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Chapter Ten (TIBK)
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 17:09:44 +0000 UTCLeif exploded forward. Not a direct charge, but a rapid, weaving approach. Three quick steps left, a feint low towards Eirik’s lead leg, then a sudden dart right, the practice sword snapping out in a lightning-fast thrust aimed at Eirik’s padded stomach.
Eirik didn’t try to chase the movement. He planted himself, pivoting only at the waist, bringing his own sword down and across in a powerful parry.
THWACK!
He met Leif’s thrust solidly. The impact jarred up Eirik’s arms, but his rooted stance absorbed it. Leif, expecting Eirik to be off-balance or swinging wildly, was already pulling back from his thrust, preparing to disengage.
Eirik didn’t let him. The moment his parry connected, he shoved forward, leaning his whole weight into it. He didn’t try a skillful riposte; he used the heavy practice blade like a battering ram, forcing Leif’s light sword down and pushing the noble man physically backwards.
Leif stumbled, caught off guard by the raw, inelegant shove. He regained his footing quickly, annoyance flashing across his face. It wasn’t the elegant domination he’d envisioned.
He’s fast, Eirik acknowledged, settling back into his high guard. But he telegraphs the direction changes lightly. That little hitch in his shoulder before he cuts back… that’s the tell. Eirik focused intensely, filtering out the jeers from Garrick’s cronies. His entire world became Leif’s upper body, watching for the minute tensing that signaled his next lateral burst.
Leif circled warily now, his earlier confidence tempered. He feinted again, a quick jab high. Eirik started to raise his sword to block, a fraction slower than necessary. Seeing the opening, Leif abandoned the feint instantly and lunged low, aiming another thrust at Eirik’s lead thigh. This was the move! The shoulder dip confirmed it!
Eirik’s block was already dropping. Not perfectly timed — his Agility betrayed him. Instead of intercepting the thrust cleanly, his descending blade slammed onto Leif’s thrusting sword, knocking it down towards the ground.
THUD!
Leif’s blunted tip grazed the frozen earth near Eirik’s boot. But Eirik didn’t stop. As his sword smashed Leif’s thrust downward, he stepped forward again, simultaneously twisting his wrists and bringing the heavy wooden blade sweeping from low to high in a brutal, clumsy, but powerful rising cut aimed at Leif’s momentarily exposed ribs. It was ugly. It was strength-driven instead of finesse. And it worked.
Leif, caught mid-lunge with his sword point scraping dirt, had no time to recover his guard or dodge. He tried to twist away. Too late. Eirik’s rising practice sword slammed into the thick padding covering Leif’s ribs with a muffled WHUMPF!
[SKILL: MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (D)]
[5 MANA FRAGMENTS GAINED FROM PRACTICE]
[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 8/2000]
Leif gasped, staggering sideways, the air knocked from his lungs again. The blow hadn’t hurt through the padding, but it was unmistakably solid.
“Hit!” Gunnar’s voice cut through the sudden silence. “One to Stormcrow.”
A collective intake off breath sounded from the spectators. Garrick’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of utter disbelief. Kael’s grey eyes narrowed sharply, locking onto Eirik with renewed assessment. The nobles who’d bet on a quick victory exchanged uneasy glances. Leif Fenrir, Snow Rank Three, had just been struck first by the bastard with the agility of a plow horse.
Leif straightened up, his face flushed a deep crimson, humiliation warring with fury. He hadn’t just been hit; he’d been hit by a brute-force move he should have easily avoided. He’d underestimated Eirik’s ability to predict and counter with overwhelming power, not speed. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
His eyes blazed. He dropped any pretense of circling. He adopted a pure aggressive stance, sword held forward, body coiled like a spring. He wasn’t going to dance anymore. He was going to overwhelm Eirik with a blistering flurry of attacks, speed and skill smothering strength before it could be applied. Eirik saw the shift instantly.
No more finesse, Eirik thought, his grip tightening on the heavy practice sword. Now he comes to kill. His mind raced, scanning the limited options. He couldn’t win a flurry. He had to make Leif pay for every step.
Leif surged forward. Not weaving this. Time, but driving straight in, unleashing a rapid sequence of thrusts and high-line cuts aimed at Eirik’s head and shoulders. THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Eirik retreated, parrying desperately. His blocks were solid, but Leif’s speed was relentless. Each parry jarred Eirik, forcing him back step by step. He couldn’t find an opening to shove or counter; he was purely on the defensive. Leif pressed harder, faster, forcing Eirik towards the edge of the makeshift circle. One misstep, one slow parry…
Eirik felt his boot slip slightly on a patch of frost-slicked earth. His high guard faltered for a fraction of a second. Leif saw it instantly. With a snarl of triumph, he abandoned the thrust he was winding up for and switched instantly to a powerful horizontal slash aimed at Eirik’s now-lower guard.
It was coming fast. Too fast. Eirik couldn’t bring his heavy sword back up in time. Pure instinct took over. Instead of trying a hopeless high block, he twisted violently toward the blow, lowering his head and shoulder.
WHUMP!
Leif’s horizontal slash slammed into the thick padding covering Eirik’s upper back, right below the neck. The force staggered EIrik, driving him down to one knee. Pain lanced through his shoulder despite the padding. But the blow had missed his head and neck — the targets Leif had likely been aiming for with such force.
“Hit!” Gunnar called immediately. “One to Fenrir. Stand up, Stormcrow!”
The nobles erupted in cheers. Garrick roared with approval, pounding Kael on the shoulder.
Eirik grimaced. The impact had rattled his teeth. That hurt. Even padded. But he was up. And Leif was furious, breathing heavily, his perfect rhythm broken by the desperate unconventional dodge that had turned a potentially fight-ending blow into a mere scoring hit. The score was tied: 1-1.
Leif didn’t pause. He advanced again, determined to press his advantage before Eirik recovered fully. He unleashed another combination — thrust to the face, which forced Eirik to guard high, then a vicious low cut aimed at Eirik’s lead knee. It was a classic high-low attack.
Erik blocked the high thrust solidly, the impact vibrating up his arms. He started to drop his guard for the low cut. But then he saw it — the subtle tension in Leif’s wrist and a shift in his back foot. The low cut was itself a feint. Leif was going to pull it and thrust high again as Eirik dropped his guard!
It was the same basic pattern, but accelerated, relying on Eirik’s slower reactions. Eirik’s instinct screamed the danger. He had an instant to decide. Block the low feint and get hit high? Or call the bluff?
He called it. As Leif’s sword started its descent towards his knee, Eirik didn’t drop his guard fully. He shifted his weight slightly back, keeping his sword poised between high and mid-guard. He braced himself.
Leif’s blade snapped down, then instantly reversed direction, rocketing back up into a thrust aimed squarely at Eirik’s chest. Eirik’s partially lowered guard was almost perfectly positioned. He jerked his arms up and inwards. THWACK! The parry connected, but it was awkward. Leif’s thrust, driven by momentum and anger, punched through Eirik’s defense. The blunted tip slammed hard into the center of Eirik’s padded chest.
WHUMPH!
The force knocked Eirik backwards, staggering him. He tasted blood in his mouth — he must have bitten his tongue. He managed to stay on his feet, barely, gasping for breath. The impact felt like being kicked by a horse.
“Hit!” Gunnar’s voice was grim. “Two to Fenrir!”
Another roar from the nobles. Garrick was practically jumping. “Finish him, Fenrir!”
Leif stood panting heavily, a grin now spreading across his face. The next strike would end it.
Eirik forced his stance back under control, sucking in a sharp breath that stabbed his bruised chest. His grip tightened on the clumsy wooden practice sword.
Breathe.
The cold, analytical core within him clamped down on the panic. He straightened slowly, deliberately, meeting Leif’s triumphant glare.
Alright, Leif. You’re forcing me to play the agility game in which I am bound to lose. So what if I change how the game is played?
“Stand ready!” Gunnar barked. “Fenrir leads, two to one! Begin!”
Leif exploded instantly. His feint morphed into a vicious horizontal cut aimed directly at Eirik’s lead thigh — the same leg Eirik favored, the one carrying most of his weight in his rooted defensive stance. A blow to the thigh, even padded, could buckle the leg, leave him open and immobile for the finishing strike.
Eirik reacted. But not as Leif expected.
He didn’t drop his guard fully to parry the low blow. He knew he couldn’t match Leif’s speed. Instead, Eirik committed entirely to the high block he’d already started, shoving upwards with all his strength against Leif’s feint. It was less of a parry than a forceful deflection upwards. At the same instant, as Leif’s real attack snaked low, Eirik did something utterly unexpected by everyone present.
He let go of the sword with his dominant right hand.
Eirik’s right hand snapped down, not towards his own sword hilt, but like a striking snake towards Leif’s wrist, just as Leif committed fully to the powerful low cut. It was a move born of countless modern close-quarters combat drills at BlackRidge — sacrificing weapon control for split-second physical disruption. His fingers clamped around Leif’s sword-wielding wrist, directly above pulse point.
THWACK!
Leif’s wooden blade slammed solidly into the frozen ground, missing Eirik’s thigh guard by inches. Eirik’s grip on Leif’s wrist held firm, driven by pure, desperate strength. More importantly, it misdirected the thrust and jammed the follow-through. Leif couldn’t recover the blade for another strike.
Gotcha.
Leif’s eyes widened in shock at the sudden, brutal grip. He instinctively yanked his arm back to disengage, muscles straining against Eirik’s iron hold. It was a brief tug-of-war, a fraction of a second where Leif’s superior speed was nullified by Eirik’s superior strength and the shocking, unorthodox tactic.
Eirik didn’t waste it. While his right hand anchored Leif’s sword arm, his left hand was still wrapped around the hilt of his own heavy practice sword, held high from the initial block. With a grunt fueled by pain and adrenaline, Eirik dropped his entire body weight.
He didn’t try to swing the sword.
Eirik fell forwards onto his lead knee, dragging Leif off-balance with his grip on the nobleman’s wrist. Simultaneously, his left arm whipped his practice sword downwards in a short, savage, hacking arc. Not aiming for Leif’s padded body, but for the exposed forearm below where Eirik’s own hand gripped Leif’s wrist.
CRACK!
The thick, rounded wood of the practice sword collided brutally with Leif’s forearm, just above the wrist joint. A sharp, choked cry tore from Leif’s throat. His fingers spasmed open involuntarily. His own practice sword clattered uselessly onto the frost-hardened ground.
[5 MANA FRAGMENTS GAINED FROM COMBAT]
[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 13/2000]
Silence. Utter, deafening silence fell over the training yard. The jeering nobles froze mid-cheer. Garrick’s triumphant sneer turned into stunned disbelief. Even Marshal Gunnar’s impassive expression flickered with surprise. Kael’s grey eyes narrowed to slits, analyzing the brutal efficiency of the move.
Eirik released Leif’s wrist instantly, rolling back onto his haunches. His thigh screamed, and his chest ached fiercely. He kept his own practice sword raised defensively, eyes locked on Leif.
Leif stumbled backwards, clutching his injured forearm, his face contorted in a mix of agony, humiliation, and utter shock. His right arm hung limp, visibly trembling. The pain was intense — a deep bone bruise at best. Tears of fury and pain pricked at the corners of his eyes. He tried to flex his fingers, but they responded weakly, trembling. His sword lay abandoned at his feet.
“Hit!” Gunnar’s voice, though laced with surprise, was firm. He stepped forward slightly. “Solid disabling strike to the weapon arm. Second hit to Stormcrow.”
Garick’s face turned purple. “That was… that was dirty!” He sputtered, shoving past a few nobles towards Gunnar. “He grabbed him! Like a common street thug! That’s not swordsmanship!”
Gunnar turned a stony gaze on Garrick. “Disarming an opponent is a valid combat technique, Lord Garrick. And a very efficient one in actual battlefields.”
Garrick fumed but couldn’t openly contradict the Marshal. He shot Eirik a look of venomous promise before turning his attention to Leif, who was being helped up by one of his companions, still cradling his arm.
“Can you continue, Fenrir?” Garrick’s expression was more annoyed at Leif’s loss than concerned for his injury.
The question hung heavy. Leif tried to flex his hand again, wincing. He could feel the hot throb radiating up his arm. He couldn’t grip a sword, let alone wield it effectively. He looked at his sword on the ground, then at Eirik’s steady, wary gaze. Humiliation warred with the searing pain.
Continuing was impossible, unless…
He ground his teeth, helping himself to stand with his other good hand and forcing the words out.
“I can continue.”
The silence that followed was thick with disbelief and horrified fascination. Even the nobles who’d been cheering him moments ago stared, mouths agape. Garrick’s triumphant sneer froze, then twisted into something ugly.
“Leif, don’t be a fool!” a nobleman near Garrick blurted out, voicing the collective thought. “Your arm!”
Leif ignored him.
His pale blue eyes burned with a feverish intensity locked solely on Eirik. The agony radiating from his right forearm made his fingers twitch uselessly. But the deeper pain, the searing humiliation of losing his sword, of being bested by this bastard in front of everyone, drowned it out. His grandfather Brynn, old and broken, facing death in the mines… his own reputation as a promising warrior of Snow Realm Rank Three… all of it hung in the balance. Surrender now meant accepting utter defeat.
“I said I can continue!” Leif snarled. He pushed away the nobleman who’d tried to steady him, stumbling slightly but regaining his footing. He glared at Marshal Gunnar, challenging him to stop it. “I’ll switch hands.” He bent awkwardly, wincing as the movement jarred his injured arm, and scooped up his fallen practice sword with his left hand.
A low murmur rippled through the yard, switching to the off-hand? It bordered on suicidal.
Gunnar’s bushy eyebrows knitted together, his face like thunder. “Fenrir,” he growled, stepping close. “Look at you. You’ll get yourself hurt worse. This ends now.”
“No, Marshal!” Leif spat, clutching the sword hilt awkwardly in his left hand. His stance was off-kilter, compromised by the throbbing weakness on his right side. But the fire in his eyes was undimmed. “I have the right to continue!”
“Marshal Gunnar,” Garrick interjected with a voice dripping with false reasonableness. “The rules were set. Three hits or yield. Fenrir hasn’t yielded. He’s choosing to fight on. Denying him now would be unfair. And the rules never specified which hand the sword must be held in.” He offered Gunnar a thin, sharp smile. “Let him continue.”
Eirik ignored Garrick completely and remained laser-sharp on Leif. Him switching hands was a massive disadvantage, but it didn’t eliminate the threat entirely. To think that he’d be this determined for another fight just to lose to me with his off-hand would be naive.
Leif must have prepared something for me. The question was what, and when.
Gunnar looked from Leif’s feverish, determined face to Garrick, then finally to Eirik. The now legitimized son met his gaze calmly, giving nothing away. The Marshal’s jaw clenched.
“Fine!” Gunnar barked. “But one more step out of the line, one hint of a dangerous move, anything, I’ll end it! Whoever disobeys me will be cooling your heels in the Ice Cells! Am I clear?”
“Clear, Marshal,” Leif gritted out, his gaze never leaving Eirik.
“Stormcrow?” Gunnar demanded.
“Clear,” Eirik acknowledged.
Gunnar gave a curt nod.
“Final exchange! Get Ready!”
Every eye was fixed on Leif Fenrir, swaying slightly, his face pale except for two spots of feverish color high on his cheeks. He clutched the wooden practice sword in his left hand, feeling the raw pain radiating from the right forearm.
He broke my arm. Bastard broke my arm! He fights like gutter filth!
The humiliation burned hotter than the pain. His grandfather was condemned to the Ice Trench because of this bastard. His mother had been grieving non-stop. The mocking whispers about House Fenrir losing face to a Stormcrow by-blow. It was unthinkable. He couldn’t lose. Not like this.
Just one hit. One hit and Grandfather is saved. House Fenrir is saved. And I get to see the smug look wiped off that bastard’s face forever. He tightened his grip on the sword hilt with his left hand, ignoring the unfamiliar clumsiness. Just one hit.
Opposite him, Eirik watched with unnerving calm. He stood rooted, breathing deeply, the gambeson padding his frame making him look broader and immovable.
“Begin!” Gunnar’s command sliced through the tense silence.
Leif moved first, but it was a jerky shuffle forwards, not the explosive speed he’d shown earlier. He feinted a clumsy high thrust, the blade wobbling off-target.
Too obvious. What’s his game? Eirik didn’t react. He simply adjusted his weight, his eyes never leaving Leif’s center, watching the awkward distribution of his body.
Leif shuffled again, slightly to his right — his injured side. His face twisted in a grimace that looked utterly genuine. He stumbled, just a fraction, as if his weakened right leg buckled beneath him. His guard dipped sharply, exposing his entire right flank — the shoulder, ribs, thigh — completely open. It looked like a moment of pure vulnerability.
Now. The opportunity screamed at him. A powerful horizontal slash could smash Leif’s exposed ribs, and end this immediately. He started the movement, his body coiling to unleash the punishing strike he excelled at. His sword began its arc.
TRAP!
The realization slammed into Eirik a second before his strike would have committed him fully. Leif hadn’t stumbled; he’d dove into that position, sacrificing balance deliberately. As Eirik’s powerful swing began its devastating path towards the open flank, Leif was already counter-shifting.
With a guttural cry that mixed pain and desperate effort, Leif shoved off hard with his lead foot — away from the incoming blow. Simultaneously, his left arm, the one holding the practice sword, snapped upwards not in a block, but in a vicious and awkward backhand slash aimed not at Eirik’s body, but at the wrist of Eirik’s striking arm. Leif couldn’t generate much power left-handed, but he didn’t need to. He just needed to connect. A touch.
Eirik’s mind raced. He couldn’t stop the momentum of his heavy swing entirely. His agility was too low. But he could still redirect. Abandoning the full force of the attack, Eirik snapped his wrists violently downward and inward, turning the intended horizontal slash into a desperate downward chop aimed at the wooden blade Leif was thrusting towards his wrist.
CRACK!
The two wooden swords collided hard just above Leif’s hand. The fore jolted up both their arms. Leif cried out again as the impact slammed into his already injured hand. Eirik’s heavier blade won the contest, battering Leif’s sword down.
Damn… He nearly got me. With one hand.
The close call ignited a cold fury in Eirik while frustration boiled over Leif. The bait almost worked. Yet what was left for him now was pure desperation. Leif charged, not with a thrust or cut, but a clumsy, shoulder-first shove, abandoning his sword almost entirely as he tried to crash bodily into Eirik. Eirik sidestepped, twisting his upper body away. As Leif stumbled past, off-balance and overextended, Eirik swung his heavy wooden blade horizontally, low and fast.
THWACK!
The solid blow cracked across the backs of Leif’s knees, just above the padded greaves. Leif cried out - a strangled yelp of pain and shock - as his legs buckled. He crashed face-first onto the frozen earth, lay sprawled, his face scraped against the grit.
[5 MANA FRAGMENTS GAINED FROM COMBAT]
[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 18/2000]
A collective gasp went up from the watchers. Garrifck’s expression was apoplectic. Kael’s face remained impassive, but his gaze was locked intently on Eirik.
“Hit!” Gunnar’s voice boomed. “Strike to the legs! Third hit to Stormcrow! The match goes to Eirik Stormcrow!”
Blue light enveloped Eirik.
———
[Tutorial Quest #4 (out of 7): The Duelist —— Completed!]
