The Referee

Ah. Yeah. That tracks.

Those were my thoughts then, and per my Rule I can confirm others in the arena had thoughts of similar wording, and nearly identical meaning. For a brief while, watching the injured man crippling around the arena, struggling to breathe let alone fence, an intrusive thought grabbed ahold of our hearts—Carr might use a sphere! It made sense. At the moment, considering the man’s situation, surely even he would consider it. We would finally witness it, the moment he threw away his ideals for the sake of pragmatism!

And then, he threw the sphere into the water.

Why did I think he was actually going to do it? I considered.

But no one was as surprised as Duartes-Carr, who stared blankly at his mirror who pointed his middle finger at him as if it were a blade. Then, slowly, he turned his neck around at where the sphere had been tossed and looked at the water as if the act would make what he just witnessed make more sense. “What—what did you—”

His doubt was cut short when Carr leaped forward at him.

No, it was more like he had fallen forward. In this state, even holding his blade was a monumental task for him. But falling forward is an attack in fencing as well. Flèches look like elegant leaps, but frankly, at their core, they are less about jumping and more about making sure your center of gravity goes past your front knee. Even in this state, Carr knew what to do.

Duartes-Carr barely managed to dodge the attack, retreating backward in a panic, until he saw the weakened man standing across from him.

“You looked at the box,” Carr muttered. “Don’t go looking…looking at the scoring machine during a bout. Don’t you remember what our coach used to say? Pushups if you look at the box before the point is called.”

“There’s not a damn thing you can do anymore!” Duartes-Carr shouted. “You got no tricks, no moves—even all your fencing techniques you worked so hard for are sealed with your injuries! What do you think you have that I don’t?”

Carr stumbled forward. After one step, he nearly fell, but managed to regain his balance. “I want to win more badly than you,” he said in a low voice. “You think you are entitled to a victory. That you’re better than me. I want to win. That’s all there is to it.”

“Oh, and you think that is going to change who wins—”

“For fuck’s sake, if you have my memories you know exactly how much that matters.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Sports don’t run on emotions. No matter how badly you want to win, you don’t awaken to a magical power that allows you to win a match against a vastly superior opponent. Merely wishing for something is not enough to overcome someone who actually worked hard for their talents. All the shouts and speeches in the world will not grant you the power to overcome a mightier opponent than you.

However—!

A strong desire to win must not be underestimated. It is not enough to grant you skills that you do not possess, but it can make all the difference in the world in a tight match. What Carr’s coach had told him—the same words he later passed down to Fedal—were entirely accurate; it is your 80% that determines how good of a champion you are. You cannot hope to fence at your max ability for most of a tournament, or even most of a single match—80% of your best is all you can reasonably hope for in any combat sport.

What willpower allows is for you to reach your own top-level at a critical moment. No, more than that—it allows you to reach 50% of your level when you are so exhausted you can barely reach 20%.

You’re a version of me that won Worlds then was given supernatural power, Carr thought. I know how much of an arrogant shithead I am…so you must be feeling like you are at the top of the world right now. Like no one can beat you. Like no one can even challenge you.

More than anyone else, Carr was aware of his own flaws.

His time walking the void taught him a lot about himself if nothing else. When you have nothing but your own thoughts to focus on, you end up self-reflecting a lot. He says he’s me, Carr thought, but that’s not true. He’s a version of me that didn’t go through the same things. He didn’t watch his friends die. He didn’t lose to Johan. He didn’t walk in the void. If he hasn’t walked the same path I have…then he hasn’t learned what I have!

The deciding moments in a match are crucial.

When things come down to scoring one or two more points, it’s normal for your style to change. There is no such thing as an athlete that is unaffected by pressure. Some focus on getting safer hits, trying to maximize their chances of winning…while others do their best to try to fight off the pressure and fence as usual. Yet, there is a third type of athlete—the kind that lets the pressure consume them instead of fighting it off. The kind that uses the atmosphere to fuel their adrenaline, and their adrenaline to fuel their best moves.

I know I’m a little shit that looks down on people, Carr thought. So right now, you’re not at your top condition. Not even close to it. You’re going to play it safe, even though you know you would be more likely to score if you just fenced like normal…because your opponent is half-dead exhausted scum like me, eh? You can’t help yourself.

Can goddamn feel it in my bones, he’s going to do something stupid, Duartes-Carr thought. I have to slow down and let him kill himself. Give him the rope, let him do the rest.

Carr flew forward. He could barely move, but that was enough. Memories of his old coach flared up in his mind.

‘Old wisdom says that you should stay in place if you are exhausted,’ he had told him. ‘Just keep your blade up and hope your opponent walks into it.’

‘If you have no energy to attack properly that’s probably the way you’re most likely gonna win, that makes sense,’ a young Carr had replied, before hesitantly adding, ‘and what do you say?’

‘I say fuck that. Go out swinging if you’re a real man.’

His memories brought a smile to his face. It had been years since his coach had passed away, yet now the memories seemed warm, nostalgic. Hey coach…I wish you could see me now. I’m fencing like the reckless little shit Pistol Grip you always wanted me to be. Witness me, from wherever you are.

Duartes-Carr readied himself in place. I’m faster than him, but he’s actually speeding up in comparison to before. He’s burning everything he has left. If I can avoid one or two exchanges, he’ll have nothing left. The score is close enough I don’t have to worry about his lead too much. I’m just going to beat his blade out of place. He is not going to disengage off my beat.

Disengages are a tricky thing. At low and medium-level fencing, they work wonderfully. You can generally predict whether your opponent is going to use a parry 4 or a parry 6—those are the main two they use. Even if you can’t keep up with their speed enough to reactively know when to disengage, you can predict what their response is going to be somewhat effectively.

Once you get to a higher level, things change exponentially.

Not only is your opponent also more likely to be proficient at parries 2—especially if they are shorter— and 8—especially if they are taller—but their speed and precision make disengaging phenomenally difficult. You have to effectively guess between four options, and even if you predict it correctly your blade might still be caught by a fast parry during your disengage. It is here that cutovers become an attractive option at a time.

Instead of circling around your opponent’s blade, you merely raise your tip so that they miss your own blade entirely—this action gets around nearly every parry, but it comes with a heavy price.

By pulling your hand back, you are exposing yourself to direct attacks. If your opponent doesn’t parry, you have given them free rein to attack you. It is an all-or-nothing gamble that many fencers avoid at more critical moments of bouts, though they shouldn’t.

Carr wasn’t one of those.

DO OR DIE!

Duartes-Carr attempted to take his blade in 2, a counterclockwise circular blade motion that finishes with the tip of the blade pointed at his opponent’s leg. It wasn’t a parry he had used today at all, and he thought Carr would have predicted it wrong. Chances are, if he had tried to disengage off a parry, he would have indeed picked wrong. That’s why he went with the cutover.

Duartes-Carr’s blade dropped low in the attempted parry 2, and Carr’s own tip was high. ‘It’s faster to bring your blade down than to bring it up,’ his coach had told him. ‘Never forget that.’

EVEN IF YOU ARE FASTER THAN ME—THE ADVANTAGE IS MINE!

He brought his blade down, aiming for the top of Duartes-Carr’s arm.

And his mirror managed to raise his blade in time to deflect it. This is why stats are so good, Duartes-Carr thought, grinning wildly. Even if you win the exchange, I can rely on my raw reflexes! And your blade is out of the way now! What are you going to do?

This was, as far as Duartes-Carr was concerned, checkmate. There was no move in his arsenal he could have used to beat him there. Then why…?

The thing about being at the top of the mountain, Carr thought, is that you stop wanting to improve!

He ducked.

At the end of a hard-fought match, your legs feel like they are on fire. It is actually incredibly demanding to stay in en-garde position for a whole bout, and more so if you are bouncing heavily. The Carr that won the World Cup had a particularly troublesome bad habit of ‘standing up’ more and more the longer a bout went. He fenced with a French Grip, so it wasn’t gamebreaking for him if his en garde relaxed a little toward the end of the bout. His legs had always been a bit of a weakness.

How—how can you duck right now? Duartes-Carr thought, desperation reaching him.

Ducking at his most exhausted state, when his legs should have been on fire, considering the injury Johan had given to his knees—it should have been unthinkable. But ever since his loss to Johan, Carr had been working hard on his ducking. His duel against the Executioner showed him that it was an effective move against high-speed fencing that came from magic, and his idea of using infighting to combat faster fencers required him to master being able to duck even when his legs felt like splitting open.

It still hurt.

It still felt impossible.

That’s the number one thing he thinks I would never do, Carr thought, that’s exactly why I’m going with it!

After ducking, he managed to dodge past Duartes’ blade and closed the distance until they were in infighting distance. I HAVE THE ADVANTAGE NOW!

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 4 (44)

The Real Bladewolves:

Carr the Champion of Earth — 7 (43)

Even from his most perfect position, his physical state had suffered enough that he was only able to score a double.

He couldn’t even roar in victory after that point, and nearly collapsed on top of his opponent, using those brief seconds of respite to rest. He can’t score for a few seconds, Carr thought, I’m going to use his shoulders to rest for a bit…just a bit…

Duartes-Carr pushed him back furiously. “I’m done with this farce. I’m not going to fence you anymore, Faker. I’m going to beat you.”

Here he advanced at him. Carr brought his sword up weakly, but there was no technique or energy behind his strike anymore. His blade wasn’t even in the right position, and Duartes-Carr managed to stab him in the chest—lightly enough not to kill him. Unlike Isabella, he wasn’t close to death, merely injured enough that he struggled to hold a blade.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 4 (44)

The Real Bladewolves:

Carr the Champion of Earth — 8 (44)

“MATCH POINT!” I announced. “If Carr the Champion of Earth scores one more point, it will be the end of the bout!”

Neither fencer showed interest in the La Belle salute, and I did not press the issue. It wasn’t mandatory, anyhow.

“DON’T GIVE UP CARR!” Fedal shouted. “JUST ONE MORE POINT!”

“You are not allowed to lose until I beat you,” Valle snarled, shaking his fist in frustration. “Come on—Carr! Win!”

But neither of his friends’ cries reached him.

Carr was standing there, exhausted, not even fully aware that the score was tied right now. He thought of his friends, how they would be disappointed if he lost right now. He thought of Celle, who wanted access to that crime scene more than she wanted to live. He thought of his friends, who he had to avenge. Then, strangely, his memories settled on his old coach, who he thought would be most disappointed of all—for losing to his French Grip self was a disgrace. He had always wanted him to pick up a Pistol Grip, and Carr had not done so until many years after his coach’s passing.

I’m sorry, Carr thought. I think…I think I always wanted to make your style of fencing shine brighter than any other, coach. You saved my life, you know? But…this is as far as I can go. Seems like my counterpuncher style is stronger than the Pistol Grip you loved so much. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry…coach.”

‘I DON’T WANT SORRY,’ his coach’s voice exploded in his head. ‘FIRST YOU WIN THE WORLD TITLE WITHOUT ME—USING A FUCKING FRENCH GRIP AT THAT—AND THEN YOU WANT TO LOSE YOUR FIRST BIG MATCH WITH A PISTOL? YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD IF THAT WAS THE CASE. IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?

It hurts so much, coach. I can’t even hold my blade properly…it’s just sitting there. It feels too heavy.

‘What do we say, Carr,’ his coach’s voice said again, in a sterner, yet more quiet tone, ‘to exhaustion?’

We tell it to fuck off.

‘That too. But what do we do if we feel like we can’t even keep the blade in place?’

We…we point it up, then take a few steps back. Let our loose hands and gravity do the work we can’t.

‘Good. What about your center of gravity?’

Shift it backward. Even if you’re exhausted, you can still fall backward, and it’s easier to keep your balance going backward than forwards.

His loose hand around his grip, Carr retreated a few steps, shifting his center of gravity.

Carr’s eyes began to refocus once more, and he was vaguely aware of the match before him. Of how there were only a few seconds left until the next point started and his opponent flew at him in full speed. Even now, he could hardly stand—his hand wasn’t even gripping at his blade anymore.

Slowly, inch by inch, he used his momentum falling backwards to counterbalance his blade, alleviating the pain at the cost of his accuracy.

‘Think. What is he going to do?’

He’s going to attack my blade…knock it out of the way. If he touches it at all, I can’t do anything. I can’t dodge it either.

‘Good. Then what is the only scenario where that doesn’t happen?’

If he doesn’t knock my blade aside at all.

‘And why wouldn’t he knock it out of the way?’

If he doesn’t have to.

‘Good!’

Carr raised his blade further high up and took another step backward just as I said, “Allez!” and Duartes-Carr flew at him.

Aiming for Carr’s arm would have been difficult, as it was high up in the air, nearly—but not quite—over his head, his blade almost pointed at the sun. But there was no need. He could have Carr’s chest quite easily from that position, without even killing him. It ends now, Faker, Duartes thought.

‘You need a stop-hit!’

If I bring my blade down at all, he’s going to knock it aside.

‘Then don’t.’

I…I can’t control my blade. I can squeeze the grip really hard at most, and even then only once.

‘What can you do, then?’

Ah.

Duartes-Carr’s blade was moving forward in a ferocious flèche. Here, he noticed that Carr started to bring his own arm down, but he did not hesitate—he could disengage off nearly anything Carr tried, and he didn’t think the man had the speed to get his blade down in time, regardless. I’m going to watch for a reaction, Duartes-Carr thought, his stats powering his reflexes.

Then, in that split second, he saw Carr’s blade stop mid-air. It wasn’t even close to being aligned for a stop-hit. No need to worry about it, then. Forward! Duartes-Carr continued his final attack, his arm going past Carr’s blade, and reaching toward his opponent’s chest. Your arm isn’t moving anymore—it’s standing completely still, you can’t move it any lower than you already did. It’s over.

‘YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO!’ Carr’s coach’s voice exploded in his head.

He stopped moving backward, and as his arm started its downward descent, squeezed his Pistol Grip as tight as he could. Carr’s entire body burned, it bled, but he didn’t even notice. His strength flowed from his heart to his shoulder to his hand, and that sudden squeeze was all that he needed.

‘People say this takes a lot of power. Bullshit. It’s all about momentum. If you’re moving backward, then stop suddenly as you squeeze your grip, the blade is going to bend.’

Carr’s arm didn’t move towards his mirror’s blade, as it had been expected. But his blade bent and its tip was sent flying downward toward the arm aiming at his chest. I lose out some distance with this, but if you’re trying to attack my torso I can aim for your arm—!

Carr had no opening for a straight attack. Every straight line was blocked by his fake’s perfect defense. But when his opponent rushed forward, he exposed himself to a different kind of attack. I can’t shoot you in the heart, Carr thought. But I’m going to curve the bullet on this one.

His blade came down, and would have missed his opponent too, trying to execute such a technique in that state—but his opponent was so fast that he didn’t need to time it carefully at all. He only stepped backwards and flickedas a stop-hit.

The final hit came.

No one said anything for a while.

Not Carr.

Not his Fake.

Not Max.

Not Katherine.

Not Fedal.

Not Valle.

Not even me.

The New Bladewolves:

Carr the Swordsman of Zero — 5 (45)

The Real Bladewolves:

Carr the Champion of Earth — 8 (44)

Not until Carr raised his fist to the air, and the arena exploded in a victorious roar.

“The match has finished—The New Bladewolves win 45-44!”