The Referee

I will make myself clear from the start: impartiality is more than my creed, it is the reason for my existence. Thus even when I frankly prefer one combatant to another, it should go without saying that I would not favour them when it comes to my judgement. This I proclaim so that my motives are not question when I say this:

Valle of Cresna was the best man among them all.

Best fencer? Now, that was a controversial topic. Yet best man? That he was, and I say so without a doubt. Out of all of them—and this group included the Executioner, a bastard but a royal one, and Max of Relampago, a nobleman—only Valle observed long forgotten traditions.

This stadium had existed before stats, before Francisco, Varen or whatever name he liked to go by. In a time long forgotten, there were traditions one had to follow. Traditions that had been long forgotten.

Valle wore all white, from his shirt to his shoes, except for a red cloak he had enveloped around his shoulders. How did this man even know about those traditions? I wondered. It wasn’t easy knowledge to find for those who wished for it, and it was even harder for such a desire to exist in the first place. Who would care about such traditions and for what purpose?

His red cloak flew up in the air now, as he tossed it before stepping onto the piste—with his left foot first, as it should be—and threw his head back emphatically, as if to drown himself in invisible cheers. There was nobody in the stands save for The One Who Should Not Have Been, and he was not cheering for him. Yet Valle stood there, waving at people who did not exist, at the seats that were last occupied by people many generations before he was born.

“You are a sham, Valle of Cresna,” said Valder, as he walked onto the piste. Over his shoulder was his new longsword—a weapon that now extended beyond deadly, it was cruel. “Such circus acts do not befit your station. Take this seriously.”

Valle whirled around with a smile. “Circus acts?” Valle’s voice was offended, yet there was a theatrical quality to it. “My lord insults the circus—do you have any idea how difficult their craft is? To accuse my whims of being as their practiced art, my lord—! Do not compliment me so! To accept such compliment would be to denigrate their craft, surely my lord understands that unless…” Valle paused meaningfully and then moved back, as if suddenly startled at a revelation. “Is my lord ignorant of the common people? Does he not understand the effort that goes into a craft? Tell me this is not so!”

Even from my viewing platform Valle’s emotions were communicated clearly, without the need for me to use my Rule, and here I understood the purpose of his exaggerated body language. In theatre, you are taught not to rely on your subtle facial expressions lest you condemn those in far seats to be unable to tell what the story being told is. Thus, Valle acted in exaggerated way so that even someone sitting in the far seats would know his emotions.

This was, of course, unneeded as there was no one in the audience at all, but his mindset made more sense to me now.

“Ignorance of the common people? Perhaps,” Valder acknowledged, nodding slowly. “There much I do not know. But what I do know is that you abandoned the people of Cresna when you brought your sword against Johan—the city will lose their status as a province soon, you realize?”

Valle stepped back again, hands to the side of his head and looking sideways in a parody of confusion. “It will? Why, I was never informed of such a thing! Would fighting for justice result in an injustice? Most confusing, this system you defend.”

“I do not defend the crown.” Valder’s voice was a low growl, full of a barely contained fury. “I fight for the people of Portna—for my sister. You fight for your whims.”

“Do you now? Most interesting, that. Last I checked your sister was rebelling against the crown herself.”

“She does not understand—I will get through to her. Johan is a monster, but he will leave our city alone. In Portna we shall remain—safe and sound.”

Valle nodded, as if understanding him. “Oh, that makes sense, yes. Yet I must overstep and ask—is my lord prepared to be told the most joyous news?”

“Whatever do you mean, cretin?”

“Once the son of a City Lord! Now, merely a valiant vagabond, the valorous cretin, the victorious Valle, will verily marry your very sister, MY LORD!”

There was a sound of surprise across the entire stadium—Carr’s side was not fully prepared for this, and reacted appropriately. They knew that the two were involved, but not that marriage was on the table. Valder, meanwhile, reacted with something closer to silent horror. At first he seemed unable to process it, mouth half-open, eyes wide, and forehead wrinkled. Then, suddenly, his expression returned to solemnity.

“Champion of Cresna!” Valder thundered. “You are an educated man, yes?”

“Then aid me in this—what is the word for a woman whose betrothed dies? Widow, she is not, for they were never married.”

“My lord, it shames me to admit so but my education fails me here! I do not know such a word.” Valle fell to his knees as if in despair. Nearly immediately after doing so, he stood up again and extended his hand forward as if inviting Valder to dance. “Yet I shall tell you what the word for such a woman is not correct. NEVADA!” Valle shouted her name to the skies, then looked back at Valder. “THAT—is the name of the woman who I will marry! The future Lady of Cresna! The one who will, together with me, fight Johan and cut him down like a dog!”

“It seems,” Valder noted dryly, “that we have little else to discuss.”

“But I disagree! Where shall the wedding be hosted? What kind of dress code should be obeyed? There are so, somany questions, my lord!”

“It seems,” Valder repeated,” that we have little else to discuss.”

“More importantly, why did you rebel against the Empire yourself only to bend your knee to my father? And why, in spite of that, do you fight for Johan?” Valle asked, a sort of innocent curiosity about his voice. “That is most confusing, my lord. Surely it is no simple cowardice?”

At this, Valder drew his longsword and pointed it at Valle, who responded in kind and drew his rapier.

It was time.

“TO 40

SCORE STARTS AT 35—34

Valle of Cresna vs Valder the Executioner

YOU ARE OUT OF GAS AND RUNNING ON FAITH

WILL STEEL RESPOND TO YOUR PRAYERS?

EIGTH BOUT

ALLEZ!”

The question of Valder’s loyalties, his motives for once rebelling against the same crown he now defended, as well as how Valle’s marriage to Nevada would change the political situation of the Empire—all of those points were valid.

None of them mattered for either man right now.

Valle gestured wildly at the empty seats, as if begging the nonexistent crowd to lend him their energy. “Standing to duel, The champ investigates clues, Do bastards bleed blue?”

The Executioner grit his teeth in response and advanced.

Rapier versus Longsword.

An unusual matchup, featuring two most unusual fencers.

Valle’s bravado was not to be mistaken for confidence—he knew he was at a heavy disadvantage here. His wounds from his match against Johan hadn’t fully left him yet, though they had closed after the brief bout against Max, but his exhaustion hadn’t yet left him.

Yet his mind was not on Cresna, his wounds, or the possibility of death.

It wasn’t even on Johan.

You defeated this man, Valle thought. You had no stats, many wounds, and lost use of your left arm in that match. But you never surrendered—you won, and showed your pride as a Champion when you did. If I want to defeat you…then I can’t fall to him right now. So watch me carefully, Carr—watch the man who’s going to surpass you!

For the sake of his goals, for the sake of his land, for the sake of his friends, for the sake of his rival, Valle would not fall here.

Now, he thought, how do I go about putting on the best show in this sacred stadium?

Rapier versus Longsword was a matchup that favoured the rapier, in theory at least. Though the longsword could do much more damage, the rapier was much faster. Assuming two unarmored combatants, one could step in and out of range, using superior speed and blade length to make many small wounds from a safe distance until the other fell. Magic HP made this much harder, however—as both combatants were effectively armoured anyhow, and small wounds were less relevant than a great longsword cut.

Yet this was a match to points, not to Death. Meaning the rapier had even greater advantage as all it needed was a light touch to score a point.

When Valder brought down his longsword in a downward slash, Valle brought the tip of his blade upwards and bent his knee down slightly. To attack under someone’s arm, you don’t simply bring your arm down—this limits your range and offers poor angles of approach. Instead, you angle as much as you can with your wrist and try to obtain the height needed for the adjustment with your knees.

Valle had been practicing this move a lot and for good reason. As a rapier user, he had more reach over epee users such as Carr and Max—and keeping his desired target shallow meant he could attack his opponent’s hand while his opponent could not attack him at all. Yes, even now…his reason for his new style was to defeat Carr.

TOO EASY, EXECUTIONER!

The New Bladewolves:

Valle of Cresna — 1 (36)

The Real Bladewolves:

Valder the Executioner — 0 (34)

It was perfect contact and Valle stepped backwards, content with the point.

But Valder did not stop there.

He stepped forward, taking advantage of Valle risky approach and brought his blade down on his shoulder, sinking it deep.

“INVALID!” I shouted. “Your afterblow came too late!”

It was a large allowance compared to how scoring systems worked on Earth, yet this was still outside the allowed time. You had a full second to score after your opponent made contact, and this would result in a double hit. Yet Valder had landed his move nearly four seconds later!

“I will not dispute it,” Valder said nonchalantly. “Can he continue, however?”

It had been a grave wound.

Valle had already been suffering from exhaustion and his wounds from his duel against Johan. Now, he stood on his knees, breathing heavily and holding his injured arm with a measure of desperation there. Sweating heavily, his confident grin gone, but his eyes fixated on his opponent.

“REF!” Carr shouted. “THAT—THAT’S ON PURPOSE!”

“It wasn’t,” Valder replied. He took one more step towards Valle, and at this the injured man stood up, using his blade as support, and stepped backwards in a hurry. “My intention was to attack him before he attacked me. Whether my blade connected with him or not after my move was of no concern of mine. That I want to kill him is true, yet my attack bore no such intention.”

It was true.

Valder’s mental state had been carefully prepared that even going into his mind I could not detect a hint of malice. He was not meaning to injure Valle, he simply did not care if he did so. And as long as there was no malice, as long as he was less a battle crazed maniac and more a real executioner, he violated no rules.

“The match goes on!” I ordered.

Valle said nothing, but he reentered his en garde stance. The Executioner stepped forward, causing the Champion of Cresna to step backward. I have to look at this carefully, Valle thought, vaguely. Can’t make any mistakes here.

“Done with the banter?” the Executioner asked. A smile crept across his face and it felt wrong. It was like seeing a wolf smile. “Very well, then.”

Steel met steel.

There was no elegant bladework here, and it seemed like the Executioner was simply advancing forward and attacking as he could. He was no fool, however—the man was a cold, calculating beast. Valle’s simple attacks would not stop him. Even a wound to his wrist would not cause his magical HP to drop enough for him to loosen the grip on his blade.

Both Carrs, real and fake, had too many reflexes associated with a lifetime of fencing to attempt such a strategy—not to mention only the fake had the HP to attempt so. But Valder had no such a fear. Having trained his mental state so that I would not be able to fault him for his actions, the man advanced fearlessly forward, knowing that the fact he was willing to cause absurd amounts of damage would keep Valle in check.

Now, because he was afraid of an afterblow, Valle would not dare to attempt at hand sniping even if it would win him points.

That was the theory, anyhow.

The Executioner ran forward. There was no footwork behind his actions nor was there elegance, yet the sheer strength behind his actions made him a fearful opponent. Standing here, in this sacred stadium of champions, the man dared to not use any fencing at all—merely his overwhelming strength.

And worst of all, it was working!

There was no way for Valle to sneak an attack in against a beast with stats higher than his own while retreating to safety—at least not in a longsword versus rapier matchup. Here, parries and binds were nearly impossible, and most fencing was difficult.

So Valle did not do anything safely.

When the Executioner brought his sword down, Valle shifted his body to the side so that it met against his othershoulder, and stabbed the man at the same time.

The New Bladewolves:

Valle of Cresna — 2 (37)

The Real Bladewolves:

Valder the Executioner — 1 (35)

“Are you mad?” the Executioner cried out. “Are you planning on just receiving all of my attacks like this?”

“If this is the limit of my skill,” Valle growled, “if I can’t do anything else—then that’s my fate.”

“Has the Champion of Cresna fallen this far? This quickly?” Valder sneered. “Is this the man who thinks he can steal my sister and take her to certain death? That thinks he can best Johan?”

“My dear friend handed me this lead,” Valle said quietly. His voice was weak, and his lips were trembling. His weakness was apparent to all. “I will not hand it over. It’s as simple as that.”

“NO!” Fedal shouted. “Valle—don’t! It doesn’t matter how much HP you have! You’re going to die if you keep fencing like that!”

It was true.

Valle needed three more points to win this bout. If he was going to receive a blow every time he scored himself, he was going to die. There was no amount of miracles that would change that—and with half of his group gone to find a cure for Isabella, there was no one who could provide him with a Levelling Sphere. Did he mean to die on the piste?

No.

Such thought was inevitable, yet it should never have crossed mine or anyone’s minds.

The Champion of Cresna would never fall like this.

The next exchange came, with the Executioner marching forward like a mad beast against the exhausted, injured champion. His longsword came up…and down.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Valle parried it.

It wasn’t a true parry, to be certain, but the end goal was the same. As the sword came down, Valle brought his against his blade in something like an epee parry four, but instead of pushing his opponent’s blade to the side, Valle used it as leverage to push his own body to the side, barely dodging the strike. Why not merely step aside? I thought. Yet the thought seemed distant then, as I watched the weakened champion barely avoid death.

Weak, the Executioner thought.

Stronger than the last time, Valle thought.

Valder brought his sword back, left foot forward and tip aligned with Valle’s chest and readied a thrust. Valle’s blade had moved to the outside in that desperate parry and was not ready to exploit this opening.

The thrust came, and Valle barely dodged it—not with his blade, but with his body, shifting it sideways. Do you think this is enough, Valle of Cresna? Valder thought. No! Not nearly! He pulled his blade back, meaning to attempt at a second thrust, but was surprised to meet resistance.

Valle’s hand had gripped at the blade and squeezed it tightly, as Carr had once done.

And he grinned.

There was hardly a lot of historical material on rapier versus longsword duels, but the little that was there suggested using a dagger together with your rapier. Here, Valle had adapted the thought slightly. Lacking in a dagger, he used his hand to hold the blade in place, then drove his rapier through Valder’s chest.

The New Bladewolves:

Valle of Cresna — 3 (38)

The Real Bladewolves:

Valder the Executioner — 2 (36)

It was a double hit, as the bladegrab had injured Valle and thus counted as a hit for his opponent. Yet the exchange was not done yet.

No points could be scored right now—there was a grace period of a few seconds after the hit to avoid exactly this kind of life or death struggle. Yet the Executioner did not relent, and he forcibly pulled his sword away from Valle, producing another cut, and brought it sideways against his non-sword arm.

Blood flew.

Valle did not move, and stabbed Valder once more.

“I am the Champion of Cresna!” he roared.

Neither move awarded them points, and here I used my authority to separate them.

“This match is weird,” Carr said, thoughtfully. There was no panic in his voice, only a sort of resigned calmness about it. Though Valle’s blood was flying and he was injured, there was something that struck Carr was remarkably artificial about the way the wounds had been inflicted. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Valle can do it!” Fedal said excitedly. “I…I really thought he had no chance.”

“It sure looked that way at the start.”

Fedal nodded. “But after a few hits he—he started fighting back! He can do it!”

“You’re right,” Carr said slowly. Then, his eyes widened and he shouted, “YOU’RE RIGHT!”

Carr ran up to the piste—standing as close to it as he could, as if standing closer to the action allowed him to understand the man’s actions even a little better. “You fucking lunatic,” Carr uttered, “did you really…?”

Valle turned around, covered in his own blood and smiled at him.

YOU FUCKING MADMAN!

Words flashed back in Carr’s minds. Words that he knew he should not have forgotten, from before Fedal’s match.

“He’s a careful fencer,” Valle had said about Valder, in a thoughtful tone. “I think I would win in most exchanges against him. My plan would be to start slow, trap him in my rhythm and then raise my intensity twice. Once to score, and then when he thought we were evenly matched I’d destroy him and run up the score. The Champion’s duel must be entertaining, after all.”

“Carr?” Fedal asked, running up to him. “What’s wrong? Is Valle gonna be okay?”

“That fucking lunatic,” Carr replied in awe. “He took those hits on purpose.”

“What the actual fuck?” Fedal shouted in response. He looked at Valle, who stood injured across the Executioner. “He could’ve died from those attacks! Why—why would he have taken them on purpose?”

“I think,” Carr said slowly, “we both know why.”

Valle pointed his sword to the sky, a dignified champion’s pose about him. The Executioner stood across from him hesitant now. A monster, but an intelligent one, he meant to approach this match slowly—and Valle’s last blade grab had given him reason to hesitate.

Covered in his own blood, Valle again gestured wildly at the empty arena, as if begging the invisible crowd to rise to their feet for the finale. And this I swear: I could almost hear an invisible crowd roaring and chanting his name.

“It’s because he’s the Champion of Cresna,” Carr muttered.

Valle swung his sword at empty air, then extended his free hand toward Valder, with the same inviting motion as he had at the start—as if he meant to take him for a dance. “Cresnian theatre,” he said slowly, “has three acts. In the first act, the hero is overpowered by a power beyond his comprehension! In the second act, he puts forth a brave fight, trading blows with destiny! And in the third round, destiny itself bows to the champion before it! Now, prepare yourself! IT IS TIME FOR THE THIRD ACT!”