Chapter 87: The List (7)
From the moment it happened, no one could have said exactly who moved first.
One heartbeat they were circling, the next, both blurred into motion.
Phillip’s leading foot snapped forward, Lucien’s weight shifted back, and in the blink between those movements the taut, invisible thread between them snapped.
Phillip’s broadsword came in from the right, the arc short and efficient, the kind of swing that didn’t waste energy on flare.
Lucien’s saber darted up to intercept, the wooden blades cracking together with a sharp thwack that cut through the murmuring air.
The force rippled up Lucien’s arm, but his grip held firm, and even before the block had fully settled he was sliding sideways, pivoting on the ball of his back foot.
From the gallery, Vaelira’s pulse leapt.
Phillip’s stance shifted immediately to match, the heavier weapon moving with surprising speed to guard the exposed side.
He caught Lucien’s riposte mid-swing, the flat of his blade angled perfectly to deflect rather than stop it dead, letting the saber glance away harmlessly.
They were in it now.
Wood cracked against wood in quick succession, sharp, percussive beats that echoed up to the rafters.
Phillip pressed forward, forcing the engagement into close quarters, relying on the broadsword’s broader surface to catch and smother the saber’s flickering strikes.
Lucien, rather than try to overpower, turned to evasion, slipping sideways, ducking just far enough to make each blow miss without wasting movement, the saber darting in and out like a striking snake.
Vaelira could see the clear logic behind both approaches.
Phillip’s guard was a wall, unyielding, broad enough to make an attack need to be perfect or not at all.
Lucien’s defense was a shadow, hard to pin down, always shifting, always threatening to slip through the smallest gap.
Even with the dulled wooden training weapons, the precision of their movements felt like it belonged to real combat, where hesitation meant death.
Balt leaned forward so far he almost slid off the bench.
Beside him, Corin sat straighter, his usual loose slouch gone, eyes tracking every step.
The muscles in his jaw flexed and relaxed in an unconscious rhythm, like he was biting back the urge to speak.
Up in the senior men’s section, the reaction had shifted entirely from their earlier smirks.
“By the stars…” one of them muttered, the words carried just far enough to be overheard by those nearby.
“They’re not just swinging sticks.”
Another chuckled low, not mocking but almost… delighted.
“Hah. Thought this would be a scrap, bit of posturing, maybe a lucky tap or two.”
He shook his head, eyes bright with interest.
“Look at them..”
A third senior leaned forward, elbows on knees, grin spreading.
“Those two aren’t playing at being swordsmen, they’re fighting like their lives are at stake."
And indeed, the difference was clear to all watching.
Below the seniors, the rows of first years sat frozen.
Conversations had died minutes ago; now the only sounds were the clash of blades and the quick shuffles of feet on polished wood.
Even the girl Phillip had been seen with earlier could no longer watch, her hands were clasped tight at her chest, eyes shut, lips moving silently in some private prayer.
The duel drove forward in bursts, Phillip hammering down from above, Lucien twisting just enough to let the blow glance away, his saber immediately countering with a slash aimed at the opening left in Phillip’s guard.
But the broadsword was there, as if it had been waiting for that very strike, and the cycle continued.
Vaelira’s gaze darted between them, trying to read the tide of the match.
The wooden saber gave Lucien speed, the ability to change direction mid-swing and punish even half-formed mistakes.
The broadsword gave Phillip a shield and a battering ram all in one, each block carrying the potential to become a counterattack with almost no warning.
The speed was breathtaking.
Not a moment’s pause, not a wasted step.
To an untrained eye it might look like chaos, but to those who understood, it was a dance balanced on the edge of a blade, every move precise, every reaction honed.
Balt let out a low whistle.
“They’re gonna wear each other down.”
Corin didn’t look away.
“Only if they can’t land the hit first.”
The seniors murmured again.
“Textbook use of their weapons,” one said.
“He’s keeping the saber where it can slip past, the other’s turning the broadsword into a moving wall.”
“It’s the fact they’re doing it at this pace that’s impressive,” another replied.
“Most first years would’ve been winded by now.”
Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, both duelists broke off at the same moment, Phillip stepping back two paces, Lucien mirroring the motion, both breathing harder now but eyes still locked.
A sheen of sweat caught the lantern light on their brows, and their chests rose and fell in quick rhythm.
It lasted only a heartbeat before they surged together again.
This time Phillip came in high, his broadsword arcing down toward Lucien’s shoulder.
Lucien slipped left, the blade skimming past, and snapped his saber up in a diagonal slash meant to cut across Phillip’s chest.
The broadsword was already there to block, the two weapons locking for half a second before Lucien broke away.
The crowd seemed to be holding its breath as they traded blows in another blistering flurry, Phillip catching Lucien slipping; Lucien feinting, Phillip smothering the attack before it could find purchase.
Then, it happened.
Phillip stepped in, weight shifting heavily onto his front foot, and brought his blade down in a sudden, vicious chop.
Lucien pivoted to dodge, but his heel caught against the slick floorboards; just a fraction of hesitation, but that was enough.
The wooden broadsword crashed against Lucien’s left shoulder with a loud, flat CRACK.
Gasps erupted across the gymnasium.
The sound was like a wave breaking, one sharp intake from hundreds of throats.
In the gallery, Vaelira’s fingers froze where they had been pressed against her lips.
Balt’s eyes went wide.
Corin didn’t blink, but his shoulders tensed visibly.
Below, the girl with her eyes closed whispered something too soft to hear.
The seniors leaned forward all at once, the earlier amusement long gone, replaced by the sharp focus of men watching something far more serious than they had anticipated.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
And in that moment, no one knew what would happen next.
***
The blow landed with a sharp crack, the vibration shooting through Lucien’s body before his mind even caught up with the fact he’d been hit.
‘Shit.’
His left shoulder flared white-hot, the impact driving the air from his lungs and jerking his body sideways.
‘Don’t stop moving.’
He jumped back, instinct telling him to create distance, space to breathe, space to think, but Philip was already there, closing the gap like a shadow that refused to be shaken.
The next swing came in hard from the right. Lucien twisted away, his saber flashing up just in time to catch the strike on its flat.
The wood groaned under the pressure, and the shock jolted his already-numb arm.
He staggered back, feet scuffing the polished floor, only to have Philip match him step for step.
He was barely staying outside the range of that broadsword now.
The clean, reactive footwork from moments ago had frayed into desperate sidesteps.
His blade no longer darted forward with probing jabs, it lifted only to deflect, to intercept, to survive.
The degradation was subtle but undeniable.
It wasn’t just the pain, it was the weight of what that pain meant.
Adrenaline roared through his bloodstream, doing its job, blunting the edge of the injury so he could move.
But that same chemical fire made his pulse pound in his ears, faster, harder, until his thoughts raced even faster than his feet.
And threaded through those thoughts, cutting, sharp, unrelenting, was anger.
Not at Philip.
No, that had been a good strike. A precise, opportunistic cut that deserved credit.
Even dulled to wood, it had carried the intent of a killing blow, and Lucien knew he was lucky it had been his left shoulder.
If it had been the right, his sword arm might have gone slack, his weapon tumbling to the floor.
No, this fury was aimed inward.
‘If this had been a real duel… if the broadsword had been forged steel instead of sanded pine… I would be dead.’
‘If that was steel… I would be dead right now.’
‘Because if that thing, that stalker, wearing Leonardo’s face, had been standing in Philip’s place with a real blade, this one mistake, this moment, would have ended my life.’
He’d made himself a target.
He’d let himself be hit.
The truth of it sank into his gut like ice, only for the anger to melt it into molten lead.
The thought alone was a wound more searing than the ache in his shoulder.
There was no convenient enemy to pin this on, no outward injustice to rage against.
Just his own incompetence, his own lack of control, his own failure to be sharper, faster, better.
The fury clawed up his spine, stabbing into the back of his skull until his vision sharpened to a painful edge.
It was an anger that wanted to consume everything, Philip, the duel, himself, burning until there was nothing left but the next strike.
And just when it threatened to take over entirely, a sound broke through, loud enough to batter past the drumbeat in his head.
A voice.
No, a roar.
“LUCIEN!”
It cracked through the air like thunder, a jagged, electric thing that hit his ears and his chest at the same time.
He couldn’t afford to turn toward it, Philip’s blade was still in front of him, but the words burrowed straight in.
He knew that voice.
Corin.
What followed wasn’t just shouting. It was an eruption, raw, unpolished, and somehow more cutting than any sword in the room.
“Lucien! What IS this?!”
"Lucien! The man I know dove under guardian statues to tear them down, he wouldn’t let one hit slow him!”
“You’ve stared into hell’s jaws and never blinked! So why the hell are you on the back foot now? Defense was never your way of doing things!
“To hell with it! Smash through and carve your own damn path! Get in there and fight back, Lucien! FIGHT BACK!”
The words slammed into him harder than Philip’s last hit.
Not gentle.
Not encouraging.
They were a shove.
A slap.
A call to war.
And somewhere deep in that burning storm inside him, they found something, and lit it.
