Chapter Twenty-Seven: Flawless

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Flawless

Monks roared with approval as the duel ended. They stamped their feet and clapped, whistling and yelling their approval.

Rosa simply stood, watching Abbess Sunrise and Abbot Sunset with an even expression. Both looked vaguely amused.

“Well,” Sunrise said when the hubbub died down. “It seems that the blood of Horizon still runs strong in Raventos. Well fought. You have earned a place on our expedition.”

Rosa nodded her acceptance. “Thank you, Abbess, Abbot.” She gave them a small bow and then moved to join the rest of the group standing next to the dais.

“Master Cutter?” The abbot said. “Are you ready?”

Tom shrugged. “Yep.”

He strolled out into the open space at the centre of the hall and stood watching the door. A heavy feeling laid across the room: anticipation, excitement, bloodlust, all woven together. It grew heavier with each passing moment.

The monks murmured to each other in low tones, creating a susurrus. The abbess and abbot spoke quietly to each other. The Raventos’, Tanya, and Markus waited, looking a little nervous.

Tom himself felt fine. He had been in enough duels where he was hopelessly outmatched that a duel with a fair chance of winning didn’t bother him at all.

Every single day at the Academy, multiple times a day, he was pitted against young Idealists while having no Ideals himself. The grand majority of times he was soundly thrashed. But he endured, and he improved.

Every night when he had gotten home, his father had ‘trained’ with him. He had no hope of winning against him, his father, who was an Exemplary Idealist, even if he only had the one Ideal. Every single night he was beaten to the point of needing healing. But it had taught him many things.

How to fight against a superior opponent. How to keep fighting against overwhelming odds. How to endure, how to limit damage, when you could not.

Perversely, it had prepared him well for the Hunters. He had fought sprites and golems. Beasts of all descriptions. A drake.

He had fought other Idealist humans. He had fought countless orcs, and more Idealist orcs than he could remember. He had fought orc chieftains. He had fought the Great Smith.

He’d been beaten and broken. He’d struggled and strived. He’d fought, and bled, and refused to back down. Always against superior fighters. And if not, then always against overwhelming odds.

A fair fight? He wasn’t just fine. He was looking forward to it.

The volume in the hall suddenly increased, rising from a murmur to a buzz. Mateo walked back into the hall, crossing the open space to stand opposite Tom with steady, even steps.

Tom assessed the man more closely now that he had the chance. He was big. Verging on massive, really. He was around Tom’s age, and he could not detect any softness or laxity in him.

What he did notice was arrogance. The man reeked of it. It was not the brash, audacious kind, not reckless, or foolish. It was the arrogance that came with having proven oneself superior to your peers over and over and over. He was simply self-assured to the point of being domineering. He stared at Tom as though their fight was a foregone conclusion.

Tom ruthlessly crushed a smile before it could form on his lips. It would not become him to be arrogant himself. He instead applied his mind to gleaning anything he could before the fight started.

The man wore a full set of heavy armour: thick leather laden with thick plates of metal. Overlapping strip-plates formed his pauldrons and a thick hauberk hung around his hips. His only weapon was a heavy looking longsword buckled to one hip.

All of it hummed with enchantments. From the complexity of them, the harmony that Tom felt from them, he was sure that the entire set was a bespoke creation. It was still not to the superlative level of Scriber’s work, but it was definitely surpassing good.

He wore no helm, but Idealists often left their heads bare so as not to interfere with sensory skills. Tom noted to be wary of one. He focused on Hunter-Gatherer himself, trying to sort the information it gave him as finely as possible. If anything, the monk felt almost exactly as powerful as himself. He could sense no unusual vitality, no bumps or dips in the mana within him.

Satisfied, Tom turned to the abbot and abbess. Sunrise raised a curious eyebrow at him, and Sunset’s eyebrows knitted slightly.

Tom could guess why. He had worn a set of decent clothes for the occasion, a white shirt and black pants and a pair of plain though well-made black boots. He had not summoned his armour or weapons, which waited in his storage ring.

Mateo inclined his head to his leaders. After a moment, the abbot spoke. “The rules are the same, Tom Cutter.” It was not quite a question.

Tom just nodded. “Are alchemics allowed?” He withdrew a flask from his storage, offering it up for inspection.

“They are weapons, like any other. If you have them, then you may use them,” Sunrise said.

Tom nodded again. He popped the cork from the flask he was holding and took a big swig. Then he stored it, and withdrew another two bottles, sipping from one and dowing the entire bottle of the other.

He’d come to rely on Sweet Suffering as the cornerstone of his fighting style. The skill itself was only as reliable as the poisons he had to work with though.

Since the siege he had found the time to hash out a few things with Bubbles, the alchemist he’d met in Wayrest. Now, he had a huge stock of poisons, finely crafted and perfectly suited for any number of needs.

A powerful surge of strength swept through his body like a fever. Time felt as if it slowed as his reflexes and speed increased. His skin tingled as his toughness skyrocketed. He adjusted his posture minutely as he became aware of tiny issues with his balance. Energy blossomed in him, his health, stamina and mana all railing against their maximums with newly increased regeneration.

“We can have armour brought for you, Mister Cutter…” Sunset said derisively. Tom wasn’t worried. It was a fair assumption to make that not everyone would have the same means as the Raventos family.

Tom just shook his head. “It’s alright.”

The abbot’s frown deepened. “We are delaying important business for this, Mister Cutter. Young Miss Raventos, your friend, Initiate Gallo, both speak highly of your ability. Mateo is the best of our young generation. I would suggest that you take this seriously.”

“I know my business,” Tom answered simply.

The abbot frowned deeper, then shrugged and sat back. “Very well. Hunters certainly are confident, it seems. I hope for your sake, that your friends are not prone to …exaggeration.”

Tom just shrugged. He turned to his opponent, just as his opponent turned to him. Tom felt the watching monks lean forward with anticipation. The murmuring ebbed and died, as though the monks were unwilling to spare even an iota of attention for discussion.

Tom had already been aware that Mateo must be some kind of prodigy. The monks would not be so keen on the fight if he were not. He could imagine all of them having taken a drubbing at the massive, arrogant man’s hands many times over, and now they were eagerly anticipating watching him dole out the treatment for someone else. An unknown, at that, someone who didn’t know what was in store for them. A foreigner, who couldn’t possibly match up to their best.

Tom was used to having low expectations. But he had three Ideals of his own, and in this hall, in this moment, he would not only subvert expectations, but smash them.

The hall was silent but for heavy, expectant breathing. Tom felt like he was a prime piece of steak surrounded by barely leashed hounds. His skin felt cool in the mountain air. A few dust motes drifted lazily by.

“Begin,” called the abbess.

Mateo slid his longsword from his scabbard in a smooth, well-practised motion as he started forward. Tom remained still. He watched the monk’s advance, reading information.

His steps were even and measured. His sword was held precisely. His mana was steady. Every single aspect of the man’s form was perfect. For all his overwhelming arrogance, he did not underestimate Tom. His eyes searched him just as his searched the monk.

Mateo picked up speed. He flowed towards Tom like a wave. Still, his form was perfect down to a fraction of an inch.

He raised his longsword, bringing it up for a broad, sweeping slash. Tom watched as he adjusted his feet, began to pivot. He saw the muscles in his neck twitch, read the angles of his arms, his shoulders, his hips.

It all seemed so trivial that Tom’s mind raced trying to think of some kind of catch, some trick waiting for him. Then, as he watched the sword slowly begin its forward arc, he felt mana fluctuations from Mateo as buffs began to activate.

Tom stepped forward. Just a tiny step. He saw Mateo read it. Saw calculations bloom. Saw muscle memory kick in.

He stepped back and to the side. Again, a tiny movement. More calculations. More extrapolation. Muscles shifted. Angles changed.

Tom gathered himself. All the inherent ability from being a Complete Idealist. All the buffs from his poisons. All the extra speed, strength, reflexes and coordination from his subsumed familiars. He focused it, honed it, and envisioned.

Then everything exploded into furious motion.

Tom slid forward and to the side, bunching his legs, one leading. His left arm flickered out. His fingertips touched the inside of Mateo’s sword arm, pushing, just slightly, just enough.

The swing went wide as Tom twisted his hips. His right arm, which had dropped back as his left had struck forward, bunched against his side.

He planted his feet. Strength exploded through his legs. He conveyed it through his hips, twisted his torso, adding to the power. His right arm snapped forward and cracked directly into Mateo’s nose.

Mateo’s motions had been perfect, or as near to as made no difference. Unless you were fighting someone like Tom. Someone who had been baptised in fights against vastly superior opponents, opponents who were used to winning and determined not to give you even the slightest chance. Someone used to eking out wins through the smallest of margins.

Tom’s punch had been perfect. It had to be. His superlative speed, his strength, his coordination and reflexes had flowed together in flawless synchronicity for one simple action.

Mateo, who had been charging, pivoted fully around the impact point. His legs left the ground and carried forwards. A pained grunt escaped a bleeding mouth.

Tom drove a knee into his sword arm as he fell, forcing him to drop his weapon. He carried through the motion, but chose not to grip Mateo’s arm. His intuition told him grappling with the monk would not end well.

Instead, he stepped past the falling monk. He summoned his spear. He rotated it, drew it high, pivoted smoothly, and then struck.

The whole exchange lasted less than a breath. The entire fight had been only several seconds.

Mateo lay on the floor on his back, his eyes wide and focused on the spearpoint just in front of his nose. Tom stood above him, every line of his body aligned towards thrusting his spear through Mateo’s face.

The point of his spear had struck against a tiny blue disc. Though it was no bigger than a coin, Tom’s spear had not moved an inch since striking it. From the look on the downed monk’s face, Tom knew he had not been the one to cast it.

Tom stood smoothly and stowed his spear. He turned to face the abbot and abbess. Both regarded him with mild surprise.

“Well,” said Abbess Sunrise. “I do not suppose you needed the armour after all.”