An official competition required something visually catching. Last week, temporary stands rose on both sides of building one’s main entrance. Today, they glistened with gaudy decorations in red and green. There were even pennants and flags, something Ioha took for granted, but those belonged to an outworlder tradition. Twenty years earlier, they didn’t exist here. A local might have recognised a Roman standard for what it was, though – there were visual similarities.

  Ioha saw a few of those, but for his schooling during the one-year primer, he wouldn’t have known. They were poles, representing long spears or pikes, with two circular shields attached, one small at the very top and one larger just below. The top one, emblazoned with what he learned was a command emblem signifying the commanding officer and the bottom one displaying the unit’s coat of arms; sometimes, but far from always, identical with the emblem of a noble family. A powerful family, like the Clevastis, had several military units, each with its own coat of arms, where the family emblem traditionally made up one-third of the design. Fantasy land had its own set of heraldic rules, different from outworld Europe, but just as complex.

  He searched for the antique shields that should be displayed near the seats of honour. Round with concentric decorations, command emblem centre, then the unit coat of arms and rimmed with the family emblem. They were precious works of art, sometimes hundreds of years old, and a few of them were truly legendary artefacts imbued with an absurd amount of magical effects. It was said a new owner could spend a decade mastering it. Ioha found the Clevasti ones, but as expected, the heirloom didn’t look too impressive. The current one, however, was an anachronistic masterpiece. Roundshields belonged in the history books, even in Wergaist; a past to be proud of because you didn’t have to live in it.

  Beside it, and a little lower, sat the Bergerauss shield, a replica since the real one seldom left the family estate. Clevasti was an exception since the school lay inside his domain. Another two replicas were raised higher than either the Clevasti or Bergerauss. They belonged to the Terendala and Wari houses, both from the capital region, and the Terendala shield raised the highest. The federation might not have a formal titular hierarchy, but they knew how to display differences in power anyway. There were over a dozen other shield replicas as well, but all of them were placed even lower than the Bergerauss standard.

  Gusts of wind were polite enough in honour of the event to stretch the flags dramatically, and when the freshmen lined up in a semblance of military order, a fanfare blared loud enough to make them believe they looked like the splendid future of the land.

  Ioha almost managed to hide his grin, but the snort gave him away. He received a few glares from those closest to him, but the sound of others snorting as well told him he wasn’t alone in recognising the spectacle for what it was. In the end, he appreciated the wind – the air stank with… anticipation. Along with his new abilities came vastly enhanced senses, which unfortunately included smelling. Close to half of them were worried, some even afraid, and this was the first time he understood why some people spoke of the stench of fear. Fear, he realised, was an emotion he could abuse.

  A rumbling of drums brought him out of his cynical mirth, and he searched the seats of honour for what was to come. The drumming ended, and when a single flute took over, five persons rose. A heavyset man he recognised as Lord Clevasti, and the archaeological finding helped to her two legs had to be their principal. She was supposed to be so deep into senility that she had forgotten how to die. To her left, a middle-aged woman with a perpetual frown. She was the vice principal and for all practical purposes in charge of the entire academy. That left two more, one man in his thirties, the Bergerauss' firstborn, and by the far end, another man, maybe between forty and fifty years of age. Ioha knew well who it was. Yoshida Akira, seventy years old and easily the richest outworlder living. There wasn’t a single bribe he had refused, and those who didn’t bribe him he extorted if possible or killed if not. Should he ever gate back to outworld, he had a vacant place in Japanese death row waiting for him. The four masterminds of the rigged competition, together with the tool who stamped whatever they decided.

  Lord Clevasti gave an encouraging speech, wishing them all honourable bouts and a fair outcome in the name of the god of justice, and Ioha dutifully searched for the lightning that rightfully should have struck from a blue sky, but it turned out that abusing the name of gods carried about as much danger in this world as on Earth. After that, it was time for Yoshida’s perjury, followed by a long speech from the vice principal. To Ioha’s surprise, a few of her words had a fleeting relationship with truth. The Bergerauss firstborn was only present to display the presence of a second powerful local noble family, and didn’t get an opportunity to speak, and the principal simply wasn’t able to.

  All in all, Ioha admitted, it had been a fantastic display of great comedy. It also served as a belated opening ceremony. Not a bad idea unto itself, Ioha agreed. He felt more welcome when he had an idea of what he was welcomed into, or in this case, less welcomed. Informed choices and all that.

  Then that single flute again. An eerie melody that floated down to the school yard and reached through the rows and lines of students with silvery tendrils. Ioha shuddered, not of fear or discomfort but because it was the first time he heard magic sound, or at least understood he did. If anything, the sound was hauntingly beautiful, and he felt both stronger and braver. Magic? Of course, it’s magic! He quickly tried a different mental approach. She’s one of Ai’s friends. Strategy and logistics. Ah, support. I never knew there was empowering magic. Filled with fascination, he tried to understand what he experienced. Independent, obviously. No one could extend their aura that much, so like that arrow their teacher once drew. Non-volatile as well, but since it moved as if with a will of its own, rather like a mathematical function made alive. So I could create a shield that changes according to a script after I cast it?

  The music came to an end, and another blaring fanfare replaced it. Cats and knights left for the fences closest to them and gave up the school-yard to the mercs. They were the first, and three days later, the fourth-year cats concluded the class tournaments. After that, the four open ones.

  Ioha searched the sixteen mercs. He had a vested interest in them, his best friend, who hopefully didn’t bring a bed with him.

  First out was a stocky girl with a cudgel facing a tall boy wielding a standard set of short sword and buckler. Ioha could see their futures. One working as a merchant guard in one town or another, and the other joining whatever local uniformed militia wanted him, maybe even one of the Clevasti’s if he was lucky. The lord might be an arse, but he seemed to be a fairly decent arse to those depending on him. The girl kept hammering the boy, who either blocked the blows or turned them away with his sword. In the end, the judge called it a draw, and both combatants left the ring with satisfied faces. A coin toss would determine the winner, but none of them had lost on the field.

  Ai came out from between the stands, stuck her tongue out in Ioha’s direction, and grabbed the shield hand of the boy. You don’t want people to know, or haven’t learned how to yet? She should be able to heal him from a distance by now. She looked up and stuck her tongue out again. Suddenly, Ioha felt a chill crawl over his body, and then one more. With the last one, the mishap from his less-than-perfect shaving earlier in the morning vanished. OK, she knows how. Keeping it secret was probably the smart thing to do.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The next pair was Karaki and one of the boys, almost as large as Ioha himself but more well-toned. Blond, unruly hair that most likely made him popular with girls who liked their boys on the larger side. It also added a blind spot to his right, and wielding a spear didn’t help. Karaki must have known beforehand, and he entered the ring with a sword-breaker in his right hand and a dagger in his left. Back at his small spot for preparation, Ioha saw a heap with wildly different weapons. The judge swung a small pennant down, the boy lunged with his spear, Karaki locked it with his sword-breaker, slid diagonally left forward, turned right and sliced at the exposed neck, still moving forward with the momentum of the lunge. The pennant cloth still dangled.

  Oops! Ioha thought. He knew how good Karaki was, as did Canadena. They just hadn’t told anyone else, and since Karaki never applied for a favourite weapon, someone in charge mistook him for incompetent. That’s one noble less. From a poor family, sure, it was the class for mercs after all, but a noble still. Ioha hid his mouth behind his hand and smiled. Eat shit suckers!

  A little later, Karaki dispatched the cudgel-wielding girl who won the coin toss. Then he, in turn, lost to a girl from another minor noble family. Nobility didn’t automatically come with lacking abilities, and Ioha admired how she flowed into Karaki’s irregular attacks and counterattacks until he tripped over his own feet, and she put the tip of her sword on his chest with a friendly but very satisfied grin spreading on her face. Ah, yeah. Ioha blushed. Of course, she’s friendly. He knew her, or at least had heard her. She was one of the seven. She proceeded to win the freshman merc class tournament after a long staring contest. One simultaneous attack each. She hit her target; the boy missed. Ioha smiled. She was, at least indirectly, a friend of sorts, and he liked watching his friends do well.

  Ioha wiped that smile off his face. After the mercs came the knights. First out was Anthony von Shithead. He hadn’t changed at all. If anything, his face looked even more desperate now. Someone, maybe his own father, pushed him hard to prove himself. That’s why we don’t do nobility at home. My life. Whatever I prove is for myself. Which wasn’t entirely true, Ioha knew that, but he still had way more leeway than in a system where family needs were shoved down the throats of kids who became slaves to their family names. Ioha suspected most convicts had more real freedom than Anthony, waiting in the ring to fight a duel his father had decided.

  His opponent was a boy of average height and average build. He held, if such existed, an average two-handed sword. He was, most likely, not average at all. Commoners training to become knights lacked a family to lean on. They truly had to prove themselves, and most of them were very, very good and trained very, very hard. Anthony, however, was better. When he started training, Ioha had been told once, he would have joined kindergarten on Earth. A decade of systematic learning, even if not as gruelling as whatever his commoner counterpart scrounged up for far less time, showed. The only reason Ioha and Ai threw him flat on his face was that there were the two of them, and they were really ten years older, which added room for enough martial arts training. Ioha watched Anthony block, parry and counterattack with movements screaming of years spent with a tutor. He might look uninterested, but each move probed his opponent until he ran out of secrets. Then the bout shifted as Anthony slashed, stabbed and pushed instead of working from his earlier defensive stance. The techniques came faster and faster until they became a blur Ioha had a hard time following, and in the end, the opponent fell, grasping one arm with an ugly gash. The judge quickly announced Anthony the winner, while Ai rushed into the ring.

  Ioha stiffened for a moment, but Anthony just bowed to the judge and returned without paying her any notice.

  The knightage class tournament, ironically enough, turned out to be the hardest to rig. There were simply not enough really weak students who made it through the tryout culling. In ways, Ioha noted, it was fair.

  Anthony made the top four by systematically destroying his next opponent. It just took a little longer than his first bout. His next match turned into an almost musical cacophony of clanging metal and whirling blades when wood met armour

  Both combatants kept at it until Anthony suddenly stepped back, the judge announced his opponent the winner, and Ioha stared in incomprehension. The final bout looked the same but even faster.

  As far as killing machines went, the knights were, without a doubt, the strongest of the freshmen.

  A sense of tension spread among both audience and participants alike. The knights were the best, but the cats offered the best show. Anticipation competed with hunger, and as with all sound teenagers, hunger temporarily won. The mess hall was packed, with a queue reaching outside, and Ioha sent Ai and Canadena a grateful thought each. Yesterday, five girls and three boys invaded one of several kitchens on the school grounds on their own insistence. Ioha and another four boys who didn’t participate in the cooking spent dawn arranging for blankets, heavy cloth, framing wood and the application of it all. On a nearby field, two European medieval-style pavilions stood waiting for them. Of those present, only he and Ai knew what and why they had made. Tents, in any form, weren’t a thing here, but both he and Ai were adamant it was worth the saved aura. One of the boys even found firewood and two contraptions that made for passable braziers.

  Eager to eat, the group filled both pavilions with the food made yesterday, fairly shared among them. A support mage in training set both braziers ablaze, and both gangs went for the food with gusto. Painful coughs and burning eyes later, they lined up outside the pavilions.

  “What happened?” Ai asked.

  Ioha helped her wipe tears from her face. “No clue.”

  Thick smoke billowed out from both openings. Medieval style didn’t translate into ‘made correctly’. “What’s wrong?” she tried.

  Ioha looked at the smoke that kept them on the outside and their food inside. Did we forget something? He looked at the nearest pavilion again. Oh. The top of it lacked something. Smoke. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Won’t we need a chimney for this?”

  “You can’t have a chimney in a tent!”

  You could. His great-grandfather used it when the Swedish state ordered him to run around in green clothes and pretend to learn how to fight a war. But not this type of tent. Oh. Shit.

  While Ioha did the thinking, Canadena did the acting. Ioha barely sensed aura shifting before she stood perched impossibly on top of one pavilion. Two slashes later, she flew through the air to the next. Behind her, smoke rushed into the sky from the hole she cut.

  Counts as a chimney, Ioha reflected. He looked at his friend with admiration and jealousy mixed together. She truly was a cat.

  Their food went down, and with plenty of water to go with it, Ioha could almost pretend he didn’t notice the extra smoky spice.