Chapter 123: The Archer Without a Bow
Arthur woke on the first morning of the tournament with his ribs wrapped tightly. The heavy bruising from Gareth’s test still colored his skin, but the sharpest edges of the pain had faded overnight, leaving behind a dull, manageable ache.
He washed, dressed, and reached automatically toward the corner of the room to grab Whisperwind.
His hand found empty air, and Arthur stopped. He had built almost his entire combat style around having Whisperwind within reach, so leaving the bow behind felt wrong in a way he hadn’t expected. After a moment, he lowered his hand, strapped the basic competition dagger to his belt, and muttered, "This already feels wrong."
Nessa stood near the doorway with his freshly pressed jacket folded over one arm.
"That is encouraging," she said, holding the jacket out.
Arthur looked at her, sliding his arms into the sleeves. "How?"
"You have not even left the room, and you are already taking the competition seriously."
She smoothed the lapels, perfectly professional and entirely unfazed by his nerves, before bowing slightly and leaving him to finish.
Downstairs, the tournament seemed to be affecting everyone at breakfast differently.
Kael was ridiculously confident, talking rapidly about exactly how he intended to dismantle his first opponent. Adrian ate in complete, unbothered silence. Emily sat beside Arthur, methodically wrapping her hands with white linen tape, her brown eyes focused on the tight, overlapping layers.
Gareth drank his coffee and watched Arthur touch the hilt of the dagger at his waist. "Do not think of it as a substitute bow."
Arthur looked across the table. "What does that mean?"
"If you spend the whole match wishing you had another weapon, you have already lost."
Arthur glanced down at the dagger once more, then nodded and went back to his breakfast.
The early rounds of the regional tournament were spread across several sprawling indoor arenas and outdoor dojo rings throughout the district.
When the Thorne group arrived at their designated venue, Arthur got his first proper look at the competition in motion. The massive hall contained six raised fighting rings operating simultaneously, surrounded by loud crowds of spectators, trainers, and waiting entrants.
The competitors were far more uneven than Arthur had expected. Some of the younger fighters charged into their matches almost entirely on adrenaline, while rigid dojo students moved through familiar forms whether those forms suited the opponent or not. Others were different. They wasted very little movement, watched more than they attacked, and usually ended their matches without looking particularly tired.
Those were the people Arthur found himself paying attention to. The early bracket was crowded now, but every round would remove more of the ones who did not belong near the top.
Kael fought first, and his match lasted less than two minutes. He was explosive from the opening exchange, pressing forward so quickly that his opponent barely had time to settle before Kael forced him onto the defensive. He won cleanly, forcing a judge stoppage after driving his opponent out of the ring with a relentless flurry of strikes.
The problem appeared as soon as Kael realized how comfortably he was winning. He dropped his guard and took a flashy, unnecessary risk to secure the final blow.
When Kael stepped off the mat, Gareth immediately criticized the opening he had left in his guard.
Kael frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I won."
Gareth looked at him. "And?"
"That usually matters," Kael argued.
Gareth didn’t bother responding. He simply looked back toward the rings as another pair of competitors stepped onto the mat.
The morning continued with matches spread across all six rings. Arthur watched some with the Thornes, wandered between the nearby boards to check the results of other brackets, and ate a light lunch without taking his eyes off the competitors moving through the hall. By early afternoon, the crowd had grown louder and several of the morning losers had already disappeared from the waiting areas.
Then Arthur finally heard his name.
"Arthur Vance. Rian Mercer. Ring Four."
Arthur stepped onto the raised mat. Rian Mercer stood across from him, holding a long, unadorned wooden spear.
Rian was a few years older, with calm eyes and a steady grip. His gaze briefly dropped to the short dagger at Arthur’s waist before he settled into a wide, balanced stance and raised the spear. The difference in reach was obvious to both of them.
The referee dropped his hand.
Rian controlled the distance immediately. He didn’t rush. He stepped forward and fired a rapid, testing thrust toward Arthur’s chest.
Arthur slipped aside before the first thrust could reach him, letting the spear tip pass over his shoulder. The second attack missed just as cleanly, followed by a third. His reactions were more than fast enough.
He was dodging beautifully and accomplishing absolutely nothing
Every time Arthur tried to step inside the guard, Rian simply retreated a half-step and swept the spear in a wide arc, forcing Arthur back out. Rian kept him perfectly contained on the outside edge of the weapon’s reach.
Arthur tried one of the brutal entry techniques Morwenna had drilled into him. He slipped a thrust, stepped hard off his back foot, and lunged forward with the dagger.
Rian didn’t panic. He shifted his grip, stepped into the space, and shoved the heavy wooden shaft directly into Arthur’s chest.
Arthur stumbled backward, his injured ribs flaring with sharp, immediate pain.
Near the edge of the mat, Emily’s eyes narrowed as Arthur staggered back.
Kael frowned, leaning against the barrier. "He’s actually struggling."
Arthur caught his breath. He didn’t have formal spear-counter training, and pretending otherwise was only getting him hit, so he stopped trying. When Rian thrust again, Arthur didn’t simply dodge. He slashed the dagger hard against the wooden shaft, knocking the spear slightly off line before kicking at Rian’s leading ankle.
Arthur still wasn’t winning the exchanges, but he was surviving long enough to start noticing Rian’s rhythm.
Rian was disciplined, but he had one committed, heavy sweeping attack that he favored when Arthur tried to circle to the right. The sweep was fast, but it took a fraction of a second longer to reset than his standard thrusts.
Arthur needed Rian to commit to it fully, so he began giving up ground. He let the quick jabs push him steadily backward until his heel touched the painted boundary line at the edge of the mat. One more step would end the match.
Rian saw Arthur’s heel touch the boundary and stepped in hard, launching the heavy sweep he had used whenever Arthur tried to escape to the right.
Instead of retreating or trying to block the heavy wood with a short dagger, Arthur went inside.
He dropped his weight, lunging directly into the attack. He took a glancing, painful hit to his left shoulder just to clear the spearhead, closing the distance in a single, violent step.
Suddenly, the spear’s long reach worked entirely against Rian.
Arthur was inside the guard before Rian could recover. He jammed the spear arm against Rian’s chest and smashed the dagger guard into his wrist. The grip loosened just enough. Arthur hooked a boot behind Rian’s leading leg, drove forward with his shoulder, and took him down with him. Before Rian could scramble free, Arthur pinned the trapped arm beneath his knee and pressed the blunted dagger against his throat.
The referee blew the whistle and stepped in, waving his hands.
"Match."
Arthur stood up, his ribs aching and his shoulder throbbing, and offered Rian a hand. Rian took it, nodding respectfully before collecting his spear and leaving the ring.
Arthur walked back to where the Thorne family was standing.
Gareth waited with his arms crossed as Arthur returned. "That worked against him."
Arthur stopped beside him, still catching his breath. "You have a very inspiring way of congratulating people."
Gareth ignored the complaint. "The fighters farther up the bracket won’t give you that many chances. You took that hit because you couldn’t create the opening cleanly."
Arthur looked back toward the mat. He couldn’t argue with that.
While Kael began complaining that his father was being overly critical of a victory, Arthur stood quietly by the edge of the ring.
He had won and was moving on to the next round, but for the first time since becoming the Phantom Sniper, a victory left him more irritated than satisfied. Arthur looked down at the competition dagger in his hand. He had seen almost every one of Rian’s attacks coming; that had never been the real problem.
The problem was what came afterward. He had seen openings he couldn’t reach, known where he wanted to move without having the footwork to get there, and eventually taken a spear across the shoulder simply because he couldn’t create a cleaner way inside.
Arthur slid the dagger back into its sheath. If he wanted the Ironblood Refinement Elixir, that wasn’t going to be enough.
***
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