Cold water slid down Aron's throat.
As he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a towel, he felt the air around him grow strangely subdued.
"Hey, isn't that Aron over there?"
"Yeah. I heard he beat Peln from the magic section. Is it true?"
"I saw it clear as day. He hid behind the pillars, slipped into a blind spot, and put his sword right up to Peln in an instant. Peln panicked so badly his magic power scattered everywhere. It was quite a sight."
"That's crazy. How did the perennial last-place guy……?"
Low whispers came from every corner of the training ground.
Several days ago, he had beaten Peln, the fire mage, and climbed straight into the 280s in the overall rankings. It had become quite a topic among the academy's first-year students.
Now that a name always found near the bottom was climbing the ranking board, the students watched him with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
Aron closed the cap of his water bottle without a thought. Other people's gazes and judgments were of no interest to him now.
"What a pathetic display."
A sneering voice cut sharply across the center of the training ground.
The students gathered in conversation flinched and made way on either side. A male student walked through them, roughly sweeping back his silver-gray hair.
Bran Kessler.
He had ranked 219th on admission. He was in the same swordsmanship section, and, coming from a family of some standing, he always carried himself with a rigid bearing that suggested he looked down on everyone around him.
Bran strode up and stopped directly in front of Aron. The displeasure in his eyes was plain.
"You picked up one blind-luck victory and now you're playing the hero. Aren't you?"
Without a change in expression, Aron gathered the towel around his neck. He had no reason to turn red and answer every emotional provocation.
"If you're finished, move. The break's almost over."
"You bXstard."
Bran tilted his chin at an angle, apparently stung by Aron's dry response.
"You beat that stupid bastard Derek and one half-witted mage who can't even control his magic power, and now you think that proves your skill."
Bran tapped Aron's chest with a finger.
"Know your place. Those flimsy tricks of yours will only get you so far. You think striking a few openings by luck means you can beat real swordsmanship?"
It was an unmistakably public insult. Dozens of students in the training ground watched the two with bated breath.
An ordinary student might have looked away, cowed by the presence of a higher-ranked noble, or raised his voice in anger.
But Aron lightly knocked Bran's finger away from his chest and spoke calmly.
"If that's what you think, you should pick up a sword instead of arguing here."
"What?"
"If you want to prove whether my skill is luck or a trick, you can see for yourself in the next ranking adjustment match."
His voice was dry and calm.
Rather than returning the provocation, Aron had offered a rational answer. A muscle twitched in Bran's face.
"Ha. Unbelievable."
Bran gave an incredulous laugh.
"I'm ranked 219th. You've only just scraped into the 280s. With a gap like that, as if an official match would ever be arranged. You must know academy rules don't even allow us to face each other officially, don't you? If you're going to make an excuse, make it a convincing one."
A sneering smile spread across Bran's mouth. He took shallow satisfaction in the fact that the rules would prevent a fight without his having to do a thing.
But Aron's gaze did not waver.
"Free Challenge."
"……What?"
"If we apply to the professor in charge for a Free Challenge and both sides agree, it becomes an official match at any time, regardless of rank. Seems you're the one who doesn't know the rules."
A brief silence fell over the training ground.
Small exclamations rose among the students. The provision Aron had cited certainly existed in the academy rules. It had nearly fallen into disuse only because lower-ranked students had no desire to invite a beating by challenging higher-ranked ones. Free Challenge results counted toward evaluations, too, but unlike a ranking adjustment match, a win did not immediately give the challenger the opponent's place.
The students' eyes turned to Bran all at once.
He had confidently invoked the rules to belittle Aron, only to have Aron point out a loophole and leave him no way to retreat. If he refused the match now, he would be branded a coward running from a last-place student in the 280s.
Bran's face turned red and blue with anger.
"Fine. If you insist on digging your own grave, I will not stop you."
Bran turned sharply away.
Aron silently picked up a wooden training sword and followed him.
***
At the instructor's desk in a corner of the First Training Ground.
Professor Kairon was scribbling on some papers. He looked up at the two students approaching with heavy footsteps, his eyes cool.
"What is it?"
"We are here to apply for a Free Challenge."
Bran snatched a blank form from the instructor's desk and scrawled on it with a pen. After signing hard enough to nearly tear the paper, he shoved the application toward Aron.
Kairon looked from one face to the other.
"Bran Kessler and Aron. There must be quite a difference in your ranks. Have you both agreed to this match of your own free will?"
"Yes, sir."
Aron answered calmly and wrote his name on the document Bran had handed him. The clean movement of his pen betrayed no hesitation whatsoever.
Kairon took the application, checked the signatures, and rested his chin on his interlaced fingers.
"A Free Challenge at this academy is no game. With such a difference in rank, the risk of injury is substantial. If you accepted out of simple stubbornness or bravado, I can tear this up now."
"It is not bravado. I judged it the clearest way to test our respective abilities."
One of Kairon's eyebrows twitched faintly at Aron's calm reply. A hint of interest crossed the depths of his eyes, unusual for the ordinarily cool professor.
Aron's movements in his last few matches had been no mere fluke. His judgment in finding and exploiting his opponents' weaknesses had grown incomparably sharper.
"Very well."
Kairon slammed a red stamp beside the signature lines.
"I approve the Free Challenge. The match will be tomorrow afternoon at the practical sparring ground. Go back and concentrate on your training."
Bran glared at the stamped document, then snorted at Aron.
"Tomorrow I'll show you exactly what it looks like when your paltry luck runs out."
After that vicious threat, he turned first and walked out of the training ground.
Murmuring filled the training ground again among the students who had been watching.
"They're actually going to fight? Has Aron lost his mind?"
"He wins twice in a row and thinks he can take on anyone. Bran's in a different league from Derek or Peln."
"Tomorrow there won't be enough left of him to pick up."
Despite the negative talk and open laughter around him, Aron did not move a muscle.
Inside, he was settled and clear, almost cold.
He had not accepted the match because the taunts had made him angry. Reckless pride and anger had not played even a one-percent part in his decision.
Aron had already been watching Bran train closely for several days.
Whenever Bran slashed at a scarecrow or exchanged blows with an automated training dummy, transparent text appeared without pause over Aron's vision.
[Guard drops excessively in response to strong low attacks]
[Right shoulder opens after six consecutive attacks]
[Interval between attacks decreases when angry]
These were more than simple observations.
The lowered guard meant Bran had an anxious compulsion to defend against attacks aimed at his lower body. The shoulder opening after six attacks meant subtle faults had begun to appear in his stamina management and the fundamentals of his recovery movement.
The most dangerous weakness of all was the final line.
'Interval between attacks decreases when angry.'
To an observer, the increased speed might make his attacks look more threatening. In truth, it meant something else. Shorter intervals tangled his breathing, and tangled breathing inevitably wasted movement in the path of his sword.
That was why Aron had spoken so dryly in the middle of the training ground a moment ago, deliberately getting under Bran's skin. The more emotionally unsettled Bran became, the wider the third weakness identified by the information window would open.
Such analysis would be useless against someone whose stats overwhelmingly outclassed his own. But against someone of Bran's ability, he could find an opening even with his old wooden sword.
Aron touched the worn pocket notebook at his waist once, then slowly began to walk.
"I should refine my movements some more before tomorrow's match."
His steps were light, heedless of anyone watching. He was headed back to the empty corner of the training ground, where another punishing session of basic training awaited him.