[Tips] Schutzwolfe was Goldilocks Erich’s sword. Despite the many feats he achieved, it was an ordinary sword without enchantments, lending it a higher value. Goldilocks’s descendants had fought for the glory of owning it, and so, following Erich’s own will, it was taken into Count Ubiorum’s care. It is donated to exhibitions when she remembers to bother.
In the realm of fiction, Schutzwolfe receives many embellishments. One particularly popular feature among these is a special move where she can shoot out a huge beam of light.
“Oh, wow, what a sneeze...” I muttered to myself.
I had been unable to suppress a huge sneeze and wiped my nose from atop my perch on the barrel I was sitting on. That was bad; I didn’t ever let stuff like this happen. Talk about embarrassing. If Lady Agrippina found out, I wouldn’t get off lightly.
“Leader? Are you okay?” a young man said to me, having dashed over in evident concern.
“Yeah... Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, waving my hand to let him know I was okay. “Return to your position.”
He was a beautiful young lad, if I said so myself. As a psyche, he was covered in fine fur, but unlike his mother’s, his was slightly golden in color. The wings on his back glittered as if the sunlight shone through them. He had slender, well-proportioned limbs and was taller than me.
“Sorry for keeping you. Shall we begin?” I said.
The lad—Soult of Mottenheim—picked up his usual wooden sword, shaped like a rapier, and held it elegantly.
“Heh, you’ve gotten older, Goldilocks. If you just sit around staring into space like an old fool, your body’s gonna rust over real quick,” said a huge swordsman, punctuating his remark with a rough guffaw. He was around 190 centimeters tall, a height that mensch rarely reached, and had a sword so huge it looked as if it’d been meant for someone of totally inhuman stature hoisted onto his shoulder. I felt bad for Soult saying so, but he cut a far more imposing figure, as martial types go. If I’d taken bets, I was sure most rookies would have put their money on him.
“Mocking our leader before the match begins? Someone’s got an awfully loud mouth and a bad attitude to match. I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ll be spouting on the walk home,” Soult said.
“Hah! When I head home it’ll be with the Fellowship’s glory in hand! And I’ll be talking shit about you for all to hear the whole way back!”
The only way I could describe what was happening was a phenomenon known in my old world as “dojo arashi.” Basically, it was where some brute would barge into a dojo and demand a fight. If they were refused they’d be rude and steal money, and if they won, they’d claim something as theirs. But seriously? The Fellowship was a clan of adventurers, not a dojo. However, some people had been going over the top and lauding me as the best swordsman in the western reaches, supposedly a master without peer, so this was all pretty routine by now. How many did today make this month alone? Last week there were two nobles, the week before that I had the head of some clan... Ugh, I didn’t really care. It was such a drag that I couldn’t even pin a number to it.
The guy did have a point in one respect, I’ll concede. I was pushing forty, and for a mensch, forty was the prime of your life.
“All right, begin when I give the signal,” I said. “Both of you, take your positions.”
Age wasn’t just a number. I was mature enough not to get angry at some young upstart with no respect for his elders. I gave my signal with a calm voice, and from in between my Fellows, who watched the intruder with restrained bloodlust, I opened up my arms. I wasn’t all too angry, but Soult over there was—I didn’t know who he took after in this respect. While he had fine enough features that noble girls went gaga over him, I couldn’t take my eyes off him too much with his short fuse. Anyway, whatever would be would be. I clapped my hands together and gave the signal to begin.
“Hmph!”
It was as if a beam of golden light shot through the air. A single flick of his wings erased all his weight and led him into a dashing strike. Here were the fruits of the blood he’d shed from all his training; he moved so quickly that he’d left his opponent no time to react.
“Whoa?!”
The huge man stumbled backward by instinct, but that had been his failing. If he had wanted to make some distance, he should have dodged to the side. Against an enemy with thrusting jabs, moving back saved you only for a moment, as your foe just had to step once more before their attack.
Soult’s wooden sword seemed more flexible than was possible. It groaned with the might of the thrust. He was talented enough to keep it from snapping, but it was very close to cracking.
“Ngh! Dammit!”
Rapiers had been mocked as toys for duels, but the large mensch was clearly sweating under the pressure the weapon created. However, Soult’s opponent’s next step wasn’t so foolish. He hopped to the left and brought his heavy sword down to try and intercept Soult’s blow.
Now then, nameless challenger—wait, did you name yourself?—you underestimate the boy. Soult wasn’t actually going for a second strike. With one arm tucked close to his neck, he hadn’t been going all out with these moves that required a combination of a flexible body and quick steps. In order to show that, he fluttered his psyche wings to avoid the sword strike by a hair’s breadth.
“Tch... I told him not to play around...” I muttered.
“Now, now,” my wife said, trying to placate me.
However, I just couldn’t accept how Soult was doing things. He clearly had the upper hand, so why did he wait until the last moment before dodging? If he wanted, he could have dodged it in two or three steps or easily countered it, so why dodge like that right at the last second? What would he do if his opponent was hiding their full potential? A wooden sword could kill you if it hit hard enough. He was so focused on protecting the name of the Fellowship that he wanted to show off the extent of his skill. I wondered if he was playing around in full awareness of the weight of a match to the death.
Soult’s hands were sweaty, enough that a single slip could spell his doom, but you couldn’t tell from the grace of his movements. He raised his sword once more and laughed.