Max

I approached her after my loss. “My name is…”

“I care not for your name,” she said. “I’m sorry, but with your stats, I doubt we will cross blades again.”

That was true. Still, I wanted to scream then, I AM MAX OF RELAMPAGO!

There’s a story from my childhood that I remember fondly, of a man who became a shoemaker’s apprentice for false reasons. Despite his proclaimed passion for craftsmanship, he wanted to learn how to make proper shoes so he could engage in an elegant swindle: the man would make low-quality shoes and sell them under his master’s name for profit’s sake. This was his original plan, never to take flight. Once he set upon shoemaking—a craft without equivalent [Skills]—he slowly found himself endearing himself to the craft, and before he knew he forgot all about his planned crimes, instead becoming a renowned shoemaker in Arcadia.

The Devil approached me one day. “Hail duellist!” said he, hand held high and slowly approaching. “Tough loss today.”

It was my fourteenth nameday at the time and I had just lost to Estella—at the time not yet World Champion—in an exciting, though predictable match. “It wasn’t tough, but thank you. My expectations were nonexistent.” Her numbers were much higher than mine, after all. Matches like this were more of a showcase of power than a competition.

“What if they didn’t have to be?” asked the Devil. At the time I knew him not as such, but years would tell me as much. “What if there was a way to beat someone with higher numbers than yours?”

There is something to be said about an offer that sounds too good to be true, moreso when it goes against the logic of your world. If someone were to approach you and say, “What if you need not eat to live?” you would—hopefully—regard the man with something close to contempt followed by heavy skepticism.

But that sunset looked really bitter to me that day.

I knew there was never a chance you could defeat someone with higher stats than your own. It was as simple as water putting out fire; immutable laws of the universe were those you could not talk back to lest everyone question your sanity. Yet, in this world, there were fires so hot that water evaporated upon contact. The fire inside me that day was one of them. I dried my tears and looked up at the Devil. “Speak plainly, my man.”

“I want to kill God,” he replied calmly. “But I am not allowed to do so.”

This should have shocked me, and it did. Yet I ask this of you: have you ever entered the state of mind that comes with supreme exhaustion and disappointment? When your muscles ache, your head hurts, and your pride is shattered to the point where it all feels for naught? When, in all honesty, if the world came to an end here and there you would not cry in anguish, but merely throw your hands up impatiently and utter, “Well, just my goddamn luck!” in mild annoyance? It is a most curious state of mind and it was the one I found myself in.

“Kill God? Truly?”

The Devil nodded. “I have been stealing the dead from another world, so that their set of skills can be used to combat him. Yet I have had little success—sword masters they might be, but their liking of heroics gets them killed one after the other. My most successful project to date had the good sense to avoid getting killed but hear this! The bastard had the even better sense to avoid the task I asked of him entirely and retire peacefully. Smart fella, that one,” said the Devil, with a smile of reluctant admiration forming by the end of his rant. “Thus I seek another avenue for my ultimate goal.”

Something came to me. “The one who ran away—was his name...”

“Duartes,” said the Devil, smiling. “Surely you follow me?”

“I do not. This relates to me how?”

“Why, if graverobbing does not yield the treasure I seek, then I shall create it with my own hands.” Here his wicked smile unnerved me and I found myself taking a single step back. But I did not retreat. “I shall send people of this world there so they can steal the secrets of swordsmanship and combine them with their understanding of this world. What say you?”

It was a most insane proposition that reeked of some sort of swindle, and it was twice the insane if it were true. Yet it is only in adulthood that we find ourselves bound by the chains of maturity; as we grow old we carefully attach ourselves to the ground of reason. Without them, we float through the endless sky of dreams without a plan and get consumed by it. It is an act of wiseness when you put down the chains your parents placed on you and create your own: a self-imposed limitation that keeps you safe and grounded.

At my fourteenth nameday I was more adult than most and had long shedded my familial chains and created my own, much to the pride of my parents. I had most keen understanding of how important the path on the ground was and how dangerous that sky of dreams could be. My peers understood that as well as I did.

But even so the stars in that sky were most beautiful to me.

My feet were always on the ground but my eyes never stopped looking up. My chains I kept out of my own free will; my dreams I caged for my own good. It was not as though I gained any new information that day. It was just that that night, the stars mattered more than my own good. “Take me to this world,” I told him.

Father used to say returning from a journey revealed much about a man: ask him what he remembers of it and you will see where his passions lie. A carpet-maker will tell you of the carpets and fabrics, an innkeeper might tell you of musicians and wine, a mason of their stonework. Earth, that world full of magic without magic, with wonderful inventions, horseless carriages and miracles…yet what I remembered the most, what I first told my family upon my first return, what I could never forget, was the fencing.

My first fencing lesson was rough beyond what I expected. In my world of [Skills] even exhaustion was different—you hardly ever pushed yourself to your limits, and when you did, you had someone with [Restoration] nearby to ensure you wouldn’t be in extreme pain. There were no such luxuries on earth and yet the people there trained even harder than back home.

“Your legs are going to kill you,” my first coach had said, laughing. “It’s part of the game.”

How could this sadist speak such words with a smile, I remember thinking. This was a suffering I was not prepared for; the end of practice was a relief I had not experience before. Sure I had read words in novels before that described the feeling, and I even understood it theoretically, but it shocked me to experience it. A most alien feeling, one I—this thought terrified me—I could have lived my whole life without experiencing it: the relief that comes with the gift of relaxation after working yourself to your limit.

“If I had never come to this world,” I remember thinking, “I would never have learned how wonderful water can taste after one of those days.”

Practices came more often and my grumbles of discontent were quietly substituted by a second, more concerning feeling: insecurity.

Could I truly survive that harsh training? Would I be be able to make any of those lessons truly mine? Would they even work in my world?

There were times I wanted to quit. Times I wanted to break my sword and find a new passion. But even on Earth, a world where indulgence was facilitated, time and again my thoughts wandered back to that small gymnasium, to the sound of clashing steel…and I found myself returning there every week, five times a week.

And before I knew it, practices didn’t hurt as much. My legs didn’t hate me anymore and such was my progress that I had the luxury of being frustrated when I was made to oversee a bout instead of taking part in it myself. “Enjoy your new perspective,” my coach had said. “It might not be your preferred viewpoint, but while you stand there, it would be a waste not to make the most of it. You learn a lot outside your ideal location.”

There he was right—refereeing bouts allowed me to see them from a different perspective, and often I made new discoveries there that aided me in future bouts.

Yet discoveries and evolution were not enough to keep my insecurities away. My results at tournaments were poor at best and despite my progress I was trailing behind my peers of similar age as me. A quiet depression came over me. Not the kind that would keep me from practicing or even smiling, but the kind that slowly hammered an unwanted thought into me : you have reached your limit. This is how far you get. Further than you expected, but less than you’d hope.

I continued to progress, albeit slower, and it was almost with relief that time had come for me to return to my world.

The thought had occurred to me, somewhat vaguely, that I needed a break and that I could come back later on with a fresher mind. My losses had been mounting and my lack of accomplishments had been concerning. The pressure had been mounting and I had fallen into the temptation of a break rather than approaching my fears directly.

After a small break I felt myself quite refreshed and it was with a smile that I welcomed the rumours that the Devil had been looking into sending swordsmen to that world again. Yet my expectations were crushed.

“I’m afraid I won’t send you there this time,” the Devil told me with some disdain. “You didn’t get strong enough to win the Relampago title much less kill God. It’s better for me to try to get someone else.”

“But—I know who you are sending!” I cried out. “My friends—they—they aren’t as good as me! Even I have higher stats!”

“I cannot very well be picky about stats. Strong swordsmen have no reason to engage my madness. Your friends will be a good test.”

There was something infuriating about that and it was a hot bitterness that overcame me.

The sunset had never been bitter for my peers. To them, losing was but a fact of life. They had never once looked up at the stars and wished to place themselves among them; for them this flight would be merely a curiosity they cared little for. I want this so badly, why do those people who don’t even care about it—why—why do they get to fence when I can’t?

Days turned into weeks and I would stay in my room without doing much, bitterly imagining my friends on Earth getting fencing lessons, wondering if I would ever be allowed to fence there again. I would have stayed there for longer had my father not approached me then. “It’s tough,” he said, nodding a few times. “Life, I mean. Sometimes you get passed over for things that aren’t at all your fault.”

“I…I deserve this so much more than them. How come I’m the only one who has to stay here?”

My father put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not fair. But it is. You can’t control what happened. But you can control where you go from here.” He left me with those words. It was always his way. Father liked to say much but argue little; he left me with wise words and left me to draw my own conclusions. Sometimes this was painfully difficult—that night, less so.

It’s easy to think of yourself as unjustly passed over, to think of your circumstances as unfair. My thoughts were like that then. But then, another thought, a much louder one, eclipsed them entirely: “SO WHAT IF IT’S UNFAIR?”

Was I entitled to fairness? Did the unfairness of the matter mean I was suddenly allowed to remain in my room, feeling sorry for myself and worsening my position? It was all most unfair. “I will allow myself tonight to cry injustice,” I told myself. “Tonight, I vent away my frustration. But tomorrow, I do what I can.”

I truly think I deserved the opportunity they were given. None of them cared about the sport like I did, they wore the white but hadn’t earned it. There was a certain glamour to it all and they liked to claim the title: I am a fencer, they liked to say. But they did not sweat for it, they did not dream of it, and they were not it. Be that as it may the facts were that the opportunity was theirs and that, truth to be told, I had not achieved a level where my skills could demand the treatment I yearned.

Make the best out of it.

Every day I practiced by myself. There were no fencers beside myself, but footwork is an exercise in work ethic that can be conducted in pure loneliness. For the next three years I practiced by myself, day and night, doing whatever I could. Strong jealousy hit me and this shocked me: at first I had assumed I had merely felt left out, that I wished to be amongst my friends. Yet I realized that stronger than that, something else burned, a jealousy that they had the opportunity to fence. Really fence.

“It might not be your preferred viewpoint, but while you stand there, it would be a waste not to make the most of it. You learn a lot outside your ideal location.”

No doubt I was still frustrated by not being included in the group of those allowed to fence. But at the same time I realized that I had come to a discovery I would not have made if not for being forced to play this role.

“I really love fencing,” I muttered to myself.

Not because it could allow me to best Estella.

Not because it would bring me fame or glory.

Not because it was any sort of destiny.

I just loved it because of itself, because of how it made me feel. It was the purest form of love I had ever felt in my life.

My days continued to be tough, but my understanding of myself made it all easier. Despite my sadness, I trained. Crying over a missed opportunity will not make me stronger. Despite the hopelessness, I trained of. But if one day the chance presents itself to me again…I will be ready for it. Even if it never comes. I want to be ready for it. My footwork became sharper. My point control more precise. My dedication never again wavered.

“The other swordsmen were a failure,” said the Devil one day, with a casual shrug. “They were absorbed by Earth’s vices and refuse even to return. Would you care to give it a second go?”

I needed little convincing.

For long I stood there at the entrance, taking it all in, breathing that air, hearing the sound of clashing steel. It was a small gymnasium. During the day, it was a school’s gym, but at night was used as a fencing club. Small, cramped, foul-smelling at times, utterly lacking in glory.

Yet to me these were hallowed grounds.

I fell to my knees in a silent prayer—to whom? To the God I was being trained to kill? To the Devil that entrusted me with such task? To a mysterious fencing entity?

To my parents. “Thank you for giving me life,” I prayed. “It’s only because I’m alive that I get to experience feelings like these. And I want to tell you all about it when I get back.”

I stood up and smiled at my clubmates, who cheered at my return. My legs hurt a lot that day and it was a warm, beautiful pain that brought me much happiness.

This trip was more fruitful than the first: with renewed purpose and better fitness, my fencing greatly improved and I ascended through university rankings quite easily. Met many rivals there too. Carr was one of them.

When I returned to my world once more, no longer was I depressed but determined: I would become the Champion of Relampago. My initial declaration was met with laughter even in that small town of mine, but there was one thing I learned on Earth, one simple truth:

SKILL SILENCES LAUGHTER.

My victories were labeled many things and suspicious accusations were thrown about, which was just as well. I fenced not for glory but for my own self-satisfaction.

I will never forget the day I earned the title of Champion of Relampago. Even sweeter, however, was my victory over Stefano in the Vyzerworth semi-finals. While I failed to beat Estella yet again in the finals, the semi-final victory still brought a smile to my face to this day.

Gilder had ran up to me that day, and his initial celebratory hug quickly turned to concern when he saw my face. “Are…are you okay?” It had been a tough match; the stats difference was absurd and it had nearly killed me to surpass it, even if the crowd had only observed Stefano lowering his stats to match mine and had no idea of the thunderous conflict we had hours before.

“I am more tired than I have been in years. My feet are bleeding. My thighs are more than hurting, they are failing me; a single step is more of a gamble than a certainty and even holding on to the guardrails climbing up the stairs takes effort. My breath isn't short, but even at its full capacity it doesn't feel like it's enough. My face is red, I was told, and it feels warm. There's a nagging dehydration that doesn't go away no matter how much water I drink. Every single muscle in my body has reached a level of exhaustion I wasn't aware to be possible, but at the same time, somehow those same muscles feel more satisfied than ever and I have a grin I have been unable to wipe off my face.

“It hurts terribly and I'm feeling great.”

Much happened after that.

Gilder went missing; Reven hired me as a duellist, Carr came to this world…and I learned the truth about the Devil. That was almost a sidenote; my understanding of my own passion was much more important than if the whole world burned.

“I can’t believe I met you here,” Carr exclaimed. “I have a win-loss record to improve so you better get ready to fence me.”

It was hard not to laugh. “I can’t believe I met you here. Thought I’d never see you again after the World Cup. When I heard you died, I…” I shook my head. It seemed ill-fitting to tell Carr about how his death had played out on Earth. “Let’s practice. Forget the win-loss record—”

“—You fucking wish. Fuck you, fence me.”

“—For just a moment, okay? We have a team match coming up. Let’s be in shape for it.”

Our duel was beautiful, nostalgic, and yet…something felt off. Carr had an explosive, daring style on Earth. He aggressively danced in and outside your range, to bait an attack and engage in a beautiful counter, while using this rhythm to make you not expect a deep attack—at which point he’d hit your foot or go deep at your torso with that damn French Grip, approaching from a god forsaken angle I knew not to be possible.

Right now Carr felt different. He remained in position, approached slowly, hardly bounced—the motion seemed unfamiliar to him—and focused heavily on parries. The man standing across from me spoke to me about all our shared memories back on earth, smiled like he used to, and was a damn good fencer on top of it. Yet something about it felt eerie.

Carr hesitated. “Can I tell you something about the team we’re facing?”

I nodded. “Of course you can.”

“Johan said one of them is a false me. Dressing up like me, acting like me. Might be some weird magic from your world, eh?” Carr laughed. “I can’t wait to fence me. That’s going to be so cool.”

A fake Carr? I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah…that’s going to be so cool.”

Maybe I do have to kill God after all. Might as well kill the Devil while I’m at it. And maybe this faker while I’m at it.