59 Humility

The suns jabbed Jacob's eyes, pulling a tag-team with Cynthia. It was irritating, but it was a tactic he should have seen coming miles away. He had no one to blame but himself. Jacob tried to circle back so that he could face a different direction, but Cynthia's longsword penned him in. There was to be no escape.

So be it. Jacob closed the distance again, face to face with his opponent now. In these confines, neither blade could move all that much. It was ideal for Jacob to muscle the slight girl into a favorable position for him. Without needed to block strikes, Jacob could focus on this most paramount of tasks.

Unfortunately, Cynthia saw his strategy as soon as he started shoving her. Her blade, pointing downwards, was useless to her. At least, that was what Jacob had thought. She took the pommel of the blade and bashed Jacob in the jaw with it. Yelling in pain, Jacob stumbled back momentarily, but it was enough for Cynthia to disentangle herself. The resolute look in her eyes told him all he needed to know; she would not allow that situation to happen again. Jacob's last best chance to turn the tide disappeared.

An onslaught followed, strike after strike. Eventually, it came down to a matter of stamina. For all his training, Jacob had not had the conditioning Cynthia benefited from birth. It was his lungs that began to give way first. His form growing sloppy, his spatha's tip drooped for but a second. It was enough.

Cynthia lunged forward, a direct attack, drawing just short of Jacob's neck. "That's my win, mage," she said haughtily, though the words were delivered with less vitriol than expected. Jacob, defeated, hung his head in shame.

"That it is, Cynthia," he returned, sadness seeping into his voice. While he hadn't expected an easy fight, he had given himself even odds before stepping foot on the training grounds. He had been mistaken, and that fact hurt more than anything. The audience gathered around them was silent, and Provost Thomson simply watched on, satisfied that no one had died.

"Lady Thomson. I've proven myself your superior," she called as he turned to leave the arena. Jacob turned, the droop in his shoulders dissolving as quickly as it had developed.

"You've proven that you can beat me in a duel. If this were the real world, Cynthia, you'd have been dead five times over," Jacob seethed. Cynthia didn't take his words well, having expected her competitor to have been cowed. Because of the restrictions set by the duel, the same restrictions Jacob would have to face in the tournament, the deck was stacked against him.

Cynthia stalked up to him, fingers gripping her longsword so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. "I'd love to see that, mage. I challenge you, Jacob of Leafburrow. Show everyone here your words aren't misplaced," she spread her arms, indicating the mass of people around them. Some snickered, but most were silent and respectful. It was a remarkable atmosphere; Provost Thomson had done well in fostering the students here.

"I accept. There are to be no restrictions in magic for our duel. Shall we duel now?" he easily accepted. Though his mana was drained from his earlier meditation, it was nearing where it normally would be when he fought against Provost Thomson each evening.

"I would have it no other way, mage," she spat, returning to her side of the earthen field. Jacob's feet dug into the ground on his side, waiting for the intrigued Provost Thomson to announce the beginning of their duel.

"Begin!"

As expected, Cynthia launched forward. Significantly slower than earlier in the evening when both duelists had spare energy, Jacob would much more easily recognize the movement. Physically, he lacked the ability to move in time. A little application of wind magic to his side punched him out of the way. Cynthia's blade pierced where Jacob had once been: a fatal strike. Was she playing to kill?

Provost Thomson noticed the attack, too. Recognition flashed in her eyes and a dark expression overcame her face. It looked as if she was about to say something, but she eventually chose to let the duel continue unabated. Mercy no longer on the table, Jacob summoned the wind around him, accelerating him forward like a bullet.

His spatha lashed out like a viper, eagerly striking at Cynthia's exposed side. At the very last second, seeing the warning in Provost Thomson's gaze, he pulled the strike. Not a single drop of blood was shed, much as before, but this bout had been much quicker. Cynthia fell onto the floor, realizing just how close she had come to entering the afterworld prematurely.

"I will not take insults, Cynthia. Just as you have your pride, I have mine. Leave me alone for the rest of my time here," Jacob spun on his heels and left the training grounds. Provost Thomson didn't follow him to the training room where they'd normally practice. Instead, he saw her stay with her niece. Clearly, the younger Thomson wasn't taking the defeat very well.

While it was true that magic was an innate part of who Jacob was now, it still stung a little bit to be forced to use it to best the arrogant girl. His point would have come across much clearer had he only needed to use a blade; "I am as much a warrior as the rest of you." As Jacob went through sword forms again, he wondered briefly what Rod was doing. How much longer did he have to go before reaching his home village?

Thoughts of Rod turned to thoughts of Angelica, just be association of the names. When he last saw the mage-in-training, she had sent him packing with a few choice words. He still blamed himself for Leafburrow, and he could understand her hatred. That being said, it still didn't sit right with him. Was she now learning advanced spells? The thought of a pissed-off, magic-wielding Angelica scared the ever-living daylights of him.

Almost as much as when Provost Thomson tapped on his shoulder. He hadn't heard the woman enter the training room, nor had he heard her approach. Provost Thomson had to be a ninja of some sort. Jacob was sure of it.

"You lost," she said simply. Jacob appreciate the sentiment. Dwelling on the past didn't do him any favor. "Ready to fix that?"

The duel, for all the righteous anger behind it, had shown him just how much he had to improve before he could really call himself a swordsman. Until he could beat Cynthia, he was but a pretender. That would have to change.

"Yes."