The Referee

Max’s morale was extremely low. He was focused on the match—as much as he could anyhow—but he couldn’t ignore what had just transpired. That Carr was a fake he had been nearly certain of for a while, but that his real identity was of Duartes, the Former World Champion? That he had not predicted. On top of that, that the Duartes-Carr was this callous about everything was not something he had been ready for. That guy knows he’s the fake…but he still considers himself the real one. Fucking insane.

If there was one thing his time on Earth had taught him it was how to control his nerves in a competition, to isolate himself from his concerns. Max drew a deep breath and fixed his blade, making sure it had the right amount of bend to it. Athletes have rituals they like to repeat before matches to mentally reset themselves, and max was no exception. Johan…did you mean to turn Gilder into Jack like that too? To destroy his mental state so badly he would turn into whatever Duartes did? Even as he performed his ritual, anger flared up and he held his blade too tight. Johan…I will never forgive you for trying to do that to him. Not to Gilder.

Again he took a deep breath. One more than he was used to. I have to calm down. I have to focus on the match.

“I’m still as real as that guy is, you know Max?” Duartes-Carr said, arms behind his head and leaning against the wall. “Wouldn’t stress too much if I were you.”

Max turned around, a sort of shocked fury about him. It was the kind of feeling one gets when rightful anger is vaguely suppressed by shock that a creature would dare to act this way. He regarded Duartes-Carr for a moment, a mixture of contempt and confusion on his face. “What do you want?”

“Carr died on Earth,” said Duartes-Carr, a carefree tone about him. “You were still on Earth when he died, weren’t you?”

“Get to your point,” Max replied coldly.

“His body was still there, wasn’t it?” Duartes-Carr’s tone was sort of relaxed, untroubled, like a college student under certain chemical influences discussing their philosophy class. “Carr’s corpse was found in the forest after he died, right?”

“How did you—”

“Just a guess,” Carr-Duartes said. “Had some talks with Roger. So…what I’m saying is that after that happened, his spirit or whatever crossed over and was given a new body. Or that maybe his soul was converted into a physical body when he crossed over. You’re the specialist at crossing over, you tell me, noble tourist.”

I could not see Max’s face from where I stood, but his mood worsened and I needed not use my Rule to see such. “Your body stays behind when you travel,” Max said simply. “It—it’s actually quite tricky. You need someone on either side to be keeping your body alive the whole time while it’s unconscious. The Devil was responsible for that. Once you cross over to the other side, you get a new body there and…you have to balance the two.”

“How fucked up is that,” Duartes-Carr said. “That means you still have an unconscious body back on Earth. Weird, isn’t it?”

“Creating that second body usually costs…a lot.” Max grimaced and I was glad he didn’t know the extent of it. What would this poor man think if he knew of the Steel Price the Devil made others pay? “It barely costs anything to create the body, but to give it magic…well, that’s expensive. So it’s a lot more difficult for someone from Earth to come here than otherwise since you need magic stats to be able to open the gate. Carr is the exception because…I don’t really know the details.”

“My point is this—the Carr you knew on Earth? Well, he died. That guy over there—” Duartes-Carr gestured at the other team“—doesn’t have the same body as the guy you knew. This is a new body. So, my body belonged to Duartes and his was created by some magic voodoo. I had to deal with a beaten up used model and he got a custom made one, the spoiled prick. Who cares. End of the day, neither of us has the original Carr’s body and we both have the same memories. What exactly makes him the real one over me?”

“The soul,” Max replied quickly. “His soul is the same—”

“The soul—something intangible that we can’t measure or observe,” Duartes-Carr replied, smirking. “How convenient. Guy’s more real than me because of some nebulous bullshit that some guy who literally calls himself the Devil says so. Besides, even if he has a ‘soul’ or whatever what does that even mean? I mean, really. End of the day, guy has muscle memory I lost because, again, I got the shitty old model.” He sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was more somber. “It doesn’t make me any less me than he is. If you look at it…how he refuses to take advantage of stats to fight? That makes him less of a Carr than me.”

Max’s thoughts raced at an impressive speed, enough that I struggled to catch up with them. That makes some sense—He’s insane, that's not how this works—What is the soul?—HE’S NOT THE REAL ONE!—Even if that argument held up, he still doesn’t quite act like Carr. That’s not true. Finally, an intrusive thought overcame him. One he didn’t want to acknowledge. Ever since he admitted he knows he’s the ‘fake’ Carr…he’s been behaving a lot more like the normal thing.

It was an odd behaviour. Normally, Johan’s ‘ghosts’ became a failure once they identified the severe gaps in their identity and deviated from what he considered a perfect host. Katherine had been an extraordinary event, achieving quick compatibility in a record amount of time, but even she cracked and became someone else rather quickly. This Carr though, Duartes…he didn’t break at the knowledge. If anything, it soothed him. He might have kept it away from his thoughts for a while, distracting himself with fencing, but his suspicions were there, and his meeting with the real thing confirmed his suspicions.

But somehow, this hadn’t broken him. His logic was something the real Carr might think, but their conclusions would be wildly different. I suppose wishful thinking plays a part here, no? Duartes-Carr wants to believe he is real, so his conclusions lean that way…and the real Carr will think otherwise, of course.

“What is your point?” Max asked annoyedly. “Are you just going to ramble philosophy until I get to fencing?”

“Just…I know, alright?” Duartes-Carr said, and here I could have mistaken him for Carr. The current Carr, after he calmed down from his rage. “To you, I might be a fake…but to me, you’re still my friend. You and Katherine. That’s all.”

There was a silence. “What makes you feel more like Carr than Duartes?” he asked.

“I don’t have any memories of being Duartes.”

“None?”

Duartes-Carr thought of his duel against Isabella and felt his hand shake. This hand stabbed Isabella, he considered. The thought brought him a measure of sorrow—why? I’m not Duartes, he told himself firmly. I am Carr. Even if my body is his—my memories aren’t. What would I be, then? Some bastard mix? “Just go win this match, Max. Don’t worry about anything else.” I hope she survives. They—they seem to know where to find a sphere for her.

“Yeah,” Max replied slowly. “I have no intention of losing.”

This was easier said than done, however.

Max could not help but think about everything Duartes-Carr had said, as well as his own concerns. What makes someone real? Which one is my friend, my rival? Is it both of them? I…goddamn it. I have to focus. Forcing yourself to focus gets harder the more frustrated you get at your distractions. Whatever Johan did to this guy—he meant to do the same to Gilder? Shit!

Max stepped onto the piste, where Fedal had been waiting for him.

Here, Max felt distracted, but confident he could beat whatever Fedal threw at him. Meanwhile, Fedal thought the opposite. I am weaker than him, Fedal thought, as he readied himself in his en garde stance. So fucking what? I’m gonna win this if it kills me!

“TO 35

SCORE STARTS AT 29—29

Fedal the Hero vs Max of Relampago

THE SHORTEST ARMS REACH FOR THE TALLEST WALL

CLAW YOUR DETERMINATION INTO CONCRETE

SEVENTH BOUT

ALLEZ!”

“Dance with me, Hero,” Max whispered as he kicked the ground.

The score was even, but their skillsets weren’t. Though Fedal had much higher stats, the difference in their experience—as well as the inherent flaws in [Swordsmanship]—were such that he was the underdog coming into this match. Still, his stats translated to higher athleticism, and this wasn’t something to be underestimated. I’ll put it to the test! Fedal shouted in his mind. Confidence guiding him, he dashed forward, exploding with his stats and his sword in hand. If I have stats twice as high as his, then this should still be doable even if he’s more skilled than me!

As he approached, he realized that Max had placed his sword to the outside and was already holding it pointed at his shoulder. He knows I’m faster, but he can predict me enough that it doesn’t matter? Is that what’s going on? Here the angles shifted slightly—their blades were lined up right against each other. If Fedal went forward, their blades would hit each other’s guard, bouncing off and hitting neither of them. That’s like a shield! Fedal thought, grimacing.

It was an unusual strategy, but one that very skilled French Grip fencers employed in certain matchups. Rather than allow for blade contact or aim for a stop-hit, they would use the guard of their blade like a shield, lining blade to blade—this was a defensive move meant to invoke mistakes. If both blades were pointing at each other’s guard, that meant neither fencer could score. This was hard to maintain for any given amount of time, but with enough of a skill gap and the right distance it was a doable defence strategy. Still, this also meant something else: one of the two would have to make the first move to resolve this.

Who would be the first one to break that stalemate?

It wasn’t a surprise, of course. Fedal was burning with passion while Max was still somewhat distracted. The Hero shifted slightly to attack.

If I dash forward without thinking I’m just going to run into his blade…and his guard is protecting a direct attack. The solution, then, was to beat his blade away, to clear a path for a straight attack—his guard would no longer be in his way! Fedal lifted the tip of his sword to ready a beat eight—to bring his blade downward against the other, he would have to raise it however slightly, and he wasn’t skilled enough to do so without raising his blade by a fair amount.

Got you, Max thought.

When Fedal lifted his blade, he exposed the underside of his hand. When he did so, Max’s blade, which was already in perfect position. Max did not need to move his blade at all—he had been aiming at Fedal’s guard for a while now. So when Fedal raised his wrist for a beat, all that Max needed was a quick step forward for the blade to connect with the underside of Fedal’s hand.

The New Bladewolves:

Fedal the Hero — 0 (29)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max of Relampago — 1 (30)

“I’m not just a guy who can hit foot touches, you know? Countering is important,” Max said, smirking.

Both fencers had different thoughts come to them at that point. Max felt a wave of relief. He knew he wasn’t fencing at the top of his condition, but the hit confirmed to him that his form was still better than Fedal’s. He’s running an offensive plan? What the hell are they thinking? If he was fencing defensively I could get a two or three point lead at most considering his stats. Do they really think he has a chance?

Fedal, meanwhile, struggled between a few different thoughts. Shit—I’m screwing up! Shouldn’t have been greedy, I should just have known my place and—NO! Fedal shook his head aggressively. This is just a few points. I’m at a disadvantage, but I haven’t lost yet. I—I got this!

The next point was more structured. Fedal did not rush ahead, as he contemplated what to do. He’s got such good control of his blade…even if I’m faster than him, if he can predict what I’m doing, my speed doesn’t mean shit! Wait…how was he predicting him?

There is no way he’s reacting to the twitch of my arm or anything like that. His reflexes aren’t fast enough for that, even with Max’s stats helping him it would be inhuman to react to my beat like that. There’s gotta be a bigger tell than that. What is it…break it down! What did I do?

Back then, Fedal had stepped forward aggressively. It was a quicker step than others. Maybe my step signalled the attack? That made sense. Suddenly increasing the pace of his move would have surely signalled he meant to do some sort of action, surely. But was that all? No…even before I moved, he lined up our bell guards so that I couldn’t attack. He forfeited the angle for a stop-hit, but he positioned his blade right there so that if I moved away then I’d be exposing my hand as target to him. It hadn’t been merely a prediction, Max had induced Fedal to behave that way. What a monster…wait, what would have been the right move then? The moment Fedal had moved his sword away, Max had a shot perfectly lined up at him.

Fedal considered the possibilities.

He could have tried bringing his tip down nearly as soon as he raised it, to try flicking over Max’s guard before Max could attack him. No good. Flicks are really hard to do, I can’t really land them consistently. I can land maybe one out of five in practice.

He could have remained in that deadlock until he saw an opening. No, if I gave him time to set it up, he would have found a way to land an attack…that seems like a bad idea. I’d show an opening before he did.

He could have simply executed a better beat, so that he wouldn’t need to raise his hand as much and open up his hand as a target. Being practical….I can’t do that. My beats are still bad.

He could have given up the attack, stepped back and changed his line of approach when he had distanced himself enough from Max to keep him from counterattacking. That…that could have worked. But then I’d give up my chance to score and start over from scratch. Is it that easy for him to force me to defend? Just a flick of the wrist

What if I tried to—

Max dove for Fedal’s foot and landed a hit. “Don’t go daydreaming on me now,” he said, his smirk growing wider. You have to be at least as good as me to daydream during a match, Hero. “Or I’ll just hit you again.”

The New Bladewolves:

Fedal the Hero — 0 (29)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max of Relampago — 2 (31)

“Goddamn it!” Fedal shouted. His voice came out louder than he had meant it to, and this brought forth a consideration for him. Am I that angry? That frustrated? He took a deep breath and readied himself for the next point. Calm down. It’s not that I was distracted…this distance is bad!

Fedal had thought he was safe standing that far away from Max. The issue was that though he couldn’t hit Max even with his best lunge, Max could just barely reach either his wrist or his foot. Though the wrist was better guarded by default—the bell guard forced him to use angulation if he wanted to hit it from the outside—the foot was open. Not to mention that if Fedal attempted to guard against foot shots, he would have to expose more of his arm.

Shit…even if I’m faster, why the hell is he so much more flexible than me? Fedal knew why—Max had worked really hard to become this athletic. [Swordsmanship] increased your speed, but not your distance, and this also applied to the length of your lunge. The further you can spread your legs apart, the longer your lunge is. This isn’t the time to be depressed or wishing I had worked harder when I was younger. The best time to plant a tree is yesterday. The second best time is NOW!

They crossed blades again and a single thought came to Fedal.

STRUGGLE!

It wasn’t as though he had a complicated plan in mind or that he could’ve foreseen the effect of his actions. Fedal’s goal was simple—DON’T MAKE IT EASY FOR HIM! When they rushed at each other again, Fedal considered his moves and saw no future in any of them. A beat would be disengaged off of, a lunge would be met with a stop-hit, and a flèche would be parried or stop-hit. MOVE YOUR BODY IN A DIFFERENT WAY!

He ducked.

It could’ve been argued it was a passata sotto, the fencing move where one places their free hand on the ground and puts their sword arm forward. More realistically, he had merely ducked, squatting down and putting his sword forward, free hand not touching the ground at all. At the same time he had done that, Max had lunged for Fedal’s foot one more time. He hadn’t expected Fedal to step forward and duck, however. When he saw Fedal’s movement after his initial step, he assumed it would’ve been a retreat—and the real movement caught him by surprise.

Thus, it was an awkward exchange. Fedal’s sword touched Max’s torso, while Max’s shot—initially aimed at his opponent’s foot—had landed through Fedal’s thigh.

The New Bladewolves:

Fedal the Hero — 1 (30)

The Real Bladewolves:

Max of Relampago — 3 (32)

“That was pure luck!” Duartes-Carr shouted. “Just a double, don’t let it get to you. Your plan is destroying him still!”

Fedal grimaced. He couldn’t say anything to that. That double-hit had been mostly luck. But that I got at least one point makes me feel better, he thought. Now even if I screw up we’ll just lose 5 points, not 6. Anger rose within him—at himself, for daring to think such a thought. I can’t be thinking like that if I want to win! So what if it was just luck? A point is a point! I just have to get lucky 5 more times!

Luck…that was one hell of a word, but that’s what it had been, right?

How else would he have landed that move?

The Hero thought, somewhat bitterly, that he probably needed to count his blessings—and did just that. He could’ve hit me through the eye with that one if he was aiming higher. Shit. That could’ve been bad. Though I guess if I hadn’t ducked, he would just have hit me and it would have been a point for him instead of a double-hit. Wait. Was that true? Was it the duck that had allowed for that to happen?

No.

That was wrong.

Fedal had scored by attacking Max’s chest. Max had longer reach than he did as well—so how was that possible? I stepped forward, Fedal thought. I was too close for him to land his foot touch normally so he struggled and slowed down. No, even if he didn’t slow down, once I was inside that range we both hit each other practically at the same time.

So far, Max had commanded the pace of the match. No, more than the pace, it was the distance. While it was theoretically true that if your opponent could hit your wrist you could hit theirs, the fact was that some people were faster and could lunge from further away. This altered the match dynamics a lot. It’s why everyone has their ideal distance they like to fence from—some hyper close, some far away, some at a medium distance.

Fedal had been fencing far away from Max until now, afraid of his horrifying skill. But this was the distance Max loved the most—just far enough that he could land his foot shots, and far enough away that he had the time to ready his counterattacks if Fedal meant to attack. The one time Fedal had gotten inside his range without the other fencer expecting it, the result had been a double hit.

Is this something I can use? Fedal thought. His heart was racing, hope renewed him and he felt the urge to fight. I can…I have to use this somehow!

Valle had decided to engage Max at his ideal distance. It was an insane idea, and it only resulted in a tie because Valle was frankly that good. Carr had the same ideal distance as Max did, so their game was a direct battle of skill, where Carr barely came out ahead. I should model my frame of attack after Carr, not Valle, Fedal thought. Having seen those two matches before, he felt like he had a chance. If he had fenced Max blindly, he would have been decimated. But now that he had seen how other fencers adjusted to him, and that Max was feeling distracted…there was a chance.

Just because he was worse at fencing skill than Carr and didn’t master his own stats like Valle had it didn’t mean he couldn’t fight.

This is like a card game, in a way, Fedal thought, absently. And I just have to play the right cards at the right time. Even if I have a worse hand than the others…even if the guy across from me has a much better hand…I can still do this!

Fedal would have to force Max to fencer at a shorter distance. But how could he force him to do that when his opponent was so vastly superior to him? There had to be a way. Something, anything—

The Solle Conjectures, he thought, absently. Carr talked about this before…what did he say exactly?

Memories came rushing through his mind. Carr had trained him and lectured him in equal measures. He had drilled into him a solid understanding of fencing with an inhuman training schedule, but whenever Fedal was too tired to actually move his body, he taught him something else—how to win. Épée 2.0 wasn’t a strategy, it was a paradigm. Rather than focusing on theoretical counters, what Carr had drilled into him was the concept that Harmenberg had invented on Earth, which had allowed pragmatic, athletic fencing to triumph over classical fencing.

No, it wasn’t merely the athleticism—it was how the paradigm created a pattern where a weaker fencer could triumph over a stronger one.

Harmenberg was the multi-time world champion and Olympic gold medalist that perfected that paradigm, but he didn’t develop it by himself. No, according to his own book—as Carr had told Fedal many, many, many times—he could only develop it thanks to his coach, Eric Sollee, who started development on this new fencing paradigm by pondering a few simple questions.

Is it possible for the fencer with the lower technical ability to decide the technical level of a bout? Can the fencer with the shorter fencing distance control the distance in a bout? Is it possible to force your opponent into your own area of greatest strength?

Fedal should have felt concerned. He should have felt terrified. On some level, he probably felt all of those things. But there is something to be said about a certain type of athlete, the ones without any sort of talent, who had experienced the lowest of lows: they need very little to get inspired to perform at the top of their game. Fedal had no expectations set for himself, but adrenaline was a sweeter drug than any alcohol and he had never been given it in such doses before.

It is not something most people will ever know.

The sweet, sweet adrenaline one feels when giving their all in a tournament. Your throat burns, your chest roars, your legs ache and you wish that you could just drop dead at that very moment. Paradoxically, despite wanting nothing more than to not feel that pain anymore, you also desire more of that feeling. More of that ecstasy, more of that thrill, more of your heart doing its damn best to jump out of your chest. This feeling talks to you, it sings to you, and it enamors you. And in that state, even a single idea of how to triumph over your opponent fills you with hope and optimism.

“The answer to all of Solle’s conjectures,” Fedal whispered to himself, “is YES!”

He dashed forward at Max of Relampago, sword in hand and heart in his sword.