Soot-Steeped Knight (LN)
“Rraah!”
The iron blur of a sword rushed straight at me. A horizontal slash—avoiding it in lieu of defending would put me in prime position for a reprisal.
I backed off by half a pace. The incoming sword swept across the front of my chest, slicing only air. Immediately afterwards, I swiftly closed the gap between myself and my opponent.
“Ach!?”
His attack patterns up to this point have betrayed a habit: often would he fall back to a midrange position and re-assume a high guard. And now faced with an abruptly shortened distance between us, such was likely his next course of action: a back-right retreat to renew his stance.
Anticipating this, I stuck close to him, planting my left foot down where he meant to put his right.
“Wha!?”
His posture crumbled once his footwork failed him. At such close quarters, a fight often devolves into a struggle of securing positions of advantage. To gain the upper hand, one could effectively control the opponent’s own footwork by denying him useful ground.
And with my own opponent in disarray, I rammed the hilt of my sword into his abdomen, sending him tumbling into the ground. With him now defenceless and flat on his back, I trained the tip of my blade to his neck.
“…I yield,” he scowled. The onlookers stirred.
“Bloody hell, that ungraced bloke won again, can you believe that? Against Nicolai, no less!”
“Still your steed, won’t you? ‘Twas but a fluke, surely!”
“You don’t pull off flukes with finesse of that sort, I’d say. See how he moved?”
“Eh, well. A man scarce needs Her grace to wag a sword, anyhow.”
A whole year has passed since I’ve joined the Order. Still a swain, I had joined with members of another brigade for sword practice that day. None of the other Owlcranes were present.
Even without odyl, it was here that I can prove my prowess. Overwhelming opponents as I just had was earning me some recognition; scant though it may be, it was recognition nonetheless.
My opponent, this ‘Nicolai’, got up and returned to the wall of spectators. In his place, another man appeared.
“My turn to measure swords with you,” he said.
“…As you wish,” I accepted.
If memory serves, this man was the lieutenant of the 2nd Cavalry Brigade. As proof, he came equipped with silver armour and a snide smirk on his face.
“Now… begin!”
“Ssah!” I roared right upon the referee’s call, bolting straight into the lieutenant’s midst. My blade sailed up from a low guard, its arc intent upon his shin.
“Mm…?” he muttered, unable to react.
Only, the attack failed—the blade stopped short of his shin. I plucked my weapon back and wound my way to my opponent’s side.
“Dyah!” came my full-spirited shout, right in line with an oblique downward swing.
This, too, was stopped from striking its mark. The lieutenant hardly ever looked at my sword. I pulled back. In the next sliver of a moment, I closed right back in with a thrust of my blade, its tip imbued with the momentum of my entire being.
“Yyagh!” The same result: the sword tip halted just before the lieutenant’s chest.
He glanced down. “Heh.”
Next came his own attack: a rising slash from his lower right. I skirted it by a wide margin. The lieutenant clicked his tongue, disappointed.
I quickly rushed back in again. From the high guard, I propelled my sword into an exact cut down the centre. With it again stopping short of its destination, my opponent answered with a horizontal swing of his weapon.
Immediately, I tugged my blade back to guard against the attack. Only, forged of silver like his armour, the lieutenant’s blade was charged with odyl.
Our swords met. A burst of ethereal force drove into my body. I was blown back, crashing onto the ground and tumbling two, three times.
“Gegh… hah… khagh…!” my lungs reeled from the impact.
“Too busy panting to call your own defeat, eh cur?” he fleered. “Well, I’ll leave you to lick your wounds, then.” Back into the crowd he went. Quite satisfied with himself, I suppose.
“Kh-hach… hah… hakh…!”
Ungraced flesh wrung taut by odyl. A body entirely assailed by heat, pain, and vertigo. Organs shuddering, as if they’d been twisted and rearranged—all sensations I have the sole privilege of knowing. I writhed there, flat on the ground, agonising. Jeering laughter wormed its way into my ears.
“The pup sure barked his hide off, I’ll give him that. Begs the question, though: doesn’t he realise his sword’ll never reach its mark, at least?”
“Realise? Hah! I’d wager he’s too muscle-pated for the arduous thought!”
“Vacuous of odyl lore, he is, perhaps? Certainly a possibility with an ungraced, I would think.”
“Whoaー! Aha hah ha! A mite too sad an’ sorry, if that be the way of it!”
In the midst of burgeoning chuckles and chortles, I dragged myself up to my feet with the support of my sword. Before me stood yet another man.
“Why ‘allo there, mate! Er, ‘Molf’, was it? I’m next, if ye don’t mind!” he said. There was silver in his armour, as well.
“Look ‘ere, it’s Max! Oh, this’ll be a sight!”
“Max, it’s not Molf—it’s ‘Holf’. Come on, now!”
“Well, weren’t we a saintly lot, helping ungraced here with his training an’ all. Oi! Holf! Better thank us proper, y’hear?!”
Submerged in their ceaseless heckling, I suppressed the pain throbbing through my entire body.
♰
“Right, lads and lasses. Training’s over. Suppertime nears; get moving to the mess hall for your share.”
The crowds started to empty upon the call for training’s end. I was down to my knees, battered and bruised all over, as fellow officers strolled on by, busy in their jeering and jabbering.
Now left alone, I somehow climbed up back to my feet and began trundling my way out of the training grounds. That is, until I found standing before me a girl I knew well. Hair of flowing night, eyes of quiet roses—my younger sister, Felicia.
“Dear Brother…” she softly called.
Unlike myself, Felicia had received a proper share of odyl from her own rites of the Roun of Orisons. A rather astounding amount, if I recall, though not as extraordinary as Emilie’s. And just as promised, she had enlisted in the Order earlier this year.
“Felicia,” I called back. “You were watching, I gather?”
“I was… Brother, you’re hurt…”
“I’m quite all right. You needn’t be so glum, Felicia. The wounds sting less than they look,” I assured my sister, forcing a smile. A futile one, for her spirits remained unbrightened.
“Would that I were capable of mending magicks, then…” she lamented.
“No need to be hung up on that, Felicia. You’ve already committed yourself to the battle magicks, anyhow. Am I wrong?”
If I recall, Felicia was assigned to the 1st Sorcery Brigade, distinct from its other two counterparts for its focus in the attacking magicks. A perfect match, as I had heard Felicia to be highly attuned to such spells.
At one point, the Order was abristle with rumours that she had—upon learning the Globus Igneus spell during her very first training session—produced a fireball no less than thrice the girth that of her instructor’s own. Little wonder, then, that her outstanding talent often astounded her peers during practice.
“A matter, Brother, if I may?” she asked.
“What is it, Felicia?”
“Those… spars earlier. You were so adamant in cutting down your mark. But… why, if I may ask? Had you assayed a different course, surely you would have emerged less harmed…”
It seemed even my sister found my methods wayward. Who could blame her?
Repeatedly slashing at my opponents with all my might, knowing full well that none of the swings would land—what came of such efforts, other than ire and mockery from my peers, and the injuries now riddling my body? Nevermind that. I even had the gall to pick myself back up time and again, earning fresher scorn and opponents alike, only to be sent tumbling and turning once more.
My sister was right: had I tempered my efforts and yielded where I could, I would not seem the sorry sight as I was now.
Only, such was never my intent.
“Felicia. I give myself to my sword as you do to your magicks,” I explained. “Only through each and every devoted swing can my technique improve. Had I yielded even in this, what meaning, then, is there in training?”
“But to go so far… that you are hurt so…!”
“Hurt I am, of course. But look: I’m bigger than most, yes? And all the tougher for it. You needn’t worry,” I reassured her.
In the year since I’ve joined the Order, I’ve grown taller still. Being incapable of magicks afforded me precious free time, which I devoted to physical training—not only in technique, but also in building bulk. By now, I already possessed the largest figure in the entire Order.
“Is there…” Felicia started.
“Hm?”
“Is there meaning, then…? In going as far as you do?” she asked carefully, eyes shaded, with a voice that verged on fading into a whisper.
Such a question was formed in pure earnest—wrung from a troubled heart left utterly spent at the end of much deliberation and anxiety. Felicia’s words, though faint in sound, were flush with intent.
The Nafilim cannot be fought without odyl. That much is undeniable. Bereft of it, a sword will never reach its mark, no matter how swiftly, how strongly, how keenly it is wielded.
Why was it, then, that I continued to brandish my sword until I was beaten and brought low? Why keep upon a path leading nowhere? Where was the meaning in it all?
This was Felicia’s secret, precious worry for her own brother, whom she could not bear seeing so hurt. Doubtless she was told by our parents to never come near me.
Only, like Emilie, she was a daughter most kind and sincere.
“Of meanings… I’m afraid I know none, Felicia. In fact, I feel it very likely there to be none, even. But I also feel, Felicia, that in brandishing the blade to the very end, it—I can reach someplace, someday. There’s nothing left to me save this one belief,” I explained to Felicia, staring unwaveringly into her eyes. “But of certainties, I know one: if both my blade and I were to stop, we would reach nothing and nowhere at all.”
“But, Brother, that’s…”
Likely, my answer gave Felicia no solace. I must admit, I, too, feel myself beyond all help. But such was my lot and my resolve. Though I may be made a laughing stock or a pariah, there was little else I could do but have faith that there was meaning in nurturing that resolve.
“Let it be for now, Felicia,” I said. “It’s almost supper. Shouldn’t you be on your way?”
“Y… yes, I suppose I should,” replied Felicia. “Will you join me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Supper comes later for me. Go on ahead and tuck in with your brigade mates, Felicia.”
“…All right.”
There was peril in consorting like we did. I knew not how rife the Order was with the eyes and ears of our parents, and so for the longest while, I had been keeping my distance as well as I could. Little did I care of what ill would befall upon me should the worst transpire, but for Felicia’s sake, I was loath to chance casting any shadow upon that bright future of hers.
“I’ve done little but hurt you, haven’t I, Felicia…?” I whispered to myself, looking on as my sister walked sullenly away.
──── Notes ────
Globus Igneus
(Original name: “Fireball”) Fire-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of a sphere of flames, conjured and lobbed at a target. Explodes and scorches on impact.
Chapter 10: Volume 1 - CH 2.5
The iron blur of a sword rushed straight at me. A horizontal slash—avoiding it in lieu of defending would put me in prime position for a reprisal.
I backed off by half a pace. The incoming sword swept across the front of my chest, slicing only air. Immediately afterwards, I swiftly closed the gap between myself and my opponent.
“Ach!?”
His attack patterns up to this point have betrayed a habit: often would he fall back to a midrange position and re-assume a high guard. And now faced with an abruptly shortened distance between us, such was likely his next course of action: a back-right retreat to renew his stance.
Anticipating this, I stuck close to him, planting my left foot down where he meant to put his right.
“Wha!?”
His posture crumbled once his footwork failed him. At such close quarters, a fight often devolves into a struggle of securing positions of advantage. To gain the upper hand, one could effectively control the opponent’s own footwork by denying him useful ground.
And with my own opponent in disarray, I rammed the hilt of my sword into his abdomen, sending him tumbling into the ground. With him now defenceless and flat on his back, I trained the tip of my blade to his neck.
“…I yield,” he scowled. The onlookers stirred.
“Bloody hell, that ungraced bloke won again, can you believe that? Against Nicolai, no less!”
“Still your steed, won’t you? ‘Twas but a fluke, surely!”
“You don’t pull off flukes with finesse of that sort, I’d say. See how he moved?”
“Eh, well. A man scarce needs Her grace to wag a sword, anyhow.”
A whole year has passed since I’ve joined the Order. Still a swain, I had joined with members of another brigade for sword practice that day. None of the other Owlcranes were present.
Even without odyl, it was here that I can prove my prowess. Overwhelming opponents as I just had was earning me some recognition; scant though it may be, it was recognition nonetheless.
My opponent, this ‘Nicolai’, got up and returned to the wall of spectators. In his place, another man appeared.
“My turn to measure swords with you,” he said.
“…As you wish,” I accepted.
If memory serves, this man was the lieutenant of the 2nd Cavalry Brigade. As proof, he came equipped with silver armour and a snide smirk on his face.
“Ssah!” I roared right upon the referee’s call, bolting straight into the lieutenant’s midst. My blade sailed up from a low guard, its arc intent upon his shin.
“Mm…?” he muttered, unable to react.
Only, the attack failed—the blade stopped short of his shin. I plucked my weapon back and wound my way to my opponent’s side.
“Dyah!” came my full-spirited shout, right in line with an oblique downward swing.
This, too, was stopped from striking its mark. The lieutenant hardly ever looked at my sword. I pulled back. In the next sliver of a moment, I closed right back in with a thrust of my blade, its tip imbued with the momentum of my entire being.
“Yyagh!” The same result: the sword tip halted just before the lieutenant’s chest.
He glanced down. “Heh.”
Next came his own attack: a rising slash from his lower right. I skirted it by a wide margin. The lieutenant clicked his tongue, disappointed.
I quickly rushed back in again. From the high guard, I propelled my sword into an exact cut down the centre. With it again stopping short of its destination, my opponent answered with a horizontal swing of his weapon.
Immediately, I tugged my blade back to guard against the attack. Only, forged of silver like his armour, the lieutenant’s blade was charged with odyl.
Our swords met. A burst of ethereal force drove into my body. I was blown back, crashing onto the ground and tumbling two, three times.
“Gegh… hah… khagh…!” my lungs reeled from the impact.
“Too busy panting to call your own defeat, eh cur?” he fleered. “Well, I’ll leave you to lick your wounds, then.” Back into the crowd he went. Quite satisfied with himself, I suppose.
“Kh-hach… hah… hakh…!”
Ungraced flesh wrung taut by odyl. A body entirely assailed by heat, pain, and vertigo. Organs shuddering, as if they’d been twisted and rearranged—all sensations I have the sole privilege of knowing. I writhed there, flat on the ground, agonising. Jeering laughter wormed its way into my ears.
“The pup sure barked his hide off, I’ll give him that. Begs the question, though: doesn’t he realise his sword’ll never reach its mark, at least?”
“Realise? Hah! I’d wager he’s too muscle-pated for the arduous thought!”
“Vacuous of odyl lore, he is, perhaps? Certainly a possibility with an ungraced, I would think.”
“Whoaー! Aha hah ha! A mite too sad an’ sorry, if that be the way of it!”
“Why ‘allo there, mate! Er, ‘Molf’, was it? I’m next, if ye don’t mind!” he said. There was silver in his armour, as well.
“Look ‘ere, it’s Max! Oh, this’ll be a sight!”
“Max, it’s not Molf—it’s ‘Holf’. Come on, now!”
“Well, weren’t we a saintly lot, helping ungraced here with his training an’ all. Oi! Holf! Better thank us proper, y’hear?!”
Submerged in their ceaseless heckling, I suppressed the pain throbbing through my entire body.
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“Kuh, hah…” My breathing had yet to stabilise. Nevertheless, with sword in hand, I readied my stance and faced my new opponent. “…En… en garde.”♰
“Right, lads and lasses. Training’s over. Suppertime nears; get moving to the mess hall for your share.”
The crowds started to empty upon the call for training’s end. I was down to my knees, battered and bruised all over, as fellow officers strolled on by, busy in their jeering and jabbering.
Now left alone, I somehow climbed up back to my feet and began trundling my way out of the training grounds. That is, until I found standing before me a girl I knew well. Hair of flowing night, eyes of quiet roses—my younger sister, Felicia.
“Dear Brother…” she softly called.
Unlike myself, Felicia had received a proper share of odyl from her own rites of the Roun of Orisons. A rather astounding amount, if I recall, though not as extraordinary as Emilie’s. And just as promised, she had enlisted in the Order earlier this year.
“Felicia,” I called back. “You were watching, I gather?”
“I was… Brother, you’re hurt…”
“I’m quite all right. You needn’t be so glum, Felicia. The wounds sting less than they look,” I assured my sister, forcing a smile. A futile one, for her spirits remained unbrightened.
“Would that I were capable of mending magicks, then…” she lamented.
“No need to be hung up on that, Felicia. You’ve already committed yourself to the battle magicks, anyhow. Am I wrong?”
If I recall, Felicia was assigned to the 1st Sorcery Brigade, distinct from its other two counterparts for its focus in the attacking magicks. A perfect match, as I had heard Felicia to be highly attuned to such spells.
At one point, the Order was abristle with rumours that she had—upon learning the Globus Igneus spell during her very first training session—produced a fireball no less than thrice the girth that of her instructor’s own. Little wonder, then, that her outstanding talent often astounded her peers during practice.
“What is it, Felicia?”
“Those… spars earlier. You were so adamant in cutting down your mark. But… why, if I may ask? Had you assayed a different course, surely you would have emerged less harmed…”
It seemed even my sister found my methods wayward. Who could blame her?
Repeatedly slashing at my opponents with all my might, knowing full well that none of the swings would land—what came of such efforts, other than ire and mockery from my peers, and the injuries now riddling my body? Nevermind that. I even had the gall to pick myself back up time and again, earning fresher scorn and opponents alike, only to be sent tumbling and turning once more.
My sister was right: had I tempered my efforts and yielded where I could, I would not seem the sorry sight as I was now.
Only, such was never my intent.
“Felicia. I give myself to my sword as you do to your magicks,” I explained. “Only through each and every devoted swing can my technique improve. Had I yielded even in this, what meaning, then, is there in training?”
“But to go so far… that you are hurt so…!”
“Hurt I am, of course. But look: I’m bigger than most, yes? And all the tougher for it. You needn’t worry,” I reassured her.
In the year since I’ve joined the Order, I’ve grown taller still. Being incapable of magicks afforded me precious free time, which I devoted to physical training—not only in technique, but also in building bulk. By now, I already possessed the largest figure in the entire Order.
“Is there…” Felicia started.
“Hm?”
“Is there meaning, then…? In going as far as you do?” she asked carefully, eyes shaded, with a voice that verged on fading into a whisper.
Such a question was formed in pure earnest—wrung from a troubled heart left utterly spent at the end of much deliberation and anxiety. Felicia’s words, though faint in sound, were flush with intent.
The Nafilim cannot be fought without odyl. That much is undeniable. Bereft of it, a sword will never reach its mark, no matter how swiftly, how strongly, how keenly it is wielded.
Why was it, then, that I continued to brandish my sword until I was beaten and brought low? Why keep upon a path leading nowhere? Where was the meaning in it all?
This was Felicia’s secret, precious worry for her own brother, whom she could not bear seeing so hurt. Doubtless she was told by our parents to never come near me.
Only, like Emilie, she was a daughter most kind and sincere.
“Of meanings… I’m afraid I know none, Felicia. In fact, I feel it very likely there to be none, even. But I also feel, Felicia, that in brandishing the blade to the very end, it—I can reach someplace, someday. There’s nothing left to me save this one belief,” I explained to Felicia, staring unwaveringly into her eyes. “But of certainties, I know one: if both my blade and I were to stop, we would reach nothing and nowhere at all.”
Likely, my answer gave Felicia no solace. I must admit, I, too, feel myself beyond all help. But such was my lot and my resolve. Though I may be made a laughing stock or a pariah, there was little else I could do but have faith that there was meaning in nurturing that resolve.
“Let it be for now, Felicia,” I said. “It’s almost supper. Shouldn’t you be on your way?”
“Y… yes, I suppose I should,” replied Felicia. “Will you join me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Supper comes later for me. Go on ahead and tuck in with your brigade mates, Felicia.”
“…All right.”
There was peril in consorting like we did. I knew not how rife the Order was with the eyes and ears of our parents, and so for the longest while, I had been keeping my distance as well as I could. Little did I care of what ill would befall upon me should the worst transpire, but for Felicia’s sake, I was loath to chance casting any shadow upon that bright future of hers.
“I’ve done little but hurt you, haven’t I, Felicia…?” I whispered to myself, looking on as my sister walked sullenly away.
──── Notes ────
Globus Igneus
(Original name: “Fireball”) Fire-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of a sphere of flames, conjured and lobbed at a target. Explodes and scorches on impact.
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