Altair once again felt his grasp on his surroundings slip away as his focus was directed towards tracing Feran’s movements. He had no intention of losing himself in the entrappings of his own thoughts, though Altair wasn’t willing to sacrifice the greatest advantage he held over his skilled opponent.

His decision spoke of his resolve to stand and confront Feran head-on, instead of engaging in a battle of attrition.

The students watching the duel held their breaths as the citrine haired boy drew nearer to Altair, a few already shaking their heads or clicking their tongue in sympathy. While Altair remained oblivious to the atmosphere of tension clouding the arena, Feran was very much not— earlier, he had wanted to end the battle as swiftly as possible but now he sought a clean, decisive victory.

Altair carefully scrutinized Feran’s movements as his right arm pulled back, several muscles tightening to stabilize the joints as potential energy was stored within. He still required a few more moments to fully map out Feran’s sword trajectory; few precious moments which were enough for his opponent to close the distance and land a blow on his chest.

Gritting his teeth, Altair took a step forward. His arm muscles contracted as he swung his own sword in a wide arc, a strike that was executed with full understanding of the strong possibility of defeat. It was not in a surgeon’s nature to perform without prior observation and analysis, but he refused to go down without putting up a fight.

A counter-strike was struck to Feran’s own slash— Altair had aimed for the upper third part of the opponent's blade since it was furthest away from his center of mass, which made it most vulnerable to deflection.

Except, Altair hadn’t actually expected his aim to strike true. The crisp sound of wood crashing against wood reverberated out as Altair cleanly deflected Feran’s strike, sending his sword recoiling sidewards.

He should have been relieved upon successfully executing the maneuver, but instead a profound sense of uneasiness gripped his heart. A moment passed by before he was confronted with the reason why— the strength behind Feran’s blow carried only a fraction of the previous strike.

It was only as Altair’s gaze flickered over to Feran’s sword arm did he understand the true distinction between them; the importance of tutelage in a sword form. While he did not believe that his opponent had predicted the outcome of their second clash from its inception, the dueling stance Feran had adopted accounted for the likelihood of his blows being parried.

Which was why Feran could draw his deflected blade back in, launching another slash from an entirely new angle.

Altair managed to parry, but the resultant force behind the strike pushed him a little off balance, forcing him to instinctively take a step back.

If Feran’s intention hadn’t been evident before, they now stood in stark clarity. Mere victory was no longer enough for him— he intended to completely crush Altair.

The crowd’s excitement began to dull as Feran exploded into a flurry of slashes, with one deflected strike feeding into the next. Altair was pushed back step after step as Feran methodologically chipped away at his stamina, no one blow powerful enough to secure a decisive victory yet their cumulative effect was not to be underestimated.

Altair did not know if it was mere seconds or minutes that had passed by him. His diminutive back was drenched in sweat, his arms feeling like lead as he mustered his willpower to block another oncoming strike. His focus was no longer concentrated enough to filter out the crowd’s chatter, though the excited chatter had been replaced by muted conversation. There was no entertainment to be derived from a one-sided beatdown.

As his breath began to flag, Altair knew that he was going to lose.

He did not know if it was coincidence or perhaps the influence of his subconscious mind, but as he traced the trajectory of the blade with his gaze, he noticed a glimmer of lustrous white in the corner of his eyes.

A familiar white.

It was only for a second, but he managed to catch a glimpse of his sister’s visage. The worry reflected on her face. The gentle quiver of her lips. The moist shimmer in her eyes.

In that moment, Altair was reminded of Ryan Kimura’s resolve. The burgeoning rage he had felt against the nature of the world had always come second to his resolve, to the weight of the oath that he had sworn.

Ryan Kimura had, never once in his life, given up— not until his patient drew breath.

A bead of his own sweat slipped into his left eye, obscuring his vision. Feran’s strike lashed against his sword, his arms screaming at him to let go of the sword as he was sent three steps back, barely able to stop himself from falling over.

The brief distraction he had allowed himself had caused his prospects at victory to suffer greatly.

But Altair’s right eye brimmed with determination, the aching in his arms suddenly feeling distant as he fixated his sight on his foe.

He was spent— almost spent.

The reason why he hadn’t tried to attempt a gambit at victory up until this point was because Altair didn’t know how. He could vaguely guess at the concept of a feint, but he had no idea how to pull it off. His footwork was simple and workman-like and he was not audaciousness enough to believe that he could come up with an effective movement style impromptu.

Worst of all, his opponent had been bearing down upon him relentlessly, leaving him only with a few seconds to think before the next strike came at him from a new angle.

Under such circumstances, victory had seemed impossible.

This time, Altair took a step forward.

Feran had already closed the gap, the beginnings of a smile on his face as he saw Altair’s haggard appearance.

The crowd once again burst into murmurs, as if they could sense the climax of the duel approach—though there was little suspense when it came to the outcome. No one, besides Nocturne, expected an Altair that was on the verge of keeling over to defeat Feran. In their eyes, the duel was already over.

Altair jerked his right arm back in a wide arc, his muscles tensing and his face reddening as he strained his exhausted body to execute the blow.

Feran’s expression remained unflinching in face of Altair’s ostentatious display—he was not afraid of the final throes of a clearly spent fighter.

Up until now, Altair had intercepted every strike Feran had thrown at him, out of the natural, instinctive desire to protect himself from harm. That had created an expectation, an undeniable pattern that was implicitly expected from Altair.

And as Feran saw Altair swing his sword in a sweeping slash, his expectations were all but confirmed.

The crowd waited for the clash of the practise swords as they had over a dozen times before as the two committed themselves to their respective strikes…

The clash that never came.

Feran didn’t understand what had just happened. He could have sworn that Altair’s sword had been heading to intercept merely seconds ago, but instead he found his own blade progress unimpeded towards Altair’s chest— a single blow that would count as a fatal one and put an end to the well-fought duel.

His blade drew closer and closer, until perhaps only a single inch separated him from his target.

Then the sound of wood striking flesh clapped out. It took him a moment to understand that he… had been attacked.

It was not pain that accompanied the sound, no… it was more like the inside of his wrist had been gently slapped; a slap that had sapped away the strength from his wrist, causing his secure grip to go slack without warning.

All Feran felt was confusion mixed with disbelief as his sword— the sacred blade that his father had instructed him to guard with his life— slipped out of his grip and clattered onto the arena’s floor.

The next thing he knew, Altair stood before him with a disbelieving expression that matched Feran’s; holding the tip of his blade against Feran’s throat and lightly tapping it.

Striking the inner part of Feran’s wrist before he could strike at his chest had been a gambit born out of desperation. In truth, even the idea had sprung from Altair’s knowledge on pressure points, namely the Pericardium 6 acupressure point.

But that didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered was the fact that he had won.

A few moments later, the students burst into an excited chatter that overshot even the electric excitement at the beginning of the duel.