Doggone Academy

In the holy city, there were areas that were inaccessible to those not invited.

A luxurious and expansive area comparable to the imperial palace was used by less than a hundred people, rendering it quiet and tranquil, with rare encounters of strangers.

In the Fleurence Square, named after the current Saint, Silveryn and Erzebet were walking through a long corridor, engaging in light conversation.

The high vaulted ceiling allowed the golden hues of the evening sun to penetrate straight through the corridor.

Silveryn’s hair shimmered and waved with each step she took.

As they walked, a sound of wings — a whizz — passed overhead. The noise was faint, but Silveryn detected it and glanced sideways. Pretending not to notice, she continued to pay discreet attention.

Erzebet, noticing this subtle behavior, commented,

“It seems your heart is still with Eternia.”

Silveryn deftly avoided Erzebet’s gaze.

“…My disciple has been rather out of touch lately.”

Erzebet smiled gently.

“Children in their adaptive phase pour all their nerves into their surroundings. That child will be fine.”

“…”

“I didn’t expect you to become so concerned.”

“When I first took him in, I did not anticipate giving him so much affection.”

At that moment, an old man emerged from the opposite end of the corridor.

His white hair and beard, robust body, and straight limbs made him look far from old. He greeted Silveryn and Erzebet with a light bow, signaling respect.

It was Calios, the Empire’s Swordmaster known as the ‘White Lion.’ He stood still, maintaining a respectful distance of about ten paces.

“Heh, I did not expect to meet the hero of the north here.”

Silveryn and Erzebet also slightly bowed their heads in mutual respect. They had known each other from the battlefields of the north and again when Damian was evaluated for the Master’s class.

Erzebet spoke,

“It’s good to see you again, Swordmaster Calios.”

Calios waved his hand dismissively.

“I’m too old to be burdened with such flattering titles. I plan to pass my position to a successor soon and devote myself to nurturing the next generation. This old body is here merely as an emeritus educator of the holy city.”

Erzebet responded with a light laugh,

“We too are invited in the capacity of educators.”

“Heh, I suppose so. I do have a matter to discuss, would you mind walking with me for a while?”

Erzebet readily agreed.

“By all means.”

The three walked side by side through the corridor.

Erzebet was the first to ask a casual question.

“Do you still teach at the Empire?”

“I’ve stepped back from it now. I once believed that anyone could be brought to the pinnacle, but I’ve realized that’s an illusion and that even I have my limits.”

“We understand that sentiment.”

“A great sculptor doesn’t create but rather uncovers what is dormant within the rock. I’ve come to understand this deeply. The key to a masterpiece is choosing the right stone. No matter how much potential you draw from a pebble, it remains a pebble. I’ve wasted time trying to cultivate pebbles.”

“Not all of it was in vain.”

While he spoke lightly, the truth was somewhat different. Some of Calios’ disciples had made a name for themselves across the continent. He was simply dissatisfied with not having found a successor.

“I hope that will be the case. By the way, I hear you’ve brought a rare gem to the holy city this time. Have you heard about the heir of Zeldan?”

Silveryn responded,

“I’ve heard rumors that there’s an interesting fellow who has caused quite a stir in the Order.”

Calios, hands clasped behind his back, continued,

“It seems the Order has pinned their hopes on that lad as Zeldan’s successor. That means they plan to reorganize the northern front around that boy and the upcoming Saint.”

The task of nurturing Zeldan’s heir was to be entrusted to the Archmages and Swordmasters gathered this time.

“What are your thoughts, Swordmaster Calios?”

“I have already met the boy at the Order’s request and even crossed swords with him. Truly, his talent was enough to turn the Order on its head. His fundamentals were flawless, and he had mastered numerous sword styles, adapting them freely. He has never lost a bout against his peers. Among those who have passed through the Royal Academy, he had the most exceptional potential.”

“It’s been a while since you’ve given such generous praise.”

“Though I found the Order detestable, I had to acknowledge his skill.”

Erzebet nodded slowly, her face contemplative.

“How fascinating. Swordmaster Calios, you also oversaw the Master’s class examination. Could we hear your honest opinion about Damian, our Eternian prodigy?”

Calios sighed heavily before he began,

“Hmm, here? You put me in a difficult position. I shall speak plainly. The boy’s basics are embarrassingly lacking. His style is recklessly imprudent. Not to mention, the way he applies force to his sword wouldn’t compare even to a butcher in a slaughterhouse. Overreliance on improvisation is also a concern.”

He poured out a scathing assessment in front of the boy’s own teacher, yet Erzebet and Silveryn simply smiled, unoffended.

Calios paused before resuming more lightly,

“Yet, despite this, he is the most astonishing talent I have ever seen. I’ve wielded a sword all my life, and if I cannot recognize a true gem among stones, how could I not be ashamed?”

***

The knights gathered in a circle, creating an impromptu dueling arena. It looked like a pack of wolves circling a lamb.

The man who had tripped Damian discarded his helmet with a swift toss. A scar ran vertically from his cheek to his neck.

Running his finger along the line of the scar, he said,

“I’ll leave a mark prettier than this on your face. Consider it a badge of honor from your first lesson in life.”

Since it was a duel of honor, no responsibility could be claimed for scars acquired in the process.

“…”

Damian did not rise to the provocation, simply drawing the sword Silveryn had given him and wiping the blade with a handkerchief.

The knights of the guard laughed derisively at Damian. It was a fight he could not win. The duel was heavily tilted from the beginning.

He was but a greenhorn, fresh into his first semester of the first year, while his opponent was a top graduate of the Imperial Royal Academy, a knight of the guard with real combat experience.

No matter how prestigious the academy, there are limits imposed by age and experience. The Empire’s Royal Academy and Eternia even held exchange matches. The cumulative experience meant the Royal Academy held no particular reverence for Eternia any longer.

No matter how talented, a first-year from Eternia could not compare.

The guards had been awaiting this moment, a young whelp who behaved insolently towards his superiors and even criticized the academy they belonged to. There was no one here in Damian’s corner. In the world of knights, those who act beyond their station meet their demise. This arrogant young man was about to learn a painful lesson.

Both combatants stood three paces apart, just short of their swords’ reach, looking each other in the eye.

The man with the scar laughed inwardly at Damian’s stance—it was fundamentally flawed.

The scarred man broke the stalemate first, lifting his sword and charging. The duel had begun.

“Kraaap!”

With a robust shout, he swung his sword in a diagonal line.

Clang!

The swords met.

Damian’s sword wavered slightly. It didn’t take long to gauge skills; swordsmen can tell upon contact.

Damian seemed slightly overpowered.

“It brings back memories. I made your ancestor crawl on the ground in the exchange matches.”

“…”

“Bow and crawl under my legs, and I’ll forgive you.”

Damian simply met the sword with a deadly gaze, not responding verbally.

The scarred man pressed his sword hard, pushing Damian back without much resistance.

Without giving Damian a chance to steady himself, the man charged again.

“Die!”

Ching! Ching!

Damian blocked each powerful strike reflexively. Although his reflexes were decent, his constant defense had him moving backward step by step.

“Do the professors of Eternia only teach their students to retreat?”

Damian started to be pushed back to the limit line where the knights stood.

The onlookers jeered and mocked his predicament.

The outcome seemed decided without any further twists.

The man with the scar swung his sword more wildly with each strike.

Ching! Ching!

Sparks flew as the swords clashed with great force.

Damian was at a distinct disadvantage, yet not a single decisive blow had landed.

The man with the scar gritted his teeth.

He had cornered Damian, yet the boy parried each attack with what seemed like baseless movements, refusing to be pushed past the limit line.

The other knights watching began to stiffen in their expressions.

“Die, die!”

The scarred man put all his might into each stroke, increasing the speed of his swings, reducing the interval between clashes, yet not a scratch was on Damian.

As the opponent, driven to the edge, abandoned all notion of defense and began hacking away indiscriminately,

Ching! Ching! Ching!

Damian, like a tightrope walker on the edge, defended against every blow that would have left him diced if landed.

It was a performance akin to acrobatics.

As each attack either cut the air or was deflected, the color drained from the man’s face.

The tide of the duel began to shift. Damian seemed to grow accustomed to the attack pattern.

It was no longer a one-sided disadvantage.

And the crowd, realizing the duel was veering off, froze in place.

Damian ducked beneath a descending blow and kicked sharply at the man’s solar plexus.

“Hurk!”

The man spat out saliva, bending over and stumbling backward.

The knights watching wore faces of disbelief at the scene.

That kick was the first effective strike of the duel.

Now Damian advanced.

The man, clutching his midsection, swung his sword in a wide arc as he gasped.

“Huuaap!”

Only his weak cry echoed in the air.

As the stomach pain eased, the man lunged forward to land a blow.

Damian, as if anticipating it, parried the attack with one-handed ease, letting the sword slide off. Then, with his free hand, he grabbed his scabbard and swung it like a club.

Crack!

The scabbard struck the man’s wrist with precision.

“Uaaak!”

The sword fell to the ground, and the man rolled, clutching his wrist.

The onlookers’ mouths were agape.

Damian looked down at the man rolling on the ground, sheathed his sword, and dusted off his hands.

In a real battle, that man’s wrist would have been severed. The outcome was as good as decided.

Without further ado, Damian turned to leave the dueling circle.

Then the man with the scar, crawling to retrieve his dropped sword, shouted,

“It’s not over, you bastard.”

Before the words were fully out, something flashed and whistled through the air beside him.

Clang!

The sword Damian was holding flew like an arrow, embedding itself into the helmet lying on the ground.

The blade had pierced right through the face of the helmet.

The man stood up and then froze, staring at the helmet in disbelief, not comprehending how it happened.

Damian, who had been about to leave, turned deliberately back into the dueling ring.

“You’ll regret those words.”

***

A soldier clanked in his armor as he rushed to Gerald’s tent.

“Ger-Gerald, you might want to see what’s happening at the first division knights’ camp.”

Gerald, writing a dispatch for the Duchy, responded casually,

“What’s the matter?”

“The knights are having a dispute and they’ve started a duel.”

“Is that so unusual?”

When days of calm stretch on, knights keep their combat senses sharp with mock battles. Duels were a common practice. It wasn’t strange at all.

Moreover, even if there was some issue, it should have been resolved by the first division’s commander; it wasn’t something that needed to involve Gerald. He was in a position to simply receive reports afterward.

“It’s that… the disciple of the Archmage is dueling with one of the knights.”

Gerald paused from his work, now showing interest.

“What? Where’s the first division commander?”

“Nielrin, the captain of the guard, went with Lady Vivi on her walk.”

Gerald bit his lip. This was a significant misfortune for Damian. Swordsmen, when banded together, become like a pack of wolves. If one does not benefit the group or tends to blur the rules, they are ostracized and tormented for sport.

Damian seemed to have been completely marked as an outcast by that wolf pack. Gerald had to step in to mediate the situation, not for the guard but for Damian’s sake.

He stood abruptly, donning his coat.

“Lead me to where the duel is taking place, now.”

Following a soldier’s lead, Gerald headed to the first division’s camp. The neatly aligned tents and bubbling pots were deserted. In a clearing, a group of knights gathered in disarray. That’s where the duel was.

But the usually noisy scene was eerily quiet. No jeers or mockery could be heard.

Only dull thuds echoed in the silence.

Thump, thump, thump.

“What’s going on here? Out of the way!”

Gerald barked, and the knights quickly parted ways.

Like the curtain falling off a stage, the site of the duel was revealed.

At its center, a man was pummeling someone beneath him with lethal punches. Next to him lay a helmet skewered by a sword, blood scattered on the ground and a bloodied fist.

Gerald’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the man on top. It wasn’t a mistake. It was Damian, exerting unilateral violence against a knight of the guard.

As Gerald stood behind him, Damian seemed to sense his presence and froze his fist mid-air. Without turning to look, he knew who it was.

Damian dismounted and slowly stood up, offering a gentlemanly greeting to Gerald, the bloodied state of his body making the gesture grotesque.

“You will have to provide me with a satisfactory explanation for this incident.”

“I was challenged to a duel by a knight of the guard and fought to uphold my honor, as you can see, with all these men as witnesses.”

Gerald turned to the knights who had watched,

“A duel, is it? Was there no foul play or deception?”

No one answered. If it had been mere brawling, the knight’s comrades would not have stood idly by. That meant Damian had overpowered the knight purely on skill, and quite resoundingly so.

A student who had just begun his first semester of the first year at Eternia.

It was a sight too unbelievable to trust one’s eyes.

The knights present were likewise petrified, shocked beyond words by the actions of a mere boy. Damian met Gerald’s gaze, the lingering ferocity in his eyes more beastly than human.

Damian spoke,

“Due to this duel, there will be a gap in the guard. You’ll need to find a more suitable replacement to bolster the ranks.”

His tone was serious, but there was a touch of mockery, as if reminding Gerald of his previous requests to join the guard.

Gerald let Damian’s subtle provocation slide.

“I will gather more concrete testimonies and decide the punishment for the two who caused this disturbance. Everyone disperse immediately, and have that fellow carried off on a stretcher for treatment.”

The situation was swiftly resolved. Gerald turned and left the scene.

His face remained stern as he walked away, but upon entering his tent, a smile of relief slowly emerged.