Sion’s Decision 4 ~Continuation of that Day~
What does Sion want me to see? Echard pondered.
He was unable to understand his brother’s conduct. Why, in this particular moment, would he suggest a sword duel? Watching him combat this other prince was pointless. Sure, everyone would recognize how much of a genius he was—as if anyone wasn’t aware already—but what would happen next? Was this a covert act of revenge?
Swordsman Sion Sol Sunkland was a gifted individual. That was known to all. Prince Abel was his opponent, a relative unknown by contrast. If Echard remembered correctly, Sion was going to batter this poor prince into pathetic submission for the second time, and that was meant to be his farewell gift?
Perhaps he is attempting to avenge me or something else.
Was this a forceful gesture to remind Echard who was supposed to be the heir? To permanently shatter his will? Even if that was the most straightforward answer, it didn’t seem like anything his brother would do.
Then what? This is what?
He saw the two princes brandish swords at one another, but no answers came.
With a confident and calm voice, Abel remarked, “Let’s do this.”
Raising his blade above his head, he held it in that position. It was in exactly the same overhead stance as before, unchanging, unflinching.
“That stance, still, huh? Ever since that day at the swordsmanship competition, you have been utilizing it.”
“It’s the only one I know. I wish I could change it up, but I was not endowed with your intelligence or talent.”
Sion winced at that remark. “I’m not aware of that… Talent is one thing, but I’m beginning to question my true level of smarts these days.” He dropped his sword arm, maintaining a comfortable grip while adopting a low, parallel posture with his blade. “I’ll adopt the same stance I did that day.”
“Oh. Ah, I see. Even if our paths have crossed frequently since then, I believe that today’s fight officially continues that match.”
“There’s also no rain. Nothing that might obstruct us. We are free to fight till we want to. So let’s continue this dance until the very end.”
Abel’s smile disappeared at that moment. His face became completely serious. He took a deep breath, held it for a time, and then gently exhaled…
“Let’s begin!”
…And hurried up to launch an assault with a menacing shout.
The Sunkland nobles recognized the sight. Prince Sion possessed a genius-level of skill in his swordplay. He waited for the onslaught and withstood it to determine the full scope of his opponent’s capabilities before guiding it into creating a gap that he would quickly take advantage of. From there, he would expertly and precisely dismantle his opponent. Observing Sion engage in combat was experiencing dominance. With the elegance of a king, he battled unshakable, unflappable, and always prepared.
It made sense, then, that the Sunkland nobles watching from the stands anticipated a similar show. They had heard the tale. They were familiar with its rhythms. All they had to do was watch it happen once more.
They didn’t even get past the prologue with their assumptions.
With that initial blow, Abel announced a new story. The strike lacked any pretense, cunning, or inventiveness. It was easy. Incredibly so. Swordplay novices mocked his lack of experience. They perceived his dash as a result of youthful impatience or even amateur nerves—a precipitous response to a momentarily lost serenity in the face of a formidable foe.
Alaia Dion chuckled. But to commend instead of heckle.
“Well… Not at all awful. A sure stroke indicates mental strength. That characterizes a skilled swordsman.”
Abel closed the distance with a single lunge, as if confirming the veracity of his words. His front leg extended far before striking the ground with a resounding thud, and all of his force was focused on the edge of his blade as he swung it down toward his opponent.
Everything about the action was textbook motion; it was just perfectly tuned. His sword hit with the bone-crunching might of a towering cascade, but it flowed with the graceful ease of water.
The sound of crashing metal rose hairs, split ears, and rocked the entire space. Time itself seemed to pause in the silence that ensued. As the slowly sinking realization hit their reeling thoughts, many held their breath.
This was no diversion.
Sion had anticipated and met Abel’s downward stroke, which he had witnessed numerous times, before forcing himself into a bind. He smiled as they locked swords.
“Excellent… It appears that your go-for-broke skull smasher is hitting even more forcefully than previously.”
“It seems not hard enough.” Abel stated, “I’m trying to get good enough to take some of the go-for-brokeness out of it, at least so I can defend myself against one of those assassins from the other day. But against you…”
He felt a vein pop in his temple and increased the thrust of his blade. He launched himself into his enemy with all the terrifying force of a boulder bearing down on an unlucky victim…and crashed into what seemed like a brick wall.
Sion remained still. He faced the approaching force with the might of the castle’s ramparts.
After the unsuccessful push, Abel lost his balance and had to take a step back to regain it. He slashed his sword crosswise as he moved back, averting Sion’s onslaught. But still…
“You’re moving too quickly, Abel. A carelessly large swing exposes you.”
There had been more preemption of the preemptive strike. Anticipating the retreating assault, Sion advanced in synchrony and slain Abel’s extended blade.
“Gah!” Abel grunted. The impact, as devastating as his own crushing blow, hummed through his arms. It all clicked for him in a moment. Sion realized that he wanted to challenge Abel’s strength with his own. This was going to be a battle of pure resolve, heart, and soul rather than skill.
“I understand… since Mia is on the line now. So, is this the type of fight you’re looking for?”
“What other type would do? If I used cunning and attrition to win her over, would you honestly give in?”
Sion’s voice had a confident, carefree quality that went beyond simple arrogance. Abel saw in his eyes not boldness but the icy determination of a resurrected genius. Of a man whose glory had been honed by suffering and experience after it had been erroneous once. And Abel experienced actual terror for the first time in a long time.
A terrifying shiver ran down his back, demanding to know how it had slipped his mind. How could he have afforded even the slightest bit of insouciance when confronted with Sion Sol Sunkland, the physical embodiment of brilliance? Did they have any training sessions? Their few conflicts engaged in back-to-back combat? Did those make up for his ill-gotten arrogance in front of the goliath, whose shadow was over him so much the darkness had started to creep in?
“Heavenly sweet steel… I had to fight as if my life was on the line.” he murmured through clenched teeth.
“Your life, plus more,” Sion retorted. “Fight me with all of your might.”
Abel’s face became even more serious.
The battle had only just begun.
