Chương 45: Let's Spar a Final Time!

I read the restriction twice, keeping the Sword Saint visible beyond the words. The first part explained why Mimir could not heal me. The rest seemed unnecessarily pleased with the arrangement.

"One," I said.

"Yes, lad. I can read." I cleared the notification before I could check the number again. The sword reached me through the white and red flames. I closed my hand around the hilt and waited for its weight to settle before drawing it closer. The grip was solid. I turned the blade slightly, testing the balance, then caught myself squeezing hard enough to make the movement awkward. I loosened my fingers and placed my other hand below the first. The Sword Saint remained where she had been.

Her stillness gave me time to prepare, though I had no idea how much time she intended to allow. I had wasted that allowance before by making one last adjustment, then another, until she made the decision for me. I started to put my back foot into its usual position and stopped halfway. That stance belonged to a body with better physical attributes. I could remember using it, could remember exactly how the next movement should feel, but memory had been making promises my current legs could not keep.

On earlier runs, I had reached this room with health left to spend. The level ceiling had been higher, and I had arrived better prepared for the part that followed the neutron star. This time, I had three hundred and ten maximum health and considerably less sense than I had credited myself with when drinking those elixirs. Mimir was the reason I had reached the room at all.

"You're doing it again," he said.

"What?"

"Standing there thinking very hard."

"I'm choosing a guard."

"Choose one that keeps you alive." I put my foot down. His advice was difficult to dispute, which made the satisfaction in his voice more irritating. The Sword Saint had been my adversary before I thought of her as anything else. Mentor came later, after enough attempts that I began correcting myself in anticipation of what she would do. Friend had occurred to me as well. I had never tried the word aloud. I kept my attention on her hands while settling into position.

Whatever I called her, she would still take an opening if I offered it. My first rule was to keep going. The second was to never give up on myself. Both had become difficult to follow during the last attack, and I disliked remembering how close I had come to simply waiting for the numbers to finish. Here, I could move. The sword answered when I turned my wrists. I raised it into an overhead guard, then lowered my hands a little. The old samurai form encouraged a commitment I could no longer afford.

With five or six hundred health, a strike costing two hundred left room to recover from a bad decision. I might dislike the correction, but I would still be present to make it. At one health, I kept doing the arithmetic anyway.

'Watch her hand.' Her gaze moved toward my blade. I adjusted its height and thought she followed, then remembered how often I had mistaken looking in my direction for understanding precisely what I intended. Stolen novel; please report. I needed to be able to withdraw without dragging the sword after me. That meant shortening the movement I had practised. I brought my hands slightly forward, leaving room to lower the blade without locking my shoulders. My left arm answered properly.

I had expected pain there and spent an unnecessary moment waiting for it.

"Easy," Mimir said.

"I've seen you kill things I wouldn't have thought possible in all my light-years."

"You have."

"That was encouragement."

"I understood."

"Then stop looking as though you're correcting me." I nearly told him that light-years measured distance. The archive supplied the fact readily enough. I let him keep the expression and worked my fingers loose around the hilt instead. A few earlier attempts returned in pieces. A guard held too low. My own foot blocking the retreat I needed. I had spent part of the following run angry with the floor before admitting what I had done. She had made those mistakes difficult to hide behind complaints about my attributes.

Remembering that brought a grin to my face. Mimir made a doubtful sound, but I was already raising the sword again. The blade widened. Its length followed, extending beyond the point I had been using to judge my reach. The weight drew my hands down before I corrected. I slid my lower hand along the grip and checked where the balance had settled. Across the flames, the Sword Saint narrowed her eyes.

"That's fair," I muttered. I was still adjusting to the longer weapon when six shapes separated around me. One remained ahead. Another appeared behind my left shoulder, close enough that the light from its weapon crossed the edge of my sight. The others filled the space to either side, their blades beginning different movements before I could finish looking around. I knew this opening. I dropped beneath the first pair of strikes. Their blades crossed overhead, close enough that I felt the disturbance along my hair.

I kept the sword beside me rather than trying to lift it into both attacks. The old sequence wanted me turning already. My current body was late. I pushed through the turn and brought the longer blade around with me. It passed through the nearest figure. Flame separated around the edge without the resistance I had expected from a body or a guard. I carried the cut into the next image, then the one behind it. Each came apart as the sword crossed it, leaving brightness where I had been trying to judge distance.

The real thrust arrived through that brightness. I recognised the position of her hand before I could properly see the point. My rear foot moved first. I drew my weight back with it, pulling my chest beyond the line of the attack. The blade passed in front of me. I had done that withdrawal so many times that I had begun it without deciding. I still finished with my balance too far behind my heel. The sword felt longer again, though it had not changed. I was holding it badly.

'Bring it back.' My left hand loosened. For an instant, I meant to reach toward her with an open palm. Spellfist had made that response familiar during this run. Close the distance, make contact, discharge. My hand had begun preparing for it before I remembered what I had chosen to do here. I closed it around the hilt again. That small correction cost me the clean recovery. The Sword Saint withdrew her point and changed the angle while I was still bringing my weapon between us.

"Your left," Mimir began. I met the returning strike with more of the blade than I wanted. The impact pushed my arms sideways. I turned with it, trying to make the defence become a cut, but she was already moving beyond the reach I had expected. The longer sword followed her too far. I stopped it awkwardly and jumped back to clear the next approach. My feet came down before I had brought my weight under control.

One knee touched the white floor, and I used the pressure through my leg to keep from tipping farther forward. I looked up while trying to get the sword raised. She was already coming. [Health: 1 / 310] The system placed the number close to the middle of my view. It had apparently decided the rest of my resources were unnecessary.

'I remember.' I wanted the window gone. I wanted my back foot beneath me. The hilt had turned against my thumb, and for a moment that was the detail I concentrated on, the wrong edge pressing into the wrong place. I shifted my grip while rising. Her orange hair streamed behind her as she closed. I caught the position of her gauntleted hands and brought my sword above my head, leaving the blade angled to receive hers. The old warrior response would have met her with strength I no longer had. I began doing it anyway.

The first pressure through the contact made my elbows bend. I yielded before the effort could become a contest, turning my blade while moving clear of her approach. Her weapon travelled along mine, pushing against the angle I was trying to maintain. My feet nearly repeated the earlier mistake. I shortened the second step and kept them apart. She passed the point where I had been standing. The pressure left my sword.

I had redirected enough of the attack that her forward movement carried her beyond me, her arms still extended toward the position she had committed to.

"Great work there, lad!" I barely heard the end of it. Her side was within reach. The opening was familiar enough that several responses arrived together, each belonging to a different run. My palm wanted to leave the hilt again. Spellfist would have required almost no preparation at this distance.