Valle

Range works in a few different ways. It is a defensive tool, yes, but it is also an offensive one. My blade was heavier and longer than his, parrying it would have been quite difficult—but hardly impossible, especially without stats magic of any sort. Carr had managed to parry the Executioner’s longsword despite stats, after all. Even if it had cost him his arm.

My fleche would, therefore, be mighty difficult for him to avoid. But if this man was trained by Carr’s master, there was no way he would let it end like this. “Show me your next move,” I muttered, mid-air.

Mundo did not betray my expectations, dropping to his knees in Carr’s traditional ducking move. From that angle, there was a fair chance that my heavy blade would miss him entirely, and at that point range would be entirely irrelevant. Unfortunately for him, that was exactly what I had been aiming for. This wasn’t match meant to be won. It was a match meant to declare to those people, ‘VALLE OF CRESNA HAS ARRIVED!’

The fleche was meant as bait. Stopping the movement is difficult and dangerous, yes, but following through with a running attack with sharp blades? Without so much as stats to protect you? Now that’s insanity, the realm of mad men and Carr. Coming to a sudden halt from such a committed attack was difficult, but the range of the rapier again helped here. It was long enough that my opponent was forced to duck early, and this gave me ample time to bring my torso backward and my front foot to the ground to come to a sudden stop.

And so here we stopped, him sitting down, and me coming to a stop. Yet what surprised him the most was that I let go from my sword, then used my sword hand to grab his, pulling it away from him. There was a sudden gasp from the crowd, and Mundo himself looked at me with a mixture of shock and bafflement on his face.

Of course, the crowd’s jeers came soon after.

“The rules said I couldn’t use my off hand to catch the blade, nothing against using my sword hand,” I declared.

Again the crowd jeered. Ah, it was most unusual, to hear those intense boos. Every part of me screamed to apologize to them, to try to earn their trust. But that was the amateur inside of me that spoke, and his voice deserved no attention. There is a professional actor inside every man’s heart, and he flourishes when his feet touch the stage.

This was my stage.

“Obrigado![Thank you]” I told the crowd, using the little of the language Carr had taught me.

They did not want me to lose, they wanted me to die at that moment. It was an intense, brief emotion. A few hours from now, they would not remember wishing harm upon me. Yet in that sporting event, I was the outsider, and thus worse than a foreign army. Their champion struggled against me, and I took them lightly. This was not how to win their hearts, surely. Nevada would tell me to play up to them more, to try to gain their favor.

But that is not how you win over the hearts of a foreign crowd.

You do not ask for their love.

You tame them like a wild animal. Murder them with your acting. Get them on their feet by any means necessary. Wise men have spoken of how apathy is the antithesis of love, not hate. Well, personally, my belief is that they are wrong—hate is cruel, horrifying. That applies only when speaking of interpersonal relationships, however. Men of the theater will take hatred over apathy any day.

Razil was not a country to be placated by empty words.

These were people who emanated a sense that everything would work out, one way or another. They were not bound by laws of respect, nor were they particularly concerned with propriety. Razilians wore most immodest clothes, with men wearing open jackets without shirts underneath and women wearing trousers that often stopped before the knees. A people for whom reverence was worth of mockery, and irreverence was worthy of respect.

Platitudes would do us no good here. These people needed to be confronted, to smile, gasp, hate, laugh, and to settle not on ‘This man is someone we respect’ but rather ‘This man is interesting.’

Let this show them how interesting I was.

“Time!” The referee rushed over to pull Mundo’s blade from me and pass it back to him to him. “One minute coaching!”

With that chorus of jeers behind me, I shrugged and walked back to my end of the arena, where Carr awaited me with a concerned expression, sitting down in the coach’s area.

“Good start,” Carr told me, his eyes fixated on Mundo and King(President?) Mikhail. “Very good start. It’s going to get tricky now, though. You never had a duel with a break like this before, have you?”

“Not once.” Every duel I fought was fought to death, surrender or five points—this was new. “I suppose that will change the dynamic of this contest?”

Carr nodded, and cursed beneath his breath. “Your opponent always makes adjustments to his style. Things change. But most of all, it will keep him from being tunnel visioned. That guy, Mundo…he was trying to take your blade the entire match. That shit clearly isn’t working, so Mikhail is going to tell him to change.” Carr drew a deep breath, placing both elbows on his thighs and resting his face on intertwined fingers. His hands shook slightly. I have never seen him so nervous. Not against me, not against Carter, not even against Johan. This was different. He’s not even the one fighting today. What shook his nerves so?

Ah.

“You fear you cannot anticipate his strategy?”

There was a slow nod of agreement from him. “If I had to guess based on past tendencies…Mikhail would have him focus less on takes and more on beats. Bounce in and out of distance, then try to beat your blade downward as he’s finishing his bounce forward, then close in the distance. Range is your ally right now, so if he takes this to an infighting position it should bring him closer to winning. Only…” Carr opened his left palm and punched it, his face contorting in anger. “Mikhail is the greatest coach in the world. There’s no fucking way he’s going to be that predictable. What really made that man so good is that he adapted on the fly, noticed the smallest things. He would anticipate what the other coach was going to do, and beat them down completely. Guy was really good.”

Ah…so that was it. How selfish of a king to ignore his subjects’ feelings. Carr was not the one in the piste today, but he was still fighting his own battle today. You are fighting against your coach today, I realized, with wonder. The reason Carr had been so quick to agree to allowing me to be the one on the piste hadn’t been selflessness or maturity. He wanted to have a duel of his own against the man he respected the most. That is why he stood today as a coach.

“I was of mind that my blade should enthral the crowd,” I managed slowly, “mayhap that was selfish of me. It did not occur to me how important this match was for you. Perhaps a focus on victory is more—”

Carr shook his head. “I want you to fence just like you do,” he muttered. “Don’t fence for your coach. Fence for yourself. A good coach is there to support you, not to be supported. I’m not going to make you fence like I would.”

“But—”

“If he does go for beats and infighting,” Carr cut me off, “then I want you to dance, just like we planned. Is that clear? Your range should let you do that without problem.”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “Listen to me…you are wrong about one thing.”

“What is that?”

“You said Mikhail is the greatest coach int he world. That’s wrong.”

“He is!” Carr’s voice was defensive and protective, his face flushing in anger. “There is no one in the world who can compete with—”

I did not let him finish. “That is wrong,” I told him, “because the greatest coach in the world is standing right in front of me.”

Carr opened his mouth to protest, but he closed it at the sight of my smile, chuckling to himself and sighing. His shoulders relaxed, and he looked at me. “One day that will be my title,” he said, “but I am not interested in it quite yet. Strongest Fencer will be mine first.”

We held our gaze for a moment, then nodded as I walked back toward the piste. Yes, I was king. Yes, we had a war to fight. Yes, we had an alliance to obtain. Yes, Johan had to be gotten rid of. Yet it was not any of those factors that truly captured our attention most of all. Damn it all to hell, if need be.

Vyzerworth.

The World Cup.

We have a debt to settle between us still.

“Fencers ready?” The referee asked. “Begin!”

It was strange.

Mundo was a good fencer, yes, but to be perfectly frank—I was better. This was not my pride as a champion speaking, only cold observation. Even disregarding our weapon difference, there was no doubt in my mind I would have bested him. This hardly seemed reasonable, for I had been learning fencing for just under a year while my opponent was supposedly being trained by Carr’s very master for quite the long period of time. At first, I had been approaching the match under the assumption he was the superior fencer, but this didn’t seem to be the case.

Concerning, that.

It implied much, and I dared not think about it. It was not the time. Yet another clue brought the thought to the forefront of my mind again.

Mundo adopted Carr’s prediction—he was trying to beat at my blade now, with that intense bouncing footwork that my mind had come to associate with Carr. But Carr’s prediction had been that his coach would not have advised him to make that adjustment. What did this mean? Could he be losing on purpose? No. The man who trained Carr would not dishonor himself such, I thought, angrily. But that means—that means…

Where had his master’s creativity gone?

“Shitty kid,” Mikhail yelled at Mundo, “keep going! Beat, beat, beat!”

There was no creativity to this advice. Knowledge, yes, but no creativity. What did that mean? Could it mean that—but Carr has never been happier—he would be—

No.

That was not the time to consider it.

A fencer must focus on the duel, and an actor must focus on the crowd. This was my stage still, and I still had a crowd to win over.

“You wish for a closer distance of engagement?” I announced, in a booming, theatrical voice. He did not understand my language, and neither did the crowd. But they understood my royal tone, my arms open wide, the smile on my face, and the confidence with which I used my free hand to signal him forward with two fingers. What had Carr said were the words again? Ah, of course… “Dance comigo!” [Dance with me]

Mundo bounced forward and attempted at using a beat eight, bringing his blade downward as his feet touched the ground. My blade disengaged around his, slower but with sharper movement, and when his blade was low, I ran past him.

A shorter fencer has an advantage when it comes to infighting. This was something Carr demonstrated in his duel against both Carter and Max. Yet, this logic, however sound, did not apply when duels like this where parties used different weapons. The epee had a theoretical advantage against the rapier in close combat, true, but there was a major difference in the two weapons still. Unlike the epee, the rapier was not only capable of thrusts, but also cuts.Weak cuts, perhaps, but there was an edge to the blade nonetheless. This made adjustment for angles much less of a necessity.

Thus, as we tangled up in infighting range, rather than struggle to find an angle to pull my arm backward, I stepped past him as if dancing, then brought my sword arm behind me as I passed to cut at his side.

Valle of Cresna — 7

Mundo of Razil — 2

This point didn’t end with the scoring of the hit. Before the crowd was even fully aware of what had just unfolded, before my legs even stopped moving, I pumped my fist toward them, a friendly smile on my face and invited them to celebrate along with me. Some weak, confused cheers came out—nationalism was there, true, but many present were also fans of the sport and they were impressed by my movement.

It wasn’t enough.

I needed more.

Mundo rushed at me again, muttering something in that language I did not understand, and again we repeated the same dance. This time my movements were sharper, faster, and my celebration flowed more smoothly. They did not know my language, nor did they know me at all. But they needed something to lose their minds over. What did the crowds in Cresna always do? Ah. Of course. “VA-LLE-OF-CRES-NA!” I shouted at the crowd, pumping my fist with that elegant cut.

Some jeers still, but a few polite cheers came.

Valle of Cresna — 8

Mundo of Razil — 2

Another exchange. This time I would have to vary things up. Why is this so easy? Isn’t this man trained by Carr’s coach? I banished the thought and focused on a different pattern. When he tried beating my blade, I disengaged, then used the flat side of my blade to smack his wrist down, causing him to drop his sword. Far too easy. What is wrong? A simple thrust would have done it, but instead I rushed past him and delivered an elegant, classy tap to the underside of his leg.

Valle of Cresna — 9

Mundo of Razil — 2

“VA-LLE-OF-CRES-NA!” I shouted again.

This time, some of the crowd were starting to pick up the cheer. Mikhail cursed from the other side of the piste, appearing increasingly upset with every chant, and every point. The crowd still detested me, but some had started to embrace my attitude.

Be irreverent.

Show no respect and demand none.

Carr shouted, “Bebida de graça se o Valle ganhar!”[Alcohol for free if Valle wins]. I had no idea what that meant, but I heard my name mentioned and the crowd started to support me quite a bit more after that happened. Surely Carr had told them something glorious about myself. That was fine. The support was all I needed.

Valle of Cresna — 10

Mundo of Razil — 2

“VA-LLE-OF-CRES-NA!” I shouted again.

Valle of Cresna — 11

Mundo of Razil — 2

“VA-LLE-OF-CRES-NA!” This time, the crowd finished the chant for me.

Valle of Cresna — 12

Mundo of Razil — 2

“VA-LLE-OF-CRES-NA!” There was no need to even say it this time. The crowd started and finished the chant before I did.

The whole time, I was wary of a sudden comeback, of Mundo suddenly displaying a talent beyond what he had shown so far. For Carr’s master to show a strategy that truly demonstrated the extents of his legend. But to me, Mundo seemed like a competent, if not particularly well-taught fencer and Mikhail did not appear like the masterful coach Carr had boasted about.

There was no miracle.

There was no comeback.

Valle of Cresna — 15

Mundo of Razil — 2

This isn’t right.

The crowd cheered, here, and appeared to be at least partially on my side—which was a rather monumental victory. This should have filled my heart with pride, and it should have made my celebration a show of true triumph. Ah, yes, I roared, I thundered, but it was all as an actor, not a sportsman. The crowd needed to see me overjoyed here. That was not how I felt.

Two emotions coloured my reaction then.

The first was disappointment, that my opponent and his master had not proved to be a challenge. It was my sincere hope that my very first duel without stats being even a possibility for either side would have been a more hotly contested one. As it was, this felt too one-sided, enough that if not for the man’s constant cursing I would have assumed they threw the match on purpose. I was good, but not this good.

The second emotion was concern, when I looked over at Carr.

He was clapping alongside the crowd and he smiled much like everyone else, but there was a distinct paleness to his face, the corners of his lips too forcefully held in position, the slightest hint of a frown on his forehead.

Ah. He…he is starting to suspect it too.

I prayed we were both wrong.