The Referee

“We’re only one point behind,” Carr mused. He flashed the group a faint smile, then returned his gaze to the piste. “Fedal, I owe you one—thanks, my dude. Was getting a bit nervous about going up against Max when he had a huge lead.”

Fedal opened his mouth to reply, then stopped himself. He had experienced the odd feeling you get when you are so caught up in your own exhaustion that you nod along, absorbing the world around you but not fully processing it until a few seconds later. “You? Nervous?” Fedal repeated, incredulous. “Don’t see that every day.”

“Max and I fenced back a few times on Earth.” Carr didn’t sound enthused about the thought. “Eight times. I lost seven of them.”

Had he heard this before today, Fedal would’ve been more surprised. But now he understood it a bit better. Though he understood on a logical level that sports didn’t work like video games, it took these last two matches for him to really understand. Sometimes, it’s not about power levels or someone being an invincible champion. Sometimes someone is just a bad matchup for you. Sometimes you have a bad day. It happens.

No one was invincible. Not even Carr.

“But you won the last one, right?”

“Yeah, at Worlds. It was close. We were tied at 12-12 after the third period and went to the priority minute. Things got messy and I managed to steal the win, but I can’t say I was the better fencer then,” said Carr. He wasn’t merely being modest, the concern in his voice was real. “To be honest, I hate fencing him from behind. He’s really good at getting doubles at you if he wants—”

“I’m aware,” Valle muttered from the bench, his arms crossed and frankly almost pouting.

It took Carr visible effort not to laugh at his rival. “Well, that about sums it up. He knows my style pretty well and to be honest, I just don’t mesh well with him. To be honest, it’s a 4-6 matchup, if that makes sense. What’s wrong?” Carr asked, when he noticed Fedal shifting awkwardly.

“Nothing, just…I’m not used to seeing you like this. Usually you are going on about how you’re unbeatable or something.”

Carr blinked in surprise, then threw his back in laughter. “Nah. Usually, if I say I’m sure I’m going to win for sure, it’s because I’m going to win for sure.” He winced at his own words. “Well, usually. Sometimes I’m just being an asshole. Honestly had no idea if I could pull off that match against the Executioner. And I’m still paying the price for that one.”

His tapped gently at his injured left arm. It had been nerve damaged since that fight, and it would never heal. Carr hardly showed it to everyone lest anyone pity him, but he had trouble even opening doors at times, forcing him to rely on his right arm for most things. Even taking off his own clothes was a difficult task at times, though he had grown adept at doing so with only one arm. Most of the times it was numb, sometimes it hurt enough to wake him at night.

An eternal reminder of his hubris in challenging the Executioner.

No, I thought. Upon closer inspection…though the wound is a reminder of his flaws, the Swordsman of Zero appears to have no regrets over it.

Being able to see into everyone’s minds, I understood how many different types of people worked. Most of the time, people who regarded the outcome of their own actions with sadness showed a measure of regret over it—that, or sheer denial. They either wished they could turn back the clock and change their actions, or they blame everyone but themselves for it.

Carr was different.

He blamed no one but himself, and accepted that it was more than reckless, he was lucky he came out of it with nothing but his arm injury. By all rights, he could—and should—have died in that fight. The reasonable course of action would have been to turn down the fight, or engage with the magic system should he think he was up for the challenge.

The Swordsman of Zero fought a foolish battle, and paid the price for it.

And he would do it again.

To this day, even after facing difficulties in his daily life due to his stubbornness, even though he acknowledged his course of action was lacking, he still showed little regret. This was a man who did not run away from his flaws, but rather embraced them. Most curious, this man. Did he think acknowledging his faults was enough? That he didn’t need to fix them? No, that wasn’t quite it.

He was at peace with who he wanted to be, and was willing to pay the price to be that person.

Even if, I thought, looking at his left arm, the price is quite steep.

“I know you have your reason for hating stats and shit but—can you get your arm healed at some point?” Fedal asked.

He surprised himself with his question. Though he and Carr had been getting along better lately, the two hadn’t had a deep talk like this, and now right before a match hardly seemed the time. Yet, he felt the words leaving his mouth, and would have taken them back if he could. Fairness to the Hero, he did try taking them back. “Forget what I said, not the time to—”

“I got injured because of my own stupidity,” Carr said, looking at his injured arm. “What is a man but the collection of his mistakes? It seems dishonest to sweep it under the rug. I deserve to be injured like this, and I’ll live with the consequences.”

To my mind came images of Johan and his theatre of horrors, with the puppets he created to manufacture a life he had sacrificed with his ambitions. Slowly those images faded, and my eyes rested on the weary Carr, wearing his scars like trophies. Ice and fire, those two.

“I get not wanting to pretend you didn’t do anything wrong, you know? But I don’t get having to live with an injury like that. I mean, if you were on Earth, wouldn’t you go see a doctor?”

“Well—yes. Not quite the same though. I’d be fine with accepting [Restoration] from Celle, that’s the same as going to a doctor. But I won’t touch the [Levelling Spheres].”

“Why?” Fedal asked, before he could think if the question was appropriate. “I know you hate stats, but why do you hate them so much? Enough to not heal your arm, knee—enough to risk dying just because you wouldn’t increase your [HP]. Why?”

Carr looked at him blankly, and Fedal panicked for a moment. Shit, what am I doing? That’s way too personal. I shouldn’t have asked—what’s wrong with me? “Sorry, forget I asked,” Fedal said in a hurry.

“Johan killed my friends for stats,” Carr replied, his tone wistful. “At first, I was concerned about what would happen to me if I played the same game he did. Now, though…I just don’t want to play it at all. I feel like if I start using stats, I would be admitting that stats mean something, that his cruelty had a point to it. I don’t want to do that. I want to show him that it was meaningless…that he could have been the strongest without using stats at all.”

“But that’s…” Fedal paused, hesitation washing over him. What was fine to say at this point? “You know that stats do mean something in this world, though. And that proving otherwise to Johan is…” Impossible was the word, but not to be used now.

“Yeah,” Carr replied. He smiled at the Hero. “I know. But that’s still what I want to do more than anything else.”

Fedal felt like for the first time, he understood Carr a bit better. He had known about his story with Johan, but he hadn’t really understood where the whole disaster had left the Swordsman of Zero mentally. Now, he sort of understood him. At first he had thought they disagreed on certain things—on how they saw the world. But they didn’t really disagree on much.

It was only that Carr had made a decision that went against what they both knew about the world.

Carr readied himself to step onto the piste, but stopped to glance over his own shoulder at Fedal. “Ah, yeah, dude?”

“What?”

“One more thing,” said Carr, frowning, “why do you apologize for asking questions all the time?”

Fedal opened his mouth to respond, but only vague stutters came out. Shit. What is the right thing to say here? A number of reasonable responses came to his mind, and he discarded them all as unreasonable. “Well—uh—you know, I…I just didn’t want to—I don’t know, I…”

Carr turned around to face him properly. He regarded him sternly for a moment, causing Fedal to tense up, then relaxed into a smile. “If a friend does some weird shit you don’t understand, you just gotta ask them. That’s how it should be, isn’t it?”

He laughed at the end, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and Fedal smiled back. So this is how it is, huh? Fedal thought back to their first meeting—when they both represented everything the other hated. The brilliant athlete and the antisocial made who made excuses. At the time, he had thought they’d hate each other forever. But now…

“Thanks for scoring so many points last match,” Carr told him, once more. “This makes it a lot easier to focus on the match.”

When Carr had almost stepped onto the piste, Fedal called out, “Wait, Carr! One more thing!”

“What?”

Fedal drew a deep breath, as if the gesture was requiring massive amounts of effort. He managed a smile, and extended a closed fist toward his friend. “Go get them, captain.”

Carr returned the gesture and the smile. “Damn straight I am.”

I watched the two and remembered what Johan had said before.

“Reven’s team will win,” Johan told me, as he served me some fine tea. “Carr and the Fiend with the Rapier are rather good—but Reven’s team has a stronger Carr, Max of Relampago and Katherine. It might be an amusing watch, but the score will widen as the bouts go on. Their Hero is a failure and Duarte’s granddaughter is a glass cannon.”

Johan’s reasoning might have been correct at the time, but I don’t expect he made those plans with Fedal the Hero’s growth in mind. The question will soon become, I thought, as my eyes rested on Isabella, the Queen of All Devils, who was beginning to warm up for her match, how big of a blast their glass cannon can muster.

“WHY DID KATHERINE LEAVE?”

On the other side of the piste, the False Carr was beside himself with anger. For minutes, he had been rambling, and it was only his deep respect for the sport that kept him from leaping across the piste and chasing after Katherine. An odd ritual followed his anger: he would pace around, taking three steps to the left, then three to the right, then put his hands to his head and utter some obscenity. Such was his anger that I personally delivered his blade—that Katherine had been using—rather than make her do so herself.

“WHY THE FUCK DID SHE LEAVE? DID THEY HYPNOTIZE HER OR—”

“You know why,” Max of Relampago replied, calmly. He was warming up for his match and cared little for his outburst. “Deep inside, you know why, don’t you?”

The False Carr’s outward anger stopped at once. He looked at Max with wide eyes, but his eyebrows hadn’t been raised in surprise. In the same tempo as his glare, his hand fell to his sword, and he uttered in a low tone, “The fuck did you just say?”

Max smirked at him. “Oh, you know why, don’t you? But that’s beside the point. It can wait until the match is done. Johan wants us to win this match, remember? Can’t get distracted.”

At the mention of Johan the False Carr nodded, hesitantly perhaps, but making it clear he did not dispute that point. “Katherine’s slot—guess he’s going to be the one fencing, isn’t he?”

They looked up at the stands.

There were only two men up in the stands, both hidden from view by well-placed flags. The first man surprised me with his presence—I would have thought this match would be sacrilege to him—but the second man’s presence was expected.

Valder, the Sun Wolf, the Executioner, watched the match carefully and did not return his teammate’s gaze.

“Antisocial, that guy,” the False Carr said, frowning. “He’s going to fence against Valle of Cresna in the next to last match, then?”

“Suppose so.”

The False Carr frowned. “I don’t like this. Don’t know if I can trust a guy like him with that spot.”

“Should’ve put me in that spot then,” Max replied dryly.

“Whatever! Look just—just go kill my faker, okay?”

Max smiled and walked onto the piste. Right now, he wasn’t too bothered by anything. Johan had been lying, it was clear now. He was guilty of the atrocities Gilder had said earlier, and likely many others. I already knew Johan was messed up…but this is too much. He really killed Katherine, Jack and Clara didn’t he? What about Danner? Did he kill his own brother?

But Max allowed himself some peace.

These considerations could wait.

Right now, he was having a match he had dreamed of having for a long time.

“Thought I would never have a chance for revenge,” Max said, grinning. “Still can’t get over what happened at Worlds. My path to the title was clear if I got past you.”

“Bullshit it was,” Carr replied, grinning back. “And you didn’t get past me, so the point is moot anyway, eh?”

Max opened his mouth to reply when something caught his attention. “Wait, are you back to French Grip? You were just using a pistol.”

Carr tapped at his sword proudly. “I’ll say, the one good thing about magic bullshit is the fact that this sword can somehow change between pistol and French Grips and still feel fine. The tang of the blade is cut for a pistol, but it fits a French Grip just fine and somehow the balance isn’t bad at all.”

French Grips—the traditional straight grip you associate with swords—are longer than pistol grips, and thus the blade goes long past the guard, so you can attach this long grip. Pistol grips, the gun shaped handle, are much shorter and thus require the blade past the guard to be cut so they can be fit. Thus, when you change your blade to a pistol grip, it can’t go back to a French Grip—save for some wonky attachments that generally result in poor balance.

Yet Carr’s blade was now a French Grip again. What, I thought, has Gilder done to that sword?

“You’re the biggest reason I started fencing French, you know? Got tired of getting my ass kicked. Feels like it would be a waste not to use it against you.”

Max grimaced. “Usually Pistol Grippers give me more trouble than fellow French Grippers, you know?”

“Can’t help it. It is what it is.”

French Grippers usually hold the blade by the pommel, as far from the guard as possible. This gives them extra reach, true, but it also gives them greater angles.

The concept seems nebulous at times—indeed, even Pistol Grippers who have been fencing for years may struggle with the concept—but it is fairly simple to demonstrate.

Grab yourself a pen, and hold it in such a fashion that all your fingers are properly wrapped around it and the pen’s tip is pointed forward. All your fingers should be placed on it, and your thumb should be near the tip of the pen. You are now holding the pen with the tip facing forward, and if you walked into a wall it would collide with it tip first. Easy so far, yes? Now, with your arm in that same position, try—moving only your wrist and fingers—to point the pen at your own chest. You should be able to make the pen point up to 45 degrees from you, but it will not point at your torso.

Now, I want you to grab the pen with only a few fingers, by the clickey side, the side opposite from the tip. Just your index and your thumb will do. Now, try pointing the pen at yourself, and you will notice you can reach your own chest with angulation. The principle is the same regarding French Grips. True, you—somewhat—use all your fingers there, but then again, a grip is much longer than a pen.

The weakness of the French Grip is that by holding the blade by the pommel you lose out on some strength. It becomes harder—but not impossible!—to hold the blade, parry, and do many other similar actions. Thus French Grippers usually engage in absence of blade, where they avoid beats, parries and such moves in favour of counterattacks and disengages.

This was going to be a duel between two masters of the style.

“It is time,” I announced. “For the match to start!”

“TO 25

SCORE STARTS AT 16—17

Carr the Swordsman of Zero vs Max of Relampago

NEVER RUN, EXCEPT FOR IT

RUN IT. RUN IT BACK.

FIFTH BOUT

ALLEZ!”

His team is ahead by one point still, Carr thought. He could try to double it out…but that’s a really thin lead. He knows that I can probably get a few single points if I know he’s trying to double…but this is the first time I have fenced against him while he has stats. How much stronger is this version of him? Can he double just fine?

We’re ahead by one point still, Max thought. He knows I can’t double it out even if I want to…but then again, neither of us knows how we match up when I’m using stats to improve my speed. I don’t have the highest of stats, but it’s a bonus still. Does that make a difference? Could I just double this out and extend our lead?

Both men took very small steps forward. Neither was bouncing yet, and approached each other slowly, in two tempos, advancing their front foot first, then very slowly bringing their back foot forward. Normally, this would be bad footwork, but the absurdly small distance they were covering with each step made it a non-issue.

Carr kicked off the ground into a bounce. There’s really only one way—

—to find out! Max launched himself into a flèche.

At that distance, it was hard to avoid a flèche even if you knew it was coming—parrying it was a possibility, but years of matches had taught Carr not to do that against Max. Here, the expert Champion of Relampago would have used a disengage in response to a parry, and likely scored a single hit. Don’t be greedy, Carr told himself.

Carr’s response was to drop down to his knees in a squat, extending his blade forward. The same move he had used against the Executioner—the passata sotto, or “duck, you fucking idiot” as Carr’s coach called it. It was a good move to use against a flèche if you had the reflexes (or prediction) to pull it off, as there was a good chance their blade would go over you and they would be moving too fast to change directions.

Here, Max did manage to catch himself, but the surprise nearly took him. What the—you always used to try to just go for a double when I flèched! Max’s blade went over Carr’s shoulder, but Carr missed the counterattack as well as Max twisted his torso in a clumsy but effective dodge. This caused the Relampago fencer to stumble while was about to run past Carr, but he caught himself. Infighting range, Max thought. We’re standing too close to be able to thrust at each other. If we stand here and infight, either of us could get the point. We’re about even when it comes to infighting. It’s a coin toss.

Max snapped into a decision and ran past Carr, towards safety. No! Max yelled inside his head. This is for the team. Keep a cool head at all times. Don’t go for the gamble. You have the lead…don’t rush it. Take it slow, be safe—

Carr’s blade hit him in the back as he was running.

What—?

There was no time for Carr to turn around. The moment he saw Max run past him, Carr gave up on infighting. He raised his sword high and brought his arm toward his own head, with his elbow initially almost coming up at his own throat, then going past it, until his shoulder was touching his chin and his torso had turned sideways slightly, his blade extending behind him and over his shoulder.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 1 (17)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max the Champion of Relampago — 0 (17)

“WE’RE TIED NOW!” Fedal shouted from the bench

Max wasn’t the kind of fencer to get upset at himself or even at the situation he found himself in. Calmly, almost coldly, he took it all in. I thought I’d have the advantage in a rushed attack, he thought, because I’m faster than I used to be with my stats. But…Carr…those moves, you never used them before. You never ducked against fleches and you were always terrible at hitting people who ran past you, even at the World Cup. Yeah…there’s no mistaking it, is there?

“Ahh…” Max let out a deep sigh. “I didn’t want to believe it but…Carr, you’ve gotten better since you came to this world, haven’t you?”

Carr’s twisted grin in response was full of a burning, competitive desire that nearly intimidated me, and I’m the referee. “What, you think I got lazy after winning Worlds?”

“No, but considering how you came to a world with magic and refuse to use it—”

“Do you think stats are the only way to improve?” Carr asked. “Have you forgotten how it worked back on Earth already? I don’t need a fucking number beside my head to confirm this. We both know I got a lot better than I was last time we fenced.”

“So you have,” Max acknowledged, falling into en garde.

It wasn’t an uncommon phenomenon.

Sometimes, a fencer gets pretty far by relying on a specific set of strategies. His opponents aren’t capable of punishing that strategy, so he relies on it—this isn’t to say he doesn’t advance their skills, but that his strategy revolves around that specific area. Why not? It works!

But then that fencer meets a group of people who can oppose it. Sometimes, it’s a higher level of tournament—college fencing, perhaps international fencing. Sometimes it’s even something as simple as switching clubs. At this moment, some fencers crumble and accept their limitations. Others, realizing that their strategy they clung on to for so long will no longer work, throw it away and start working on something else.

On Earth, Carr’s style was that of an aggressive French Gripper—not a usual choice. Using his monstrous athleticism, he would provoke mistakes and punish them at ease, his superior speed and concentration allowing him such.

Here he found his style to be suboptimal at best. In his very first duel against Valle, he found himself lucky that his stop-hit landed. Against the Executioner, he nearly died. Reflexes in this world were sharper than on Earth, and he who once stood as the fastest fencer now had to fence as one of the slowest. His style had been adjusted accordingly.

On top of adopting new moves, Carr increased his “ideal distance.”

Every fencer has an ideal distance they like to fence in, a certain measure between where they and their opponent stand where they feel most comfortable. Carr had usually fenced at a closer distance than most French Grippers—at a distance where he could hit someone’s bicep rather than the wrist-to-forearm distance most opted for. The reason for this was his monstrous athleticism—Carr could stand too close but retreat fast enough that most people couldn’t catch him and would be caught by his counters. Come and get me, his old style used to say. He frankly used himself as bait.

Now, however, in a world where his athleticism wasn’t anything special, he had adapted and fenced at the furthest distance possible.

“LET’S GO!” Max shouted.

He advanced at Carr, with the intention of applying the same gameplan as he had against Valle. I’ll take it slowly. I’ll find the opening for a foot shot…and then we can get started on the mind games.

Carr stepped backwards, maintaining his distance. Let’s play, Max. I’ll snipe your hand before you get my foot.