, Max was trained in the modern fencing paradigm, and his strategy focused heavily around forcing his opponent to fence in his AoE—his Area of Excellence—and that this wasn’t possible right now. He needed an ideal distance to maximize his chances of winning the point. I shouldn’t have let him get this close! Max thought. But he had, and thus had a decision to make.
And decided to retreat—option 3 it was.
And Fedal immediately gave chase, taking a step forward to keep that uncomfortable distance between them.
This guy! Max thought annoyedly. I should have stop-hit him on the way in, but now that he’s inside my distance, getting ready for a stop-hit is almost impossible. He’s too fast!
Inside this distance, Fedal’s stats made him a formidable opponent. Not too long ago, his attacks would have been too telegraphed, his footwork too sloppy and his recovery would take too long. Now, though he wasn’t a master, his sheer athleticism his stats afforded him was second to none. Inside that distance, there was little one could do against him, except to parry.
And Max wasn’t a master at parrying. Counterattacks like stop-hits were easier to do against people with superior stats, and thus were what he focused on the most while training on Earth. However, at this distance, stop-hits were unlikely to land, and with Fedal’s speed it was nearly impossible to retreat faster than he could advance. Even so, Max didn’t become a world class swordsman by giving up easily—Fedal gave chase as the man desperately retreated backwards, trying to find an opening for a stop-hit or a change of pace, but soon he reached the end of the piste and could no longer step backwards.
The New Bladewolves:
Fedal the Hero — 3 (32)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 3 (32)
“Back to the centre of the piste now,” I instructed them. “Then proceed with the match.”
I DID IT! Fedal thought, as he pumped his fist in triumph. I EVENED OUT THE SCORE! I CAN DO THIS! I CAN—
Max screamed.
It was a scream that most people in that arena weren’t familiar with. Carr’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. This is going to get tricky, Carr thought. He’s refocusing.
There are times you scream in triumph when a beautiful move manages to connect with its intended target. There are times you scream because your life is on the line and you barely manage to save it with a desperate parry. Both of those screams were known to the inhabitants of this world. There was a third scream, however.
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The harrowing sound that screamed, I SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN HIT BY THAT!
Max slapped his own face, and the pain appeared to bring out a different man. The duellist who had faced Carr and Valle just a few moments ago.
Every athlete knows that feeling, when they don’t give their all in an easy match. Thoughts such as “I worked hard all day, I can afford to relax against him” start to creep into your mind, and your already falling level manages to drop even further. Then, due to a combination of your carelessness and your opponent’s single minded focus, they score.
And with a shout, you renew a vow to the world and to yourself: THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN.
Fedal wasn’t aware of this mental shift Max had just undergone. To him, it seemed that his opponent was losing his patience again, and the thrill of seeing his plan succeed had encouraged him. So long as I can get past that distance of his, I can win. One step forward, then chase. If we’re in long range, he can hit my foot and arm. If we’re in medium range, he can hit my arm when my moves are too wide. But if we’re in medium-short to close distance, I got this!
With confidence, Fedal took a step forward to step into Max’s range—and here his blade awaited him. This wasn’t merely the tip of the blade being moved—this was extreme French Grip style angulation, where the sword arm had been moved far to the outside, and the sword angled in. Max’s sword arm was nearly pointing directly to his right but his wrist was curved and pointing at his left. This lessened his reach, but it also increased the angle he could hit from.
When Fedal walked in, sword half-extended and confident, Max’s blade managed to go around his guard to land a hit on his exposed hand.
“I’m not going to let you get that close again,” Max said softly. “Not ever.”
The New Bladewolves:
Fedal the Hero — 3 (32)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 4 (33)
“DON’T LET IT GET TO YOU! REFOCUS!” Carr shouted. “KEEP GOING!”
But it was hard not to let it get to him.
Really hard.
He had thought of a plan, executed and gotten results—thought he had done something good. But now he saw it fall apart before him. Fedal was tired. God, he was so tired. This match had been the most physically demanding thing he had ever done, and in spite of his stats helping him, the blows to his body and mind started to pile up. If I hadn’t lost 1-5 against the False Carr earlier, we…we would be fine. I wouldn’t need to be working so hard right now to fix my fuckup. We could be leading right now if not for me. Shit.
Fedal thought of that crater again. Across from it were Carr, Valle and Isabella—true, talented people who had their shit together. And on the other side were people Fedal. Goddamn it…this is as far as I can go, eh? Guess it’s not that bad. I mean, even if I lose 6-3, that’s still within expectations right? About what we thought the best case scenario was if I went defensively. I can be proud of getting 3 points fencing offensively, right? Better losing 3-6 than 0-3…right…I should be proud of this. But…SHIT! WERE THOSE LAST 3 POINTS THAT POINTLESS THAT HE CAN JUST SCREAM AND CHANGE THE ENTIRE MATCH? IS THE GAP REALLY THAT FUCKING LARGE?
He wasn’t satisfied with it at all.
Instinctively, he knew that Max wouldn’t be as easy to fence as he had been until now. He knew that the man standing across from him was someone as strong as Carr. He didn’t think he could beat him.
Yet he wanted to.
He wanted to beat him so badly he would have died if that’s what it took.
But sports don’t work like that. The strength of your feelings doesn’t decide a match. Your strength does. Your strategies. Your effort.
Fedal didn’t think he had enough of that to win. But he also thought that if he just sat around and accepted the result he would never be able to forgive himself. EVEN IF IT’S POINTLESS—I’M GOING TO GO DOWN GIVING IT MY ALL!
His pessimism wasn’t dissuaded, but it acquiesced to making the attempt nonetheless. Though he still felt anger at the change in the match, he desperately looked for something, anything positively to cling on to.
“This wasn’t all negative,” Fedal muttered to himself. “No…it wasn’t all for nothing!”
No matter how he had gotten those points, the facts were that they were currently tied. It was true that Max would no longer fall to the same tricks as before, but that didn’t mean those points before were meaningless. All it takes is three points. I just have to score three more points to win. It’s almost impossible to score six lucky points, but three lucky points are doable. I just have to focus.
In a bout to 15 points, the superior fencer will likely win. But in a bout to 5 points, upsets are more frequent. The lower the final score, the easier it is for the weaker fencer to create a minor miracle. Fedal was right. Those three points before weren’t for nothing! He had increased the likelihood of an upset, even a little.
But this was only the minimum requirement, and Fedal was aware of it.
I need to find a way to score, he thought.
The final Sollee Conjecture would decide the match, he knew.
Is it possible to force your opponent into your own area of greatest strength?
Here this would translate to their ideal distances.
Max can hit my foot if we’re about three steps away, Fedal thought carefully. And if I’m two steps away, he is fast and precise enough to punish my blade movements by hitting my hand. If I am one and a half steps away from him, then my speed becomes too much for him to be able to counter in time.
Both fencers were aware, at this point of the bout, about where each other’s AoE—their Area of Excellence—was.
At four steps away, neither could hit each other with a lunge.
At three steps away, their feet and wrists were available targets. This was Max’s AoE. His chances of scoring from this range were around 8 to 10.
At two steps away, their entire arm was a target, as well as part of their torso. This was not Max’s AoE, but it was still an area where he had the advantage. His chances of scoring here were around 6 to 10.
At one-and-a-half steps away and less, Fedal had the advantage with his stat-powered speed. This was Fedal’s AoE. His chances of scoring from this range were around 7 to 10.
A world of possibilities and gambling ran through both fencers’ minds.
Right now, they stood four steps away from each other. At this distance, I am safe. But to get to my ideal distance, I have to cross this goddamn minefield! Think, how did Carr get across this distance?
Carr had used his fencing experience to use a mixture of half-steps forward and backwards to trick Max into giving up the right amounts of distance, then exploded forward with everything he had, uncaring if he got hit or not. Carr had successfully forced Max into fencing in his ideal distance. But could Fedal do that?
His heart was racing now. Exhaustion had tried to set in, but adrenaline kept it at bay.
I could just guess. If he goes for my foot and I guess that right, I can avoid that and rush in. Shit. Is that all I got? That’s not much of a plan. But it was all he had.
“LET’S FUCKING GO!” he shouted as he dashed forward.
IF IT’S YOU—YOU’RE GOING TO GO FOR MY FOOT RIGHT NOW!
It was a guess.
But it was a correct guess.
Fedal flèched forward at max speed—it was an ideal counter against a foot touch, as he effectively pulled his front foot back and launched himself in a counter at the same time.
Yet it wasn’t enough.
Max’s blade came upwards, as he recovered back from that super low lunge of his into a sort of parry six—it seemed almost like a sabre parry five when being done from that low!—as he stood up. DO YOU THINK I’M NOT PREPARED TO BE COUNTERED? Max shouted in his mind. IF I’M STANDING UP AS I PARRY I CAN USE MY LEGS TO FORCE THE LEVERAGE!
Pure brute force was sometimes an option. But this was also an option that Fedal had access to. Even with his stats superiority, the parry had caught the side of his blade and negated most of the strength he had put behind the attack. Fedal could feel his blade being pushed high and to the outside while he was running at Max, just as his opponent was pulling his arm in place for a riposte, a necessity at that messy confrontation. Shit. I guess he parried me, a voice inside Fedal said. I WON’T LET HIM GET AWAY WITH THIS! A louder voice shouted.
If I were Carr, I’d turn this into a prime parry, Fedal thought. If I were Valle, I’d keep running, then elegantly stab behind me to score the point. If I were Isabella, I’d use my flexibility to score a beautiful point bending my back in a weird position. But I’m not any of them. I’m me—and I’m going to do what I can!
His stats weren’t enough—Fedal forced his blade back into place with sheer grit. He had moved his arm further to the outside and angled the tip back in, much like Max had done earlier, but he hadn’t meant to use angulation at all. The only thought in his mind now was, HIT HIM! Everything else followed naturally afterwards. He contorted his arm, pushed forward, and did whatever he could to facilitate the movement. There was no premeditation or plan to it.
I WON’T LET YOU HAVE THE POINT! Fedal shouted in his mind.
BACK OFF! Max replied in his. LIKE I’M LETTING YOU GET AWAY WITH THIS!
The New Bladewolves:
Fedal the Hero — 4 (33)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 5 (34)
“Double hit!” I announced. “Return to the centre of the piste! Bout point! If Max of Relampago scores next, the seventh bout will be over!”
Both men had hit each other—Fedal landing his hit at Max’s chest, and Max managing an awkward hit through his thigh. Out of the two, the Hero took the worst out of the exchange, though they both had gotten a point for it. It hurts so much, Fedal thought. I’m so tired…but I have to keep going. Even if I can barely breathe. Gotta…keep going! It had been a messy result of in-fighting, the kind that can only result from incredibly strange flèches and even stranger parries. That someone had recovered that fast from a low-lunge position and managed a parry was incredible, but it was bound to result in something weird in the end.
I’ve already done so much better than anyone could hope for, Fedal thought. I can stop here. I should go for the same thing again, hope for a double to make the score as close as possible—Suddenly his fist was shaking and he felt a roar inside his chest that he knew he could not silence. Again he had thought of the crater, and the image that had haunted him for years would not stop. No. I want to be greedy. I want to win. I WANT THIS! I NEED THIS!
Max drew a deep breath. Oh boy…this really isn’t my day. But I’m still leading. At this thought, he drew another breath. Be calm. Even if I’m not fencing my best today, I’m still leading against a guy whose stats are well over a thousand. This isn’t something to lose my mind over. It’s a good result. Don’t take him lightly. Remember, this is a team match. Don’t let your temper cost the team the lead.
Even now, even after all those revelations, Max was a consummate professional. He had been hired for a job and he would do his best for it. Fedal was a fencer whose defence was full of holes, and Max currently had the lead. The responsible next move is obvious, Max thought, drawing yet another deep breath. Let’s take this slowly.
Fedal’s heart was racing so fast he felt like he would die. Sweet adrenaline, a drug like no other, had taken him over completely. He should have been discouraged by the double. He should have been scared that if he was hit once more he would lose. He should have been intimidated that he was fencing against a man much more skillful than himself. Yet, what he thought was—TWO MORE POINTS AND I CAN WIN!
Memories of their earlier discussion came to his aid.
“If instead of fencing offensively, we have you going out there trying to run the clock from the start…we’ve seen that Max won’t take risks if he doesn’t have to.”
“Indeed we have,” Valle had said, somewhat grumpily. “I do not think he would risk an overly offensive plan.”
It was true. Max wasn’t likely to go for the offensive plan. In this team bout, he was fencing very professionally—scoring when he was sure he could, and ending the bout early when he couldn’t. Against Valle, he had gone for a more likely double rather than to try to increase their lead by winning the individual bout. If that was true, then in this situation when he was winning 5-4, Max would likely…
I SEE A WAY!
It was a gamble.
There was no way around it.
Valle, Carr or Isabella would have had a better plan. But that didn’t matter right now, did it?
“What’s wrong with being greedy?” Valle had said. “You should always want more.”
EVEN IF I WOULD LOSE TO MAX 99 TIMES OUT OF 100—TODAY IS THE DAY I WIN!
Fedal was far from a cold, calculated warrior who fought for honour at that moment. He was a monster driven by adrenaline and greed who wanted the thrill of victory above all else. And in this frenzied state, his move was to do nothing.
Nothing at all.
He merely bounced in place, threatening an attack he had no intention of delivering.
And the clock was ticking down.
Max, you’re probably happy to end the match with this score. But you’re feeling uncertain, aren’t you? You think I’m planning some suicidal attack where I have a low chance of scoring…but you can’t let it get to that. Max was a safe fencer. In an individual bout, he was a scary individual who let it all out. The team format dulled his blade slightly, however—he was careful, thoughtful. While he had no issue burning himself out, he had no intention of making life more difficult for his teammates.
Today, that was his weakness.
He couldn’t give Fedal the chance to prepare some flèche using all of his stats. What if he scored a single off that?
No. It was better to force him into a state where he couldn’t use his stats to their full capacity.
And so, when Fedal bounced forward one more time, Max exploded in a flèche forward. His stats weren’t as high as Fedal’s or even Valle’s—but he had shown before that a surprise attack from that range was nearly impossible to stop. It would end in a double, most likely, but that was fine with him. A 6-5 result would have been the same as a 5-4 result—the only difference as he saw it was that he was ensuring Fedal didn’t get a lucky hit in. After all, he couldn’t block a surprise attack.
And he was right.
Fedal wasn’t skilled enough that he would have been able to execute the right motion, even if he had the reflexes for it, to parry a flèche at close range. Just selecting the right move would’ve taken too long.
BUT THAT’S ONLY IF THE MOVE IS A SURPRISE, MAX! Fedal shouted in his mind, his blade pushing Max’s aside in four.
HOW—Max thought, his own move too fast for him to be able to change it. THAT’S—HOW DID YOU KNOW I WANTED TO FLECHE?
It had been a simple guess.
With that score, Max’s habits had shown that he wouldn’t go for a single. Against Valle, he had decided on a simple surprise flèche to close out the score. Of course, there was no guarantee that he would use the same move against Fedal. There were other ways he could have forced a double, such as a lunge-recover forward-lunge. Still, Fedal had bet the match that Max would’ve bet on the flèche to make up for their difference in stats.
But this wasn’t enough to settle the point. “LIKE I’M GONNA LET YOU END IT LIKE THIS!” Max shouted. “I’M GONNA WIN!”
Max’s blade was out of the way, but his flèche didn’t stop. His sideways-turned shoulder collided with Fedal’s torso, his blade missing Fedal due to the parry and ending up hitting the air to the Hero’s left. Both men were now in the most extreme infighting distance now, with their bodies in contact. IF WE’RE THIS CLOSE YOUR STATS DON’T MATTER THAT MUCH!
Fear reversed through Fedal’s being for a moment. His plan had worked, he had predicted everything he had been so close—NOT YET! I HAVEN’T LOST YET!
At that moment, Max brought his back foot forward and pulled his arm behind his front arm back, trying to get the right angle to hit Fedal in any way. At the time, Fedal did the same.
In that crucial moment, speed was of the utmost importance. Whoever managed to find the right angle, pull away from the other and land a strike first would score the point. And in this moment, where both men were locked in a desperate struggle, the fastest one was, of course…
…Fedal, the Hero.
And he missed his first strike.
Ah, he thought, with a strange calmness. This is it.
Max’s strike came.
And he also missed.
French Grips aren’t great for infighting, Max cursed, but I can still—
Fedal’s second strike came.
The New Bladewolves:
Fedal the Hero — 5 (34)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 5 (34)
“LET’S FUCKING GO FEDAL!” Carr shouted, at the same time as Duartes Carr fired back, “DON’T LOSE YOUR SHIT MAX! YOU GOT THIS!”
“Separate! To the centre!” I announced again. “This is La Belle now.”
La Belle—the most beautiful point. A somewhat forgotten tradition depending on where in the world you fence, where in situations where the last point will decide the winner either way both fencers salute each other. This was hardly done during individual bouts in a team match, but as the Almighty Referee I decided to invoke my authority here. This bout warranted it.
Neither fencer disputed it, and both saluted each other.
Guess my carefulness got me in trouble, Max thought, smiling. That’s fine. But that’s as far as it goes. There’s only thirty seconds left in the clock. I’m just going to let the clock run out…unless you give me the opening for a single hit. You look pretty tired right now.
Fedal was struggling to even stand. Adrenaline still coursed through his being, but it was fading fast. That feeling of invincibility had left him and now his exhaustion had returned. His injuries from his duel against Duartes-Carr were not fully healed either, despite the magic used earlier. He wanted nothing more than to just stop fencing right then. But somehow, at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to keep the match going forever. I want to die, Fedal thought. His entire body was sweating heavily, his lips were dry, his throat was burning. But not before this match ends. I can’t die until then.
If he could last thirty more seconds, he would walk away with a tie. He would have protected the lead Isabella entrusted to him. He had no more ways to score against Max, but all he needed was to take a few steps and—
SHIT.
His foot was numb. How? His stats should have protected him from most injuries…but then again, his HP hadn’t fully recovered from the matches against Duartes-Carr and Katherine. He was at his utmost limit, and Max had hit him there three times—once in the foot, twice through the thigh. I can’t do anything about that. I just have to hope he doesn’t try to attack right now…
Was that really going to be his plan? To just hope for the best and let it end on luck?
“KEEP GOING!” Valle shouted. “SHOW THEM YOUR PRIDE!”
No.
It was better for him to try to—
It wasn’t. He had to be honest with himself. Even with my numb foot, Max is unlikely to try to attack. Guy’s too careful and he hasn’t noticed it, Fedal thought frankly. The reason I want to attack…is because I don’t want to let it end on a tie. I want to win!
Greed energized him. He wanted more. He needed more.
But with only a few seconds left on the clock, he couldn’t wait until Max gave him an opening. The man wouldn’t give him an opening to begin with—if he was fencing defensively, it was going to be the end. What can I do? Anything? To force him to attack—anything!
An insane idea came to mind.
Fedal lined up his blade with Max’s bell guard and took two steps forward. The two now stood at a two step distance.
Are you serious, Hero? Max thought. Do you want to gift me the point?
It was a repeat of the first point in the match. Their blades lined up at the same exact distance that Fedal had tried so hard to avoid letting Max engage in. So long as their blades were lined up against each other, neither man could score. But the first to move would give the other a chance to prey upon their exposed wrists with a hit. Last time this had happened, Fedal had been hit nearly immediately after he attempted a beat attack before. He remembered all of the possibilities he considered before.
ONE IN FIVE! Fedal’s mind was racing faster than it ever had before. THIS IS IT!
Out of all the scenarios he considered last time, only one presented any chance of success—the moment he lifted his bell guard to break the deadlock, he would bring it back down in a flicking motion attempting to whip the tip of his blade over Max’s guard. This was a high level move and incredibly difficult to do. The idea is that by moving your sword at max speed then suddenly stopping the momentum, the very tip of the blade bends. It’s just what happens to a long metal stick in that scenario—even longswords aren’t wholly immune from the effect. Still, landing a hit like this required incredible precision, and Fedal did not have it.
During practice, he managed to land one attempt out of five on a still target. He had never tried to use it on a live target like this.
Is this your plan? Max thought. Fine, I’m willing to take those odds! Let’s go, HERO!
If…if I just keep our bell guards lined up, he won’t attack. I can still take the tie. I can take the safe route, Fedal thought. I can still…I don’t have to—!
But he did. Every single fibre of his body was begging, demanding him to take the leap. His body no longer felt tight, no longer felt tired, his mind no longer clouded: it was as if his entire being was made for that moment.
It wasn’t that Fedal had faith that he could finish the move. But when he thought of his own fears, his own cowardice, he remembered the words that had been ringing in his head for a while.
I know I’m asking you to do the impossible here, but you better win, you hear me? she had asked, smirking through her injuries.
SHOW THEM YOUR PRIDE! he had shouted. He really thought Fedal had something to be proud of, huh?
Go get us a lead, that guy had said. It hadn’t been meant as encouragement. He had just given the order, fully confident that Fedal would be able to fulfill it.
Fedal broke the deadlock and lifted the tip of his blade.
His friends were going to look like such idiots if he lost here, weren’t they? And that…that single possibility…he refused to allow it to come to pass.
THEY THINK I CAN DO THIS!
Max started the attack toward the underside of Fedal’s wrist—Fedal’s own attack, the flick attempt, started to come down.
THEY THINK I’M BETTER THAN I AM—AND I’M—GONNA—
Steel flew, and he leaped over the crater.
PROVE
THEM
RIGHT!
It wasn’t a miracle.
It wasn’t just a stroke of luck.
Yet, if these two fenced a hundred times, a result like this would maybe only happen once.
It was a result born from strong will and pure effort.
Both fencers looked at the score, eyes wide, both almost incapable of accepting it.
A memory shone bright for one of them, as he raised his weak, shaky fist in the air.
“But let me tell you, Fedal. That feeling when everything is riding on your shoulders, when no one expects you to be able to pull it off, and you still manage to do it…that’s the best feeling in the world. I still remember the time that happened to me. It’s the one moment that makes you greedy for more. The one that makes you feel like all the practice was worth it. When you get that one moment…that’s the one that makes you fall in love with the sport.”
Fedal looked up to the sky, dropped to his knees and let out a visceral scream from deep within his gut.
The New Bladewolves:
Fedal the Hero — 6 (35)
The Real Bladewolves:
Max of Relampago — 5 (34)
I raised my hand. “THIS BOUT HAS CONCLUDED!” I announced. “6-5 individual score! The New Bladewolves lead 35-34!”