Laufa, the Underdog Who’s Caught the World’s Attention

The Krastas College of War. January 7, 1435.

Laufa made out scuffed lines traced through the gravel from the last matches. Specks of blood littered the pit, buried under dust.

The piercer threatened to slip out from her grip at any second. Can‘t I just forfeit…?

“Quite the stunt you pulled in the first trial,” Mordhun levelled his piercer at her from across the pit. “But, I suppose it’s to be expected from your sort. Allow me to demonstrate the true difference between noble and commoner.”

His taunting was drowned out by Eralia’s voice, still replaying in Laufa’s mind. There was no way she could follow Lady Eralia’s plan, it sounded completely psychotic. In the end, all Laufa could think to do was one thing: Survive.

“Begin!” Instructor Pruatt’s shout scattered her thoughts.

Laufa yelped and threw her hands forward. Immediately, a jagged barrier sprouted in front of her… Before Mordhun had even attacked.

Mordhun paused, lowering his weapon an inch. “You must be joking.”

“Ah…” She managed a nervous chuckle.

He sighed and angled his piercer at her defense. The tip jolted forward, groaning against her barrier. Sparks flew as a sharp crack split the air. The piercer burst straight through her manra, exploding in a chaotic shower of light.

“This is the power that’s caught everyone’s attention?” The scattering debris illuminated his snarl.

He's way stronger than any of the drills!

Mordhun vanished into the shimmering dust and reappeared right in front of her. His blade darted towards her legs.

She gasped and threw up a shield at her waist. Wrong move.

He brought his piercer around in an overhead sweep. She pitched up another barrier just as it plummeted towards her head. Her manra wavered violently under the strike, the impact knocking her off her feet and tumbling straight to the floor.

Too strong. Eralia’s out of her mind, there’s no way.

Scrambling backwards, she raked her free hand across the ground, tossing gravel at him. A thin shield of light flashed before his eyes, deflecting the rubble with ease.

His blade followed her through the settling dust. She rolled sideways, scraping her cheek across rock and flung a barrier into his sword’s path. The piercer screeched as it glanced off the shield.

She’d thought it’d missed.

It slid with a wet, tearing slick. A line of pain seared her sword arm.

Pebbles dug into her knee as she landed. “Ah, fuck,” she hissed, stumbling back to her feet.

Dark red drenched her uniform. My arm.

The arena blurred. She gasped for air, clutching the gash with her other hand. Wet warmth seeped through her fingers. Too much. It gushed and gushed from the wound. Stinging.

Fuck.

The air suddenly tasted like blood. The smell. It was just like that day. No, it was exactly like that day. The day this all started. The day the real Laufa died.

It was the sneering face of the captain who’d kidnapped her. The warm tears that’d splattered her cheeks. The cold cobblestone against her back. It was the same helplessness she’d felt then.

She’d been too helpless to resist the guards. She’d been too helpless to save Fiann from them, too. She’d been too helpless to do anything in this world. And if she died this time, there was no guarantee she’d wake up again.

“Is that it?” Mordhun laughed.

He advanced again. Her arm burned, her whole body screamed at her. Just like that day, there was nothing she could do. She was going to lose. He raised his piercer for the final blow.

It’s over.

But…

She’d stolen this body. She knew that. Am I going to let it all end here? In a pit of gravel, over a stupid schoolyard fight?

No. It was the only thought she could manage. Not again.

The memory of Eralia’s words cut through her panic.

You have the raw manra. He doesn’t. That’s what Eralia had said. She’d given her a plan, if you could even call it that. It barely counted as a fight. Laufa glanced at the blood oozing between her grip. But I know how this’ll end, otherwise.

It was her only chance. She planted her feet, her boots digging into the stone. You’d better be right about this, Eralia.

Mordhun lunged, intent on finishing the battle. His piercer ricocheted against her barrier as she leaped to the side, smearing a puddle of blood on the gravel. She panted, her arm dangling at her side. Her eyes returned to her opponent.

“You truly are an embarrassment,” Mordhun said.

His gaze had stopped on her barrier. It was still floating there in the arena, dozens of seconds after his attack.

“Did they not even teach you to dissipate your manra?” He sighed, shattering it with a flick of his wrist before whipping back towards her.

He leaped at Laufa, his weapon aimed at her chest, but halted as another barrier flashed before him. He snarled and sidestepped it, only to find his path blocked by another one.

She’d given up on dissipating them.

She strung a trail of barriers behind her as he chased Laufa through the pit. One to curb his lunge. Another to cut off his angle. He tore one down, only for two more to appear.

Soon, the whole arena was a maze of glowing, fractal walls. He grunted, kicking up gravel as he smashed through shield after shield. A commotion swept through the confused crowd.

“You refuse to fight, commoner!?” Mordhun called, shattering the nearest screen.

“N—No! I’m fighting!” Laufa ducked under the edge of another.

“Fighting!?” He sneered. “No, you’re making a mockery of this trial! How long do you pretend to keep this up!?”

“Eh?” She stole a glance from behind her manra wall. “There’s a time limit!?”

His eyebrow twitched. “Fool. You’re a fool.” He turned to erase another barrier, now heaving for breath. “Your barriers will run dry long before my sword does.”

He thrust his piercer through the barrier’s centre. A fracture snaked its way across the glowing strands, reaching from one edge of the translucent screen to the other before it crumbled.

Glittering particles of manra filled the air, distorting the arena. She could barely make out Mordhun squinting, his face blurring into a silhouette from behind the shimmering curtain of stena dust.

A trickle of blood dripped from Laufa’s nose. “I know.”

From behind the glimmering cloud, she dove at Mordhun.

“Hnngh—What—” He grunted, his grip faltering as she crashed into his side.

He swung a half-second too late.

It wasn’t tactical at all. Really, it was more a stumbling fall right into him. Her shoulder slammed into his ribs, her wounded arm seized with pain. Their momentum sent the two toppling to the ground. His piercer spun away, clattering beside hers.

She pinned Mordhun down with one hand, heaving above him, surrounded by the pulsing light of her own barriers. Her other arm hung uselessly from her shoulder.

Instructor Pruatt stepped into the pit.

“…Both contenders have been disarmed.” His eyes moved from their weapons, back to the two of them. “It’s a draw.”

The crowd erupted. The noble seats were immediately filled with heckling. The only exceptions were the cheers of a couple commoners, and a stunned silence from the captains and Warden above, where a man caped in pitch black leaned forward from his seat. The Grand Master, Vellen.

Mordhun shoved her off. She stumbled back, the shock fading and the pain in her arm resurfacing. He snatched his piercer from the ground and sneered at her with more disgust than she’d ever seen before, like she’d broken some unspoken, fundamental rule of this world. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but was silenced by a sharp look from his father in the stands. Warden Rustes.

Mordhun pulled his mouth tight. For a fleeting second, she felt a little pity for him. In the end… He doesn’t have much freedom either, does he?

* * *

Laufa winced as a passing disciple grazed the cut on her arm in the crowd. The amphitheatre smelled awful, a gross blend between sweat and spent manra, like snuffing out a pack of batteries that’d caught fire.

A hush fell over them, leaving just the rustle of Lodran banners overhead. The Grand Master descended into the pit, his cape billowing in the shadows behind him. He settled in behind Instructor Pruatt, who turned to the disciples.

“Today, we’ve witnessed great displays of strength, resolve, and,” Pruatt glanced at Laufa. “Unconventional solutions.”

The eyes of hundreds of nobles whisked towards her. She dropped her gaze to the cracks in the stone, wishing she could just fall right through them.

“However, your final trial will not be a test of individual strength, but of leadership,” Pruatt continued, scanning the disciples. “You’ll be sorted into companies for a series of paired mock battles. Your performance there will determine your final standing, and your first commission!”

A nervous ripple shot through the crowd. She felt the noble boy beside her suck in a shaky breath.

Their commissions. This was it. A comfy life in the capital, or a quick death on the frontlines.

“Laufa.” A low voice brushed her ear.

Laufa whipped her head around to find Lady Eralia, rummaging through a satchel.

“You again?” Laufa clamped her own mouth shut, forcing her voice to a whisper. “That wasn’t a victory, I barely survived—Ack!”

She hissed as Eralia yanked a strip of fabric around her wound, tight, maybe a little too tight. Laufa flinched, the bandage biting into her arm. Is she… trying to be nice?

“In the conventional sense, sure,” Eralia murmured, tying a neat knot. “But it was a victory nonetheless.”

With a rustle, Pruatt unfolded a scroll. “Command of these companies will be granted to those with the highest performances.” He glanced at the parchment in his hands. “I’ll now announce your captains!”

Eralia clicked her tongue softly. “It’s obvious who they’ll choose.”

“Huh?” Laufa tilted her head. “You already know who they’ll pick?”

“I don’t need to, It’s the same as always.” Eralia's gaze flicked over towards Mordhun. “They’ll choose men like him. Strong. Obedient.” Her eyes finally met Laufa’s. “And they’ll use disciples like you. Powerful, but expendable. Until you break.”

Until you break. The words made Laufa shiver. She felt her arm throbbing beneath the bandages.

Pruatt cleared his throat. “The first captain is Disciple Rustes, with an outstanding six consecutive victories.”

The disciples applauded. Mordhun gave a smug nod. Laufa searched Eralia’s face for any sign of disappointment, but the noble girl didn’t so much as flinch.

Eralia’s attention had drifted to the Grand Master. “But…” She said, her voice low. “There are those who aren’t only watching the score.”

“The second is Disciple Lidiason!”

“Those who are looking for more than a weapon.” Eralia whispered, her gaze still fixed on Vellen. “Those who are looking for a new way to win.”

“Next, is Disciple Realt!”

“And,” Eralia smirked, “I’ll give them precisely that.”

“Finally,” Pruatt thundered, “Disciple Domallach. These are your four captains!”

His announcement settled in the arena. Laufa counted the captains in her head.

One, Two, Three… Four.

Laufa rubbed her hands together and looked at Eralia.

“Um, Lady Eralia,” Laufa stammered. “…They didn’t call your name.”

Eralia gave no reply, though the faintest hint of a smile touched her lips. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders, then, in one smooth motion, she stepped out from the ranks.

The murmuring crowd cleared for her, their whispers falling silent.

She stopped right at the centre of the pit and gave a perfect bow. “Instructor Pruatt.” She rose, lifting her chin towards Vellen. “Grand Master. A moment, if I may.”

Pruatt’s scroll crinkled as his fingers clamped around it. He looked from Eralia to the Grand Master expectantly, but Vellen’s expression was unreadable.

“I have only the highest regards for the captains chosen. Each of them are undeniably strong. Models of the Lodran Standard.” Eralia’s confident voice echoed. “However, that very strength is what our enemies in Forsgailte have come to expect.”

“For how many years have our frontiers bled through this costly stalemate?” She took another step forward. “It wasn’t standard formations that won us the Fifteen-Year War, Grand Master. It was stena-alloy, a weapon nobody saw coming!”

Laufa heard Mordhun scoff nearby. The knot Eralia had tied suddenly felt too tight around her arm.

“I believe this prestigious College now has an opportunity to teach a new lesson.” Her hands swept across the crowd. “An opportunity to, once again, create a new weapon.”

“Grant me a company, Grand Master,” Eralia said, her voice rising. “I need only half the soldiers.”

A gasp tore through the disciples. She knew Eralia was a little off, but this was something else entirely.

“In exchange.” Eralia’s voice dropped, the crowd leaning in closer. “I can guarantee that I'll win. Allow me to demonstrate that even a pebble, when well-aimed, can topple a giant.”

Eralia paused. The crowd held its breath. The silence dragged on so long it felt like an hour had passed.

Every single eye in the arena was pinned on Eralia. Then, she turned her head, her eyes locking directly with Laufa’s.

“In fact.” A smile played on her lips. “I’ve already chosen my weapon.”

And just like that, every pair of eyes that’d been on Eralia swung over to her. Her breath caught in her throat.

Eralia’s… Weapon?