The suns jabbed Jacob's eyes, pulling a tag-team with Cynthia. It was irritating, but it was a tactic he should have seen coming miles away. He had no one to blame but himself. Jacob tried to circle back so that he could face a different direction, but Cynthia's longsword penned him in. There was to be no escape.
So be it. Jacob closed the distance again, face to face with his opponent now. In these confines, neither blade could move all that much. It was ideal for Jacob to muscle the slight girl into a favorable position for him. Without needed to block strikes, Jacob could focus on this most paramount of tasks.
Unfortunately, Cynthia saw his strategy as soon as he started shoving her. Her blade, pointing downwards, was useless to her. At least, that was what Jacob had thought. She took the pommel of the blade and bashed Jacob in the jaw with it. Yelling in pain, Jacob stumbled back momentarily, but it was enough for Cynthia to disentangle herself. The resolute look in her eyes told him all he needed to know; she would not allow that situation to happen again. Jacob's last best chance to turn the tide disappeared.
An onslaught followed, strike after strike. Eventually, it came down to a matter of stamina. For all his training, Jacob had not had the conditioning Cynthia benefited from birth. It was his lungs that began to give way first. His form growing sloppy, his spatha's tip drooped for but a second. It was enough.
Cynthia lunged forward, a direct attack, drawing just short of Jacob's neck. "That's my win, mage," she said haughtily, though the words were delivered with less vitriol than expected. Jacob, defeated, hung his head in shame.
"That it is, Cynthia," he returned, sadness seeping into his voice. While he hadn't expected an easy fight, he had given himself even odds before stepping foot on the training grounds. He had been mistaken, and that fact hurt more than anything. The audience gathered around them was silent, and Provost Thomson simply watched on, satisfied that no one had died.
"Lady Thomson. I've proven myself your superior," she called as he turned to leave the arena. Jacob turned, the droop in his shoulders dissolving as quickly as it had developed.
"You've proven that you can beat me in a duel. If this were the real world, Cynthia, you'd have been dead five times over," Jacob seethed. Cynthia didn't take his words well, having expected her competitor to have been cowed. Because of the restrictions set by the duel, the same restrictions Jacob would have to face in the tournament, the deck was stacked against him.
Cynthia stalked up to him, fingers gripping her longsword so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. "I'd love to see that, mage. I challenge you, Jacob of Leafburrow. Show everyone here your words aren't misplaced," she spread her arms, indicating the mass of people around them. Some snickered, but most were silent and respectful. It was a remarkable atmosphere; Provost Thomson had done well in fostering the students here.
"I accept. There are to be no restrictions in magic for our duel. Shall we duel now?" he easily accepted. Though his mana was drained from his earlier meditation, it was nearing where it normally would be when he fought against Provost Thomson each evening.
"I would have it no other way, mage," she spat, returning to her side of the earthen field. Jacob's feet dug into the ground on his side, waiting for the intrigued Provost Thomson to announce the beginning of their duel.
"Begin!"
As expected, Cynthia launched forward. Significantly slower than earlier in the evening when both duelists had spare energy, Jacob would much more easily recognize the movement. Physically, he lacked the ability to move in time. A little application of wind magic to his side punched him out of the way. Cynthia's blade pierced where Jacob had once been: a fatal strike. Was she playing to kill?
Provost Thomson noticed the attack, too. Recognition flashed in her eyes and a dark expression overcame her face. It looked as if she was about to say something, but she eventually chose to let the duel continue unabated. Mercy no longer on the table, Jacob summoned the wind around him, accelerating him forward like a bullet.
His spatha lashed out like a viper, eagerly striking at Cynthia's exposed side. At the very last second, seeing the warning in Provost Thomson's gaze, he pulled the strike. Not a single drop of blood was shed, much as before, but this bout had been much quicker. Cynthia fell onto the floor, realizing just how close she had come to entering the afterworld prematurely.
"I will not take insults, Cynthia. Just as you have your pride, I have mine. Leave me alone for the rest of my time here," Jacob spun on his heels and left the training grounds. Provost Thomson didn't follow him to the training room where they'd normally practice. Instead, he saw her stay with her niece. Clearly, the younger Thomson wasn't taking the defeat very well.
While it was true that magic was an innate part of who Jacob was now, it still stung a little bit to be forced to use it to best the arrogant girl. His point would have come across much clearer had he only needed to use a blade; "I am as much a warrior as the rest of you." As Jacob went through sword forms again, he wondered briefly what Rod was doing. How much longer did he have to go before reaching his home village?
Thoughts of Rod turned to thoughts of Angelica, just be association of the names. When he last saw the mage-in-training, she had sent him packing with a few choice words. He still blamed himself for Leafburrow, and he could understand her hatred. That being said, it still didn't sit right with him. Was she now learning advanced spells? The thought of a pissed-off, magic-wielding Angelica scared the ever-living daylights of him.
Almost as much as when Provost Thomson tapped on his shoulder. He hadn't heard the woman enter the training room, nor had he heard her approach. Provost Thomson had to be a ninja of some sort. Jacob was sure of it.
"You lost," she said simply. Jacob appreciate the sentiment. Dwelling on the past didn't do him any favor. "Ready to fix that?"
The duel, for all the righteous anger behind it, had shown him just how much he had to improve before he could really call himself a swordsman. Until he could beat Cynthia, he was but a pretender. That would have to change.
"Yes."
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"Attack me," Jacob said, motioning the soldier ahead of him to strike. The man was a private in the military; Jacob's promotion to Special Sergeant granted him the certain privilege of ordering lower-ranked soldiers around if he chose to. He hadn't needed to, until now.
"But, sir, this is a real sword," George, the private, complained. Jacob glared at him, the fire in his eyes compelling the worried soldier to action.
Stuck to the ground by a clump of earth molded over his feet by earth magic, Jacob and George were out in the training yard sparring under the light of the moons. He had only just raised this portion of earth to trap him, forcing him to play defensively rather than his preferred offense. His most glaring weakness was being unable to buy time to enact a strategy, an idea that Cynthia and then Provost Thomson had hammered into him earlier that evening.
Getting out of the earthen trap would be difficult; Jacob's mana was nearly exhausted, and he hadn't quite considered what locking his legs to the training field really meant. A bed wasn't in his cards. Jacob sighed, forcing himself to focus on his opponent instead of the uncomfortable night he'd be spending on the dirt.
A flash of steel-colored light was the only warning Jacob had before George closed the distance. His movements were obscured by the darkness, but the moons provided enough light to illuminate the blade at the very least. The longsword, a common weapon around Delreya, was far closer than Jacob had expected.
Ducking to the side, Jacob managed to only take a light cut to his arm. It stung, but it didn't feel as if it was all that serious. Actually, throwing himself against the earthen shoes hurt more; his ankles were in quite a state. "Sir? Do you wish to continue?" George looked nervous, having injured a superior officer.
Nodding, Jacob waited for the next attack to come. He wouldn't misjudge the distance this time. True to himself, Jacob saw the next attack coming earlier. With the time he bought himself, he was able to get his spatha up in time, deflecting the private's blade out and to the side of his torso. Once the blade was no longer a threat, Jacob struck out, bringing his spatha to a stop just before the private's neck. A successful maneuver!
The private, incensed by the loss, threw himself into his next attack with more gusto. Shocked by the sudden increase in speed, Jacob was unable to dodge completely, taking this blow on his leg. A thin line of blood appeared where his pants had been cut. The sight of the blood sobered the private, who at the very least had the good sense to at least look regretful. Not many in the Fourth Infantry liked Jacob, not as a person nor as an officer. It looked as if Jacob had chosen his sparring partner incorrectly. A small part of him wished Rod were here to train with him, but he knew that he needed to blossom through adversity.
"Again, private. Don't act all ashamed on me. You're here to train." George took this as permission to charge him again. Jacob didn't mind. While the man's speed and tenacity had gone up, his adherence to technique had dropped as a result of his recklessness. It was a worthy trade in many situations, as it often depended more so on whose blade entered the other first than pure skill. This was a concept that Jacob was banking on when it came to the Tournament.
Compared to some of the geniuses like Cynthia, who had trained since they were young, he held a small candle to their roaring fire in terms of sheer skill. His only chance was to outperform them by increasing the speed of his strikes and of he himself.
The training Will had inspired – all the running – had not evaporated with Jacob's souring relations with his former mentor. Jacob still ran almost every day, given that he wasn't busy on duty with something for the army. His speed was considerable, as he focused on short-distance running that wouldn't get him in trouble for disappearing for too long.
Stamina was another issue, but that would get resolved through his near-constant sparring at the Blade College. Provost Thomson relished the opportunity to train with him when he used his magic, as it was an actual challenge to her, or so she said. Whatever the reason, she was never late and she never left early.
It was almost as useful as the training he underwent during the morning with her in which his magical abilities were locked behind the terms of their agreement. His skills were being forged in the hottest of fires; his respect for Relentless' Provost grew with every meeting. She always had some insight that proved invaluable.
Like just now. George had just attempted to change the line of his attack from Jacob's lower abdomen to his chest, but a subtle shift of his blade's tip warned Jacob ahead of time. Able to counter in time, Jacob scored his second point. The third, fourth, and fifth points were not all that far out. George had pulled out some tricks along the way, causing Jacob to grow flustered, but his confidence came out stronger for the experience.
"Thank you for your assistance, private. You are free to go," Jacob shooed the tired man back to the dorms they had been lent. George's irrational anger had long since dissipated, and Jacob felt that perhaps he had turned one more person indifferent to him. It was a reward as much as the training was if he was honest. Having the right allies in the right places made life easier.
Testing his magic, Jacob found that his feet wouldn't be free until the morning. With a grumble, Jacob chose to instead call after the rapidly receding figure of the private he had just sent away. "Private George! Would you mind bringing me a chair and a blanket?"
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