“What’s wrong?” he said. “Out of breath after two clashes?”
“Shut it!”
What followed next was similar to what came before—the mensch attacked the psyche, only for him to dodge clear; the psyche attacked, and the mensch darted away as if he’d stepped in embers.
“Ugh... He’s just playing around,” I said.
“Dear...”
“I know, I know...”
With my wife’s firm remark, I decided to watch in silence. Ordinarily I would be berating Soult right now. I’d told him countless times that a challenger needed to be polite. I’d never taught him to show off or toy with his prey.
“Raaah! Haaah!”
The mensch challenger shouted as he swung and closed the gap, but his sword never slipped past Soult’s nimble evasions. Then, as if making a point, Soult leaped in time with a huge swing. As if he were a dragonfly cutting through the air, he soared above the mensch and landed behind him.
After ten minutes, this cat and mouse performance was getting dull, so I rapped my hands together.
“Ugh... Enough.”
My voice rang out through the hall’s inner courtyard and the mensch made one last mighty swing, but Soult easily dipped out of range. He walked away from the mensch—who was still raring to fight—and bowed at me, his sword hilt held to his forehead.
“Why did you stop the match?! I was—” the mensch roared.
“Roll up those sleeves,” I cut him off.
The mensch, covered in sweat and a little confused at my request, did as I asked, but as soon as he saw his arms his eyes went as wide as dinnerplates.
“Wh-What’s this?!”
His arms were covered in welts. I doubted it was just his arms either. Even from this distance, I could see six welts on his neck too—his chest and stomach likely hadn’t gotten off scot-free either. Each of these had been inflicted when Soult had merely “stroked” him with his rapier as they traded blows. If this was a proper match, then each of these marked a possible death.
“You lost the match,” I said. “All of these hits were in fatal locations. You would’ve been killed on the spot.”
A rapier was a difficult weapon to master and many viewed it as a mere decoration, unfitting for the battlefield. However, it was peerless when it came to piercing strikes. People might be inclined to mock a sword that had been fixed up more to look good on a noble’s waist than to pierce through armor, but it was good at what it did. There were countless holes in armor that could be exploited to kill. It was ridiculous to look down upon a weapon that crystallized this weakness. Although the undead could come back after receiving a critical hit, in a bout with a mortal, you could easily get them to raise the white flag. In this ten or so minutes of battle, this mensch had been killed almost fifty times—he had lost.
“The winner is clear. The match is over,” I said.
“B-But I...” he said.
“It’s a disgrace to not know when you’ve just been disgraced. Enough of this. Leave.”
I sat back down on the chair that’d been provided for me to watch over this performance and clapped my hands, signaling an end to this farce. Come on, guys, I thought as I looked at my Fellows, you shouldn’t be wasting time getting riled up. You have lots to do, so get back to it.
“And you, Soult,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Meet me in my room later,” I said coldly.
The young psyche’s face froze in terror. It seemed he had finally cottoned on to how I felt.
“U-Understood, Leader.”
“And make sure to tidy things up.”
“Of course.”
As Soult bowed to me, I put the courtyard behind me and headed back to my room. I understood wanting to show off how much he had improved, but I wished he could put his energies into giving me some damn grandkids...
[Tips] Although people confident in their strength usually bust into dojos to prove themselves, this does happen with adventurers’ clans too from time to time. Clans and dojos are alike in that those who enter their service prove themselves through their might and pride themselves on it. One’s reputation plays a large role in both organizations.
“Now then,” I said.
I ignored Soult, who was looking terribly put out, long enough to pack some revitalizing herbs into my pipe. I’d pushed my body quite a bit in my younger days, and now with my forties approaching, my knees were beginning to hurt. My sword skills hadn’t dulled, but at this time of year with winter on its way, my joints did start to twinge. I would rather not get older if I could. I’d outlived my previous life, but no amount of training could stop the eventual aches and pains that an aging body developed.
“I’m sorry, Leader,” Soult said.
“As long as you understand why I’m upset, then that’s fine. Anyway, it’s just the two of us here. You can call me Father.”
“Yes, Father.”
As you may have guessed, reader, this golden-haired psyche was in fact my son. His mother was Firene, and I had been truly surprised that, considering the timing of his birth, she had gotten pregnant from one roll in the hay.
Putting that aside, Soult had been sent to the Fellowship as an apprentice to train up. Mister Giesebrecht had been unsure whether to get him to stay in Mottenheim or to let him see the wider world. Having been raised with love by the whole of Mottenheim, he was less my child and more the canton’s beloved son. I was happy about that, but Mister Giesebrecht had sent me a letter a few years ago explaining that, now that Soult was almost of age, he was unsure what he should do with him. He said the boy was quick-witted, gentle, charming—I was amazed at how much praise he heaped on his grandson—and wondered whether it would be a waste to leave him within the canton’s confines.
After much consideration, he decided to send the fifteen-year-old boy to the Fellowship so that he could broaden his potential. Mister Giesebrecht had initially thought that he could send him to work for a noble or to take on the Watch (which had become quite impressive), but Miss Firene had put a stop to this. As she could only remain in Mottenheim and wait for her husband to visit, she had reasoned that as Soult had hardly known his real father, he should spend time with him to help him discover what he wanted for his future. Mister Giesebrecht, loving father that he was, acquiesced. Miss Firene still sent romantic poems once a season to me—it was an unsurprising decision on her part.