Mages use mana and fencers use prana. Even a child could tell you that much. Those who studied a little further knew that the energy used was actually the same in both cases.

  The key difference was metaphysical: how the circuitry was wired in the user.

  Mana was an outward-flowing energy form and prana was an inward-flowing energy form. That being the case, prana couldn't be projected out of the body in elaborate rituals, but was used to enhance innate physical capability instead.

  A magical technique imitating the same principle existed, Mana Boost, but its effect remained always only “single-layered.” Mana could pass through the circuitry only in one direction in a continuous loop, limited by channel capacity. Meanwhile, prana could fold in on itself, in a sense, granting a sort of inverted version of mages' growth.

  Beyond that, since prana didn’t need specialized instructions but manifested directly through muscles, the activation delay was dramatically shorter. Even better, being pumped full of intense energy provided solid resistance against magical and physical effects alike.

  These advantages made a world of difference in a fight. As long as the combatants were within striking range of each other, a warrior was practically guaranteed to always win over a mage. It wasn't technically possible to cast rituals faster than a sword could cut you down. Though there were exceptions to every rule.

  In the past, there were only swordsmen, but the evolution of prana techniques diminished the importance of big muscles and let women rise to starring roles on the battlefield. So the more gender-neutral fencer was recommended these days.

  Rosslyn Graves was a Tier 2 fencer, and I was a Tier 2 mage.

  Even if both of us performed flawlessly, her physical potential was several times higher than mine. It was a match between a cat and a mouse.

  Knowing the premise, the other prefects could only think I was an idiot to accept her caveman “test.” I was clueless and arrogant and forgetting my place in my apparent hunger for achievements.

  Even the ones who'd backed my membership had looks marked by conflict when we gathered in the dimly lit training hall number 2. Why bother coming all this way? The outcome was a given. Nobody enjoyed seeing a new student be humiliated. Among us, only mage novice Lycan had a wide smile on his face, like expecting to see a riveting clown show.

  The Sword course training halls were similar to those near the Arcane department in layout, with one visible difference. The walls all the way around the hall were covered in racks full of wooden training weapons. Simple one-handed swords, heavier clubs for training swing strength, poles of varied lengths, shields, punching bags…

  It was late, the skylight lent us no more visibility and the room had lamps installed, so we set up lanterns around to see better. Their subdued, warm glow conjured a primal, ancient mood, our elongated shadows streaked across the walls. The night seemed to call for blood. Rather than a play match between trainees, it had the feel of an execution.

  Showing no feeling, Rosslyn went and singled out a short sword, as expected, and then took a stand in the trampled red triangle outline on the central floor.

  Vanille glanced at me, no longer able to hide her unease.

  “Hey. Maybe we’d better not do this, after all?”

  “Should I go ask for a healer?” the third prince volunteered.

  “That won't be necessary,” Rosslyn said. “I don't intend to go all out.”

  “How very kind of you,” I said. “Truly you are an example to all seeking knighthood.”

  “Was that meant to be sarcasm? Clearly, you don't understand your own situation. Or is the prefect office only a jest to you?”

  “First you ask me to help and now you're chasing me away with swords, what else can you call this but a joke?”

  Rosslyn flinched. “That's not what—”

  “—I know. I was only messing with you. You should lighten up a little. I'm here to prove my competence. I haven't forgotten that.”

  A Swordmaster shouldn’t be thrown off her game so easily. This girl still had a long way to go.

  Rosslyn cleared her throat.

  “...Ahem. Yes. If you can endure my attacks for a time, we shall recognize you as qualified to run the same tasks as the rest of us. But if your performance is unconvincing, I expect you will show proper sense and withdraw your application voluntarily.”

  “And how long do I need to endure?”

  “As long as it takes to earn recognition from the majority of us.”

  So could be ten minutes. Could be ten days. What fair terms. I nodded to show I agreed.

  Rosslyn continued,

  “You're naturally allowed to use any magic you know, or other means available here. This test is about your ability to survive, after all. Your ability to adapt and not give in to fear. I’m confident I can handle anything you throw at me, so don’t bother holding back.”

  I was most certainly going to have to hold back.

  Burning my opponent to ashes was not fine. Neither could I throw rubber balls at this lady. Even an apprentice fencer could nail a straightforward pitch, unless I took the speed to life-threatening levels. Then, how should I handle this…

  I went over to the side wall. As the others stared on under growing confusion, I selected a sturdy-looking one-handed sword from the rack and returned to the central floor. Seeing my tool of choice, a glint of wrath lit in Rosslyn's normally dispassionate eyes.

  “A mage facing a fencer with a sword?” she growled. “Are you mocking me now, Ruthford!?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Try not to get too excited. My magic just happens to be a bit nonstandard.”

  “You mean to say that's your catalyst...?”

  “Who knows. I’d be very foolish indeed if I told that to my enemy, wouldn't I?”

  “Pfft! Hahahaha!” Alexander Lycan could no longer hold it in but burst into a loud holler at my words. The others stared on in muted dismay.

  Rosslyn swallowed her anger with effort.

  “...Fine. I acknowledge that your trash talk skills are up to par, at least.” She glanced Vanille's way. “President, could you give us the signal?”

  Her face tight, Vanille D'Arnos stepped forward on the chipped line splitting the hexagon arena.

  “Do both of you agree to this duel?” she asked.

  We both agreed.

  “Both accept the result, whatever it may be, the consequences, and won’t be angry about it later?”

  We agreed again.

  “…Do you promise not to hurt each other too badly? Fight fairly!”

  “President…”

  “Okay, okay! Then, get ready!” She raised her arm up high. Her hand wavered a little, and then she swung it down like a blade. “And—fight!”

  I was distracted by the fluidity of Vanille’s arm motion and the corresponding bounce of her chest under the uniform jacket, and that left me late to the match.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  Meanwhile, Rosslyn lunged forward like a javelin flung by a star athlete. She crossed the generous gap between us in a few spirited leaps, and the last time her heel touched down on the stone floor, her wooden blade flew up for an overhead cut. But though she wasn't exactly messing around, she put no prana into her swing.

  But I never meant to face her with only my arm strength.

  Of course I’d know an elementary technique like Mana Boost, which was merely an extension of standard circulation. The sublime fine control that swordsmanship required may not have been possible for me; it would've been like trying to use grenades to fly. But only having a firm enough power flow could make my body intensely rigid and help absorb impacts.

  I received Rosslyn's descending sword with my own, stilled the momentum, and then pushed her back with a low thrust.

  “Khh…”

  She slid across the stone floor like on slippery ice, then to hurriedly rebuild her wavering poise, shrugged off the dismay at being parried and closed in again, aiming at my neck from the side. I held my weapon still and firmly in front of me, my figure converted to a statue of mana, received the blow, and returned the force her way again.

  She got more serious now, drawing power. But her prana utilization was still basic, nicely put. It took time and training to adjust to the performance increase from prana even at lower levels, without losing control or hurting yourself. Rosslyn employed her energy cautiously in only short bursts. It made her faster, her strikes heavier, but also more straightforward and easier to read.

  The exchange went on, growing still fiercer, her trying to overwhelm me with speed and power. She wasn’t entirely stupid. When one approach failed, she’d take distance, think it over, and try again, not giving in to anger and frustration. Clearly, she'd received competent training even before coming to Belmesion. But the outcome wasn't about to change.

  Because I wasn’t really a Tier 2 mage.

  My circuit density was incomparable to a novice, and so was the reinforcement effect when my channel was charged. Ironically, the rings' suppressing effect made Mana Boost significantly easier for me to use, and I could even manage small movements without throwing myself on the walls with the recoil.

  And I’d seen swordsmen before. Thousands, tens of thousands—hundreds of thousands of swordsmen from all over the continent, representing the most imaginative schools and styles. I’d seen superhumans representing the apex of ability clash with the intent to tear each other apart.

  I couldn't hold a candle to an authentic Swordmaster, maybe, but there was no chance a mere trainee could overwhelm me. Compared to the assassin in summer, Rosslyn's movements were like those of an 80-year-old grandmother.

  Meanwhile, the witnesses stood dumbfounded by the show.

  “What’s going on...? Why won’t Rosslyn just end it?”

  “She almost lands a hit but then pulls back...?”

  “Is this going to take much longer?”

  Rosslyn stopped, her breathing visibly burdened, a deep frown darkening her handsome face.

  “Are you using some kind of defensive magic…?” she asked me.

  What was she on about?

  Ah, right. Since prana couldn’t be projected out of the body, not many fencers had the sensory skills to perceive energy.

  Equivalent prana-based techniques did exist, but I guess they were still too advanced for her. In the absence of any visible effects, she thought I was fighting her au naturel the whole time. Was she quite sane? Even without extrasensory abilities, she should've realized my deflections weren’t anatomically possible.

  “Is that true?” the third prince asked Lycan. “Was Ruthford using magic?”

  “Hmm…” Lycan posed thoughtfully for a bit, staring at me, a bit past me, and then smiled and shrugged. “I don't know! Maybe she's just strong as a gorilla?”

  “I'm using magic!” I snapped back. “Obviously!”

  I felt like an idiot for treating this play even half-seriously.

  “This isn’t much of a demonstration, as it is,” I said to my opponent. “How about raising the level a bit? Somebody told me you had relatives in Bluemoon Blades. If that’s true, then I trust you know Sir Bartholomeo Graves. Am I right?”

  “That’s the name of my uncle…!” the girl grunted, stunned.

  “Very good. His Horizon might be a bit too much for you, but I imagine you know Crescent, at least. Since it's a basic technique taught at your House.”

  Her astonishment wasn’t getting any better.

  “You’re right that those are techniques of our family school! So how could you know either of them, as a mage!?”

  “My mother is an army general and one of the best Swordmasters in the Kingdom. Is it any surprise then that I’d know a few famous sword techniques, despite being a mage? Never mind that. Could you perform Crescent for us now? To humor your fellow prefects. Otherwise, they might start to question your skills together with mine.”

  Rosslyn's face darkened at the request.

  “Do you even realize what you’re asking? That move must never be used against another person! It was created for exterminating hellions!”

  They sure put no bans on its use at war.

  “At Tier 2 intensity, I can handle it,” I said.

  “You can't be—”

  “—Entirely serious. I am. I don't want to hear any complaints later that I cheated to win, or that it was a fluke. Nor do I want to duel everyone here one by one to convince them. So let's wrap up with suitable impact that leaves no room for doubt.”

  “You're out of your mind. Risking your life for a mere demonstration! Once I begin the technique, I won't be able to stop it. I don’t know what you’re planning, but one wrong move and you'll be in two pieces!”

  “We agreed earlier, didn't we? Both will accept the outcome and its consequences. I won't be crying about my mistakes, as a grown adult. A bit redundant; I wouldn't be crying since I'd be dead.”

  “Aren't you afraid to die?”

  “Of course I'm not. I wouldn’t be here if I were.”

  I was walking on the edge of the blade every day. One careless error and someone could die, and I might spend the rest of my days in a rocky box without windows. If the thought of my own miserable end scared me, I’d lock myself up in a wardrobe and never come out.

  But what happens, it happens.

  At my blunt words, Rosslyn gripped her sword once more and assumed a diagonal stance with the left side forward, the sword held horizontally in front of her face, with the tip aimed at my center of mass. The starting form of Crescent.

  “It's not like I came here to be a coward either,” she exclaimed. “Everyone present may attest that you asked for it! You've dragged my family name and teachings into this, so face the consequences—no regrets!”

  The mood about her was appropriately determined now.

  It was a game no more. You couldn’t execute authentic sword techniques without the resolve to kill. Even if the others wanted to stop us, they were unable to move, arrested before the spectacle of chivalrous honor and pride. There was something divine about a warrior raising a blade for her beliefs. It may have been only oak in her hands then, but anyone caught in that tool’s path would certainly be mowed down like hay.

  “En garde!” Rosslyn Graves declared, her voice heavy with fighting spirit, and then she moved.

  A dazzling burst of prana. The sword in her hands drew a clean, round curve over the floor towards me. A simple arc, like the silhouette of the moon, for which the technique was named. It was the consciously woven harmony of superhuman power, will, and bodily action that elevated a move from a mere “cut” to a unique “technique”.

  The explosive start, the slight lull in the middle of the wave, and then the final, lethal acceleration to the climax—every necessary component was properly present. It was unmistakably Sir Bartholomeo’s sword, which I’d seen claim hundreds of lives in the scorched fields of Arbusia, where that honorable man fell, spent to the last before the endless enemy waves. But the great Knight's niece was still only an apprentice, not a master. The clear blue wave of the cut was only a barely visible afterglow. The dull tip of the blade trembled, left alone to struggle against air resistance. She couldn’t extend her prana fully to the tool.

  The sword and its holder had yet to become one.

  Well, it was still deadly enough against an ordinary mortal like me. I had to defend.

  I crouched a bit and conjured a String loop along the wooden blade of my instrument, and cut up across her strike’s path. It took some care, slicing between us but without anyone's body parts left in the path of the cut.

  We both stopped at the same time.

  The audience gasped sharply. In their eyes, it had to have looked like I was struck. Split from the hip to the shoulder. Not even a High Priest could put me back together after that.

  But Rosslyn's sword no longer had a blade. Only a short stub was left in her grip, the other half clattering on the floor by the wall near the door. She stared at the shortened instrument, eyes wide, and didn't even breathe. I held out my still whole stick close to her neck, so that she could feel on her skin the vibrations of the deadly force still faintly running on the edge.

  “... It's my loss,” the girl conceded and closed her eyes with a sigh.

  “What just happened?” the third prince asked, blinking. “Was that magic too?”

  “So it would appear…” Lycan muttered, rubbing his chin.

  “Of course it was magic,” Harlow interjected from the side. “As if any of that were humanly possible otherwise!”

  But the most surprised among the prefects was the president.

  “Hope...How?” Vanille gasped aloud, staring at me, her face pale. “That was Sir Lebercant’s Trembling Blade!”

  “Hey, hey!” Harding butted in, shaking Vanille's shoulder. “Does that mean we have another Sword Saint candidate at our school? Who cares about the office now, this is history in the making!”

  A mage becoming a Sword Saint?

  “Don't be ridiculous,” I said and shook my head, addressing my words to the president. “Mine was only a magical imitation of a similar principle. The technique is not the final destination, but only a toy in the hands of a true master. The mountain you have to climb goes much higher than this.”

  “...”

  Ah, almost forgot.

  I turned back to Rosslyn and spoke clearly enough for everyone to hear,

  “I'm Hope Ruthford. Magic course, first year. Class B. A pleasure to meet you.”