"Is Sven really going to go up against that guy?", "Sven's gonna pummel him into the ground", "I wish I could get to fight Sven..." students began to mumble, sparing subtle glances in Ansel's direction. Ansel watched as Sven turned around, beginning to make his way to the rafters. Then, a hand slapped across his shoulder.
"That's rough," Eyra spoke, shaking her head.
"What do you mean?"
"You're going up against Sven Aichinger. He's like... the best in our class. Though I think I'll be able to defeat him if I try hard enough." Eyra narrowed her gaze at Sven's retreating figure.
"Aichinger..." The name left Ansel's mouth in a hushed tone. There were a countless number of accessor families scattered throughout the sky. The world of an accessor and the world of a non-accessor were two worlds that rarely intersected, so it made sense for Ansel—who had grown up as a non-accessor—to be clueless about accessor lineages.
However, across his seven years of studying to enter the Unified Training Academy, a few notable family names had come up. These names had become common knowledge throughout the entire Federation, and one of them was 'Aichinger.'
"I thought the Aichinger family was from the capital. What's he doing here?" Ansel asked, tilting his head to look at Eyra.
"Dunno, you'll have to ask him that yourself." Eyra patted Ansel's shoulder. "Come on, let's head to the rafters. I want to sit at the back."
Dust swirled around the arena's sandpits. A layer of sweat was plastered across the students' bodies as the sun began to creep below the horizon. Two hours had gone by, and now it was time for the final two duels of the day.
Though the students had the liberty to leave at any time they wanted, due to the class now going overtime, everyone still chose to stay. They wanted to see the duel between Sven and Ansel.
Ansel stood at one end of the arena, whilst Sven took up the opposite end. The sand was raked with messy patterns from previous spars, and the smell of copper lingered heavily in the air. Instructor Edward Hargrove stood at the sidelines, tapping the roster against his side as he thought.
"Alright, second-last match of the day." Edward spoke up, watching as the students' collective gaze swiveled to meet him head-on. "Let's get it started, huh? And no being too rough." A slight smirk stretched across his lips as his eyes locked onto Ansel. 'This ought to be fun to watch...'
Sven shifted his weight from one foot to the other, watching Ansel with an unreadable expression. "Good luck. Let's have a nice spar," he called out, beginning to shake his hands.
Ansel gulped, his throat becoming suddenly dry. He managed to gather up enough courage to speak. "Y-yeah. Alright," he said, nodding at Sven. To Ansel, it was obvious that luck would play no part in this duel. There was a massive gap between their skill levels—one that couldn't be closed in the span of a single spar, not even if the stars aligned.
Sven began to shake his left hand, and a pale-blue smoke began to waft away from his skin. The smoke curled around his arm, a few silver specks glinting in the orange-tinted sunlight as he shook it—muscles tensing.
Shake, shake, shake.
With every shake of his arm, the smoke began to disperse around his body, forming a translucent fog that obscured his entire figure. Students watching from the rafters leaned forward in their seats, their voices a cacophony of awed sounds.
"Hooh." Sven let out an even breath. The smoke surrounding his figure contracted—squeezing millions of glimmering particles together to fashion a javelin made of ice. The javelin was two meters long, but as thin as a stick. It was made for deadly precision. The javelin's tip was replaced by a blunt stopper, meant to avoid the possibility of causing any serious harm to his opponent.
Ansel felt the color drain from his face as he saw Sven's weapon manifest. 'This isn't good...' Ansel wet his lips, trying to figure out a strategy—any strategy at all. Then his gaze caught onto Sven's left hand. It was covered with cracks and tinted a dark blue. It was as if all the moisture had been drained from his skin. 'I see...'
Then Sven met Ansel's gaze. The fierce blue of his eyes drowned out the rest of the arena, and in a matter of mere seconds, he was already just a few meters in front of Ansel. The javelin whizzed toward Ansel's chest, stray particles dislodging from the icy body before being sucked back in to create an uneven surface.
Ansel's eyes widened with utter shock. He didn't even notice Sven begin to move toward him. Urging his legs to move—in any direction—Ansel clenched his eyes shut. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, rolling over to land messily on his side as Sven's javelin impacted the wall.
Thump. A small crack appeared on the concrete.
Ansel planted his arms into the ground as he hoisted himself back up, half of his body already coated by a thick layer of sand. He could even taste it in his mouth, but he didn't have any time to spit it out.
Sven furrowed his brow, switching to hold his javelin with his right hand. His left hand hung limply at his side, like dead weight attached to his arm. Behind Sven's shoulder, Ansel could make out Eyra's pink tufts of hair, watching the fight with a perplexed expression.
"Hyah!" Sven lunged with his one-handed spear, the weapon arcing through the air in two diagonal slashes that sent an X-shaped mist flying forward. Ansel stumbled back, just barely avoiding being hit by the javelin.
Then, as the mist contacted his skin, a chill unlike any other ran down his spine. It was the coldest thing Ansel had ever felt. He instinctively fell to his knees, grabbing onto his own arms to maintain some semblance of warmth. Looking up at Sven, it was impossible for Ansel to understand how a human being could handle such a temperature with ease.
Sven brought his javelin up behind his shoulders and spun it repeatedly through the air. Whhiirrrrrr—the javelin's spin left circular afterimages as it was tossed from side to side, then...
SNAP. The blunt end stopped a centimeter away from Ansel's throat, and a scatter of cheering and applause erupted from the crowd. Ansel tried to let out a relieved breath—'at least it's over now...'—but the icy chill of the javelin so close to his neck seemed to close his throat up.
"Woooo, Sven!", "I told you he'd get pummeled!", "Nice one, Sven!!!" students shouted.
Eyra remained seated, chewing on her lip as she looked down at Ansel. 'Why didn't he use his ability... is there really that big of a difference between his and Sven's skill levels? Or maybe... no. There has to be some sort of reason...'
"Good duel," Edward clapped with the roster in his hand. A smug look crossed his face as he watched Ansel slowly stand up. '...heh, good duel my ass. That was totally one-sided.'
Sven's javelin broke down into an icy mist, swirling around his body before being sucked back into his left hand. After the mist finally disappeared, his hand seemed to return to a normal state—no visible cracks or discoloration. Sven waited for Ansel to stand up before extending his hand. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." Ansel put on a weary smile, shaking Sven's hand. "You're very strong... how does your body even handle wielding a weapon that cold? My body nearly froze over from just getting a whiff of the mist."
"Heh, I guess it just comes with practice." Sven beamed. "...The first time I ever activated my ability, I almost froze my entire arm off." He let go of Ansel's hand and turned around to face the rafters. "Come on, we should go back now. There's still one more round left."
"Alright," Ansel nodded, jogging to catch up with Sven as the two boys made their way to the seating area. As Ansel walked toward the back row, he passed by Eyra, who was making her way toward the arena. Ansel went to speak up, but fell silent upon seeing Eyra's expression. She didn't even spare a glance in his direction. 'Is she... mad?'
"Alright!" Edward called out, silencing the students. "...the final match of the day: Eyra versus Sal. Hurry up and come on down here, now!"
* * *
Sal was an average-height, lanky boy with a perpetual sneer painted on his face. He adjusted the collar of his T-shirt as he took in the sight of Eyra—her knees bent as she assumed a combat pose. "Don't worry, I won't go too hard on you," he spoke up. "...I wouldn't want to ruin that cute face of yours."
Eyra gritted her teeth, sparing a quick glance at Instructor Hargrove before turning her attention back to Sal. She didn't say a word. 'Let's just start already...'
"Alright," Edward cleared his throat. "Let's have a nice, clean match as usual, alright?" His demeanor clearly lacked the same interest it carried during Ansel's match with Sven. He leaned against the arena's sideline wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he counted down the start of the match.
"I'll get this done in under a minute," Sal let out a short breath, turning around to direct a confident wink at the rafters. "Just sit back and watch..." He crouched down, flexing his hands. "Okay?"
"Destroy her, Sal!" a boy called out. "Yeah, you got this!" another shouted. Sal listened to their words and snickered, refusing to take his eyes off Eyra. "...you hear that? I'm going to wi—"
"Just shut up already." Eyra's voice cut through Sal's confidence like a sniper bullet through his brain. She brought up her hands, flattening her palms and holding them in front of her. "I don't like the sound of your voice."
"Three..." Edward began to count down. "Two... one. Start! Get on with it!"