Watching the Silver-rank mercenary charging at him in a unified surge of man and blade,
Fine, he'd treat it like acting. But Lorist simply couldn't act. This Silver-rank mercenary's offense was fierce, all right, but his openings were plentiful. Lorist not only had to suppress his instinct to finish the fight immediately, he also had to play along and create the illusion that he was being forced into desperate, clumsy evasions. This was just too damned hard...
Seven years of military service in his previous life had carved their mark too deeply into Lorist. He hadn't been some clerk or logistics grunt—he had actually seen blood, had several kills to his name. Those seven years, though outwardly a time of peace and prosperity, saw no shortage of small-scale skirmishes along the borders—confrontations with insurgents, raids on terrorist cells, and operations to wipe out drug cartels. The experience that blood and fire drilled into a soldier was simple: kill the enemy in one blow. The faster and more efficiently you eliminated the opponent, the better your chances of protecting yourself and your comrades on the battlefield. Even after the enemy was dead, you put another round into them to make sure they weren't playing dead. That was still how the current Lorist saw things—in a duel, the best option was always to take down your opponent as quickly as possible.
From the spectators' perspective up in the stands, that Silver-rank mercenary on the platform had just successfully used a thunderous flurry of attacks to suppress Lorist. Wasn't Lorist fending off those strikes in a flustered, disorganized manner? This was truly unusual—normally he ended things in a single blow. So it seemed Instructor Locke was somewhat caught off guard by aggressive opening tactics like these and was struggling mightily to cope... Quite a few sharp-eyed observers in the stands quietly filed this observation away, intending to verify it in the upcoming bouts to determine whether this could become a vulnerability for Instructor Locke.
When the Silver-rank mercenary exposed his chin yet again, Lorist simply couldn't hold back any longer. His right foot shifted from feint to planted, his left foot followed, his body swayed, his right shoulder drew back, and his entire form slipped forward with the fluid grace of a darting fish, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. The Silver-rank mercenary's longsword grazed past his shoulder by a hair's breadth. Lorist snapped his wrist, turning the pommel upward, and lightly rapped it against the opponent's chin. The Silver-rank mercenary staggered forward as though struck by lightning, swayed on his feet several times, then collapsed to the ground with a thud.
Fatty Shi hurried up onto the platform, checked the fallen fighter with practiced nonchalance, and bellowed his announcement: "Unconscious from a blow to the chin. Next challenger, step up!"
While waving over the medical staff to carry the man away, Fatty Shi quickly whispered to Lorist in a low voice: "Good work—keep it up just like that so the next challengers feel like they've got a real shot. But watch yourself—don't keep going for the chin every single time, or people in the stands are going to figure out you're actually having an easy time of it..."
Fine, twenty challengers a day, five minutes each — that made a hundred minutes. Add another twenty minutes of stalling and he'd round it up to a full two hours, which should make the stands feel they'd gotten their money's worth for a single silver coin. Lorist sighed. At this rate, the duels were turning into a show.
Ever since the first duel with Iris Academy had wrapped up, Fatty Shi had informed him that Challenge Day only scheduled twenty opponents. Lorist had immediately requested it be bumped up to fifty — get through the lot faster and enjoy his peace sooner. But the academy had rejected the request outright. The reasoning was simple enough. Challenge Day was the academy's public showcase; filling the stands alone brought in a dozen or so gold coins per event, and when you added the take from betting, snacks, and drinks, a single day easily netted forty or fifty Gold Forde. The academy's treasury department would happily see Challenge Day run until the end of time. They only worried there weren't enough challengers — why on earth would they agree to Lorist's proposal to increase the number of opponents and compress the dueling schedule?
Sure enough, every challenger that followed adopted the same strategy: an all-out blitz from the opening exchange. But through Lorist's dynamic vision, these sword strikes — which to anyone else looked like a gale of steel, a sudden downpour of blades, lightning-fast flurries that left the eye struggling to keep up — were as clear as daylight. If this were a fight to the death, he could pierce through that storm of swordwork and run his opponent through at any moment. But for now, he simply had to parry.
More than one opponent had tried to exploit the rank gap between Silver and
But Lorist was not about to let them have their way. Each time their blades clashed, he angled his sword with a deft twist and slide, riding the momentum so that contact always landed squarely on the spine of the blade, neatly avoiding the slash of blade radiance. It left his opponents furious yet utterly helpless.
He wasn't especially good at handling an aggressive opening rush.
It wasn't until a Silver One-Star mercenary also came out swinging from the bell that Lorist actually laughed out of sheer exasperation. Come on, brother — your Combat Force is earth-attribute, you're carrying a greatsword and a shield, and you walk the Guardian's path of a shield defender. What kind of blitz do you think you're running? Hiding behind your shield and charging straight ahead — can you even tell which direction I'm standing in?
Lorist took a few steps forward, shifted laterally, and swept his leg out in a hook. The Silver mercenary with the greatsword and shield went tumbling face-first to the ground. Lorist planted a foot on his back, casually drew his sword, laid it across the man's shoulders, and gave him two light pats. To the sound of laughter and jeers raining down from the stands, the silver-ranked mercenary scrambled to his feet with a flushed face, snatched up his shield and sword, and fled the arena as though his heels were on fire.
"Clang, clang, clang, clang—" the deafening percussion of blade strikes echoed ceaselessly across the arena.
This was today's final challenger — a middle-aged mercenary in his forties with the Combat Force of a Silver Three-Star. Unlike the opponents who had come before, he did not launch into a frenzied assault after stepping onto the stage. Instead, he braced himself in a thorough defensive posture, waiting for Lorist to come to him.
This was the most formidable challenger yet. Lorist had already launched three aggressive assaults, but he couldn't break through this middle-aged mercenary's defense. Lorist grew interested. He circled around the middle-aged mercenary ceaselessly, carefully studying his opponent.
The middle-aged mercenary wore an expression as calm and still as an ancient well. His breathing was long and steady, his feet positioned one in front of the other with minimal spacing between his steps. He appeared completely composed, neither rushed nor impatient. Whenever Lorist was about to circle around to his flank, his feet would slide ever so slightly, and he would be facing Lorist head-on once again.
This was a true expert, probably not far from advancing to the Gold rank. He had certainly weathered his share of life-and-death situations — unflappable in the face of chaos and cool under pressure. His foundation in swordsmanship was solid as bedrock. During Lorist's three earlier assaults, several strikes had posed lethal threats to the middle-aged mercenary. Yet the man had relied purely on instinctive bodily reflexes to parry those blows. Just as Lorist had once remarked, this opponent had drilled the eight fundamental movements of swordsmanship until they became second nature — only that level of mastery could have blocked those deadly attacks.
Lorist halted and bowed to the middle-aged mercenary with a respectful expression. "Greetings. My name is
This was the first time Lorist had announced his name to an opponent in the arena. Not for any other reason — simply because this middle-aged mercenary was an opponent worthy of respect. Anyone who could hone the fundamentals of swordsmanship to such a degree deserved to be honored.
The middle-aged mercenary was taken aback for a moment, a trace of warmth flickering in his eyes. He gave a slight nod in return. "Greetings. I am Guley Bodfing. It is my honor to face you as well."
Lorist raised his sword. "Watch yourself. I'm coming again."
This time, Lorist didn't launch a furious onslaught as he had in those three previous attempts. Instead, he advanced step by step, employing a steady and methodical strategy to force the middle-aged mercenary to respond to each move, to meet strength head-on. Through his dynamic visual perception, Lorist could detect gaps in every parry and every counter — if he changed his technique mid-strike, the opponent would surely be unable to adapt in time, giving Lorist a decisive opening.
However, this middle-aged mercenary named Guley Bodfing was extraordinarily experienced. He retreated step by step, neutralizing Lorist's relentless pressure through deft redirection, leaving no opening to exploit. Lorist suddenly shifted his sword momentum. After a rapid flurry of strikes, he lunged in close, clearly intending to press in for a point-blank engagement.
The middle-aged mercenary's expression changed. He let out a deep shout as the glow of his sword flared dramatically, slashing diagonally downward. Lorist's forward momentum didn't waver — his right sword swept around to deflect the incoming slash at an angle. The middle-aged mercenary let out a long breath of relief, then seeing Lorist closing in, frantically tried to retreat and create distance. But he heard a sharp *shing* of a blade being drawn, and a cold flash of steel appeared before his eyes. A short sword hovered dangerously close to his neck. Lorist had drawn the dagger at his waist with his left hand — a move that caught the middle-aged mercenary completely off guard.
The middle-aged mercenary's body stiffened, and he lowered his long sword dejectedly: "I've lost. I forgot about that sword at your waist…"
Lorist withdrew his blade: "You're remarkable. You're the only one who's forced me to draw a second sword since the duels began."
"A loss is a loss. No excuses." The middle-aged mercenary managed a bitter smile. "Thank you for holding back. I've gained a great deal from today's fight. I'll take my leave now."
The middle-aged mercenary walked off the arena without looking back. Disappointed sighs rose from the stands once more as shredded lottery tickets drifted endlessly through the air. The departing crowd cursed as they filed out. All of this had become a common scene over the past month.
In truth, if Lorist had used his inch-power burst, he could have forcibly broken through the middle-aged mercenary's defense within two or three moves. But that would have made it difficult to control the force, very likely causing serious injury to his opponent. Though injuries were unavoidable in a duel, Lorist had already entered the realm of dark force — against a Silver-rank Combat Force expert, it was outright domination, not merely a difference of one tier. Whenever he could spare his opponents serious harm, Lorist did his best to avoid it, simply knocking them unconscious instead. That was precisely why he liked targeting the chin.
Fatty Shi climbed onto the arena and looked at the contemplative Lorist. "What's wrong? What are you thinking about?"
Lorist said, "That middle-aged mercenary just now — he's a true expert. If it were you or El, you'd have no chance against him. His skills surpass most of the Silver Instructors at our academy."
"I wouldn't have lost, mind you. You two need to have some faith in me. I just dragged the fight out a bit so it would look like a close, lucky win. After twenty duels today, I'm exhausted. I really shouldn't have listened to you guys and pretended during the fights," Lorist complained.
"All right, all right. It's all for the sake of our future fortunes, brother. Just endure it for everyone's profit, will you? Oh, today's payday at the academy — you haven't collected your salary from the finance department yet, have you? Everyone's saying they want to gather at the Red Crow Tavern tonight," Fatty Shi said.
Lorist recalled the last time he'd picked up the tab and said sourly, "Don't expect me to pay. Last time, a certain fatty stuffed his face and packed food to take home. Utterly shameless…"