Those who underwent training to become a Sorceress's Knight learned a great many things: history, math, literature, geography, science, and more. They were not just a partner and a protector, they were also a scholar, a confidant, and someone that a Sorceress could use to bounce ideas off of. That was why the curriculum of Arcadia's Knight Academy was so intensive and in-depth. Young nobles learned far more than which end of a sword they were supposed to stick into their opponent.

Intensive academics aside, combat was still considered the premier subject that all Sorceress's Knight candidates needed to excel in. It didn't matter how intelligent someone was if they couldn't protect the person they were supposed to look after.

The main purpose of a Sorceress's Knight was to protect a Sorceress from danger while she summoned a spirit. Spirits took time to summon depending on the power of the spirit and the chant being used. A light spirit being summoned for a basic chant to illuminate the area around a Sorceress would take less time to summon than a light spirit with a longer chant to burn an opponent's retina or―Gaia forbid―a chant to wipe out an entire city.

Caspian found himself standing in a spacious training hall along with the rest of the Sorceress's Knight candidates, all fifteen of them. They were lined up in a row, many of them looking eager to prove themselves. Their instructor, a tall man with solid muscles, a square face, and wearing basic leather armor with extra padding stood in front of them. Grasped firmly in his massive, calloused hand was a large wooden claymore that looked about as tall as him.

The training hall was just that, a large room nearly twice as long as it was wide. The room consisted of the same stone walls and arched ceiling as every other room at the academy, but it also contained a platform situated at its center. It covered much of the floor, this platform, leaving only a bit of space for students to stand. Hanging along the walls were various weapons that were meant more for decoration than practical application.

As they stood before him, the instructor cleared his throat before speaking in a loud, booming voice that echoed through the training hall. "Okay, everyone, you know how this goes. You're going to be sparring with me today. Wait until I call your name, and then come onto the platform where I'll test your abilities and see how much you've learned in the past three years." After saying this, the instructor glanced down at the board in his hand and called out the first name on the list. "Ichiya Clouse!"

As Ichiya, a little weedy kid who looked more like a fourteen year old than a sixteen year old, walked onto the platform, Caspian zoned out. He wasn't particularly interested in watching his peers spar. Instead, he thought about his own time spent at the academy.

Unlike most students who arrived at the age of thirteen, Caspian had been living at the academy since he was ten. He hadn't taken part in any of the classes back then―he hadn't been old enough at the time―but he'd spent a good deal of that time in the library and, when he could, sneaking into the training hall to practice his own swordsmanship. Even after being scolded repeatedly for not obeying instructions, he'd continued sneaking about, much to the faculty and headmaster's dismay.

That dismay had turned into outrage from many of the staff when he turned thirteen, and the headmaster announced that he would be attending the academy with the nobles.

The first two years at the academy were spent enhancing one's physical strength and endurance through exercises and stretches. During that two year period, students learned what sort of combatants they were. Different warriors had more talent in different aspects of battle. Some relied on speed, others strength. Some preferred precision, while some simply took to striking whenever the opportunity arose. It all relied on a person's innate skill and the way their body was built.

"Caspian... Caspian... Caspian Ignis del Sol!"

Blinking several times as the sound of someone calling his name snapped him out of his reverie, Caspian looked up to see everyone staring at him―all except the instructor, who gave him an irritated glare instead.

"I'm sorry, were you calling me?" he asked, his eyes going from surprised back to their perpetually bored look.

The instructor gave him an annoyed grunt. "Of course I'm talking to you! Do you know any other Caspian's here?"

What a pleasant response.

"There's no need for sarcasm, instructor Murdock," Caspian said as he walked onto the platform. The instructor did not take his nonchalance very well, if the expression on his face was any indication. It was beginning to turn purple. A nasty color that. It made him look like he was going to puke or something.

"Maybe I wouldn't be sarcastic if you paid attention in class," the instructor snapped. Caspian had to concede the man's point... to a point.

"I would pay attention, but honestly, it's way too troublesome to bother paying any attention to what goes on in this class." And every other class. He was far ahead of most of his peers. The stuff they were learning he'd already learned. They were lessons taught to him by the person he'd stayed with before coming to the academy. His prolonged stays in the library, the only place he could go to get away from the people and their scornful eyes, also helped.

The library was also the only place that Christo would never go near. That guy hated books with a passion.

Maybe I shouldn't be so blunt, Caspian thought when he saw the look of outrage Instructor Murdok wore, his face having gone red and his lips peeling back into an almost feral snarl. Then again, this was one of the faculty members who, more often than not, treated him like utter garbage. He didn't put up with being disrespected by his peers, and he wouldn't put up with it from his teachers. Besides, watching the man rage like a child who hadn't gotten his way was amusing.

Time to add fuel to fire. And salt to an open wound.

"I mean no offense by this, but I didn't come here to watch others loaf around and make light of combat training. I came to learn. Having you pander to the lowest common denominator makes it hard for me to even want to pay attention in your class."

Caspian continued to insult the older, more experienced man, watching carefully as the instructor's arms began to shake with barely constrained rage. His face, a mottled mass of purple and red, was more than ready to explode. It would only be a matter of seconds now. Just one more push.

"Well? Come on, instructor." Caspian held out the wooden sword he'd been given at the start of class. "I haven't got all day."

That was the last straw for Instructor Murdok.

"Ready! Set! Fight!"

Not even a countdown before starting the match? He must have really pissed his instructor off this time. That was perfectly alright. Just like he'd planned. If the man was angry, then his judgment would be clouded and he wouldn't fight at his best.

Instructors at the academy were people who had the power and skill necessary to become a Sorceress's Knight but, for whatever reason, had been unable to achieve that highly sought after status. They were masters of their art and more than capable of defeating a student like himself. However, even the most skilled warrior could be defeated if they weren't thinking with a clear head.

The instructor charged straight at him without even a hint of subtlety. His attack, a slash that would have cut Caspian apart from left shoulder to right hip―if weapons made of wood were capable of cutting―was dodged when Caspian sidestepped to the left, raising his sword into a guard position at the same time.

As the blade soared past him, Caspian lashed at his instructor with a horizontal slice that would have opened up the man's throat if they were using real weapons. Too bad instructor Murdok was quicker than he looked and managed to backpedal out of the way in time. Just how the man could move so quickly with such a large, clunky-looking sword was beyond him.

The next exchange happened much the same way. Instructor Murdok came in with a series of heavy swings, while Caspian used his much smaller blade to try slipping attacks through the man's guard. Neither managed to land any decisive blows on their second assault, though not for lack of trying.

Because Instructor Murdok's weapon was so ponderously large, he couldn't bring it up in time to actually deflect any counterattack Caspian might make. To solve this problem, instead of trying to reverse the swing of his claymore, he simply spun around in a circle before swinging the weapon at a different angle and in a different direction. This also had the effect of forcing Caspian to back off if he didn't want to get hit.

Caspian would reluctantly admit that, even when angry, instructor Murdok was good. He swung his sword faster than most people who used regular broadswords, and each one carried with it enough power to send him skidding backwards. This forced Caspian to dodge every attack entirely, lest he be knocked off his feet simply from blocking―and he hadn't quite gotten the hang of deflecting attacks at an angle so they would simply slide off his blade.

Back and forth the two moved. They danced across the mat in a flurry of sword swings and the heavy thunking of wood. Caspian's blade was much smaller and therefore easier to swing. He was also a lot faster than his instructor. Yet the instructor had more combat experience and could predict the patterns in Caspian's attacks more easily than he could the instructor's. After another exchange that ended in a stalemate, the two backed off, breathing heavily.

"You've got some quick moves, old man."

"Tch!" Instructor Murdok glared at him. "It's not that I'm quick. You're just slow."

"Ho?" Half-lidded eyes sharpened at those words, narrowing as a nearly feral smile curled Caspian's lips upwards. "Then I suppose I need to kick this up a notch, don't I?"

Deciding to take charge of the spar's flow, Caspian burst forward at twice the speed he showed previously. Four steps and he was practically in front of Instructor Murdok's face. The man in question tried to attack him with his claymore. Unfortunately for him, Claymores were large and, though it gave him incredible reach, it did very little when someone was up so close. Caspian was already in his guard.

Ducking low, Caspian allowed the wooden claymore to graze his hair. He could feel the wind rushing over him, feel the way his hair swayed, along with the sting of several strands that were yanked out of his skull when they were caught in the grains of the massive weapon. And then it was gone. The swing was complete, the sword out of his range, and he was low enough that it wouldn't have mattered anyway.

Dropping his sword and planting both hands on the ground, Caspian swiftly struck out with his left leg in a low, sweeping kick. Caught off guard by the unorthodox maneuver, instructor Murdok was unable to move away in time and fell flat on his backside when his opponent's foot caught him in the heel, throwing him off balance. Before he even had a chance to get back up, Caspian grabbed his blade by the handle, stood up, and turned to face him.

Surprisingly sharp eyes were only matched by the shark-toothed grin on Caspian's face, as the business end of his sword pointed directly at Instructor Murdok, the tip of which touched the older man's nose.

"I do believe this is my win, instructor."