SWNOVELXO Chapter 9: chapter 8 updated
Chapter 9: First Blood
I had barely recovered from the turmoil of dormitory politics when fate decided to drag me into the center of a duel. It was an early afternoon in the academy's training grounds—a place where ambitions were sharpened on the edge of steel and rivalries were settled under watchful eyes. I had just finished a quiet breakfast in the mess hall when Gareth Thornweaver, a notorious bully whose reputation for cruelty was as well known as the scar on his cheek, cornered me in a narrow corridor. His voice, low and sneering, carried the promise of confrontation.
"Hey, Aidan," he barked, stepping forward so fast that I instinctively reached for the sword at my side—a weapon I had taken great care to keep concealed under the guise of a timid freshman. "I've heard you think you're something special. How about you prove it on the field?"
The challenge was public, the onlookers already gathering like vultures around the promise of a spectacle. I felt a cold knot form in my stomach, not from fear, but from the calculated risk of exposing my true abilities. The system that had become my constant companion whispered warnings in the back of my mind: "Duel Initiated: Maintain ocular concealment." My Mangekyo Sharingan, though potent, had to remain hidden at all costs. Failure to conceal its signature aura would not only expose me to the entire academy but could also trigger a cascade of consequences I was not yet ready to face.
I squared my shoulders, forcing my expression into one of reluctant resignation rather than defiant challenge. "If it's a duel you want, then it's a duel you'll have," I replied evenly, keeping my tone calm and measured. Deep inside, I was already preparing; I knew that this confrontation would be more than a test of my skill—it would be a battle to safeguard my carefully constructed identity.
The training ground was a circular arena marked by worn stones and faint scratches of previous duels. As Gareth and I took our positions, the murmur of the gathered students and nobles faded into a tense silence. I could almost taste the anticipation, each breath a mix of dread and determination. My fingers flexed around the hilt of my sword—a weapon that I had not chosen for flamboyance but for its practicality in close combat.
Gareth lunged first, a brute force attack that left no room for finesse. His swing was wild, fueled by raw aggression and the arrogance of a bully who believed that physical dominance was the sole measure of worth. I parried with minimal movement, relying on the techniques I had honed over countless hours of secret training. The system on my wrist discreetly blinked in the corner of my vision: "Mimicry Skill: Basic Sword Forms - Activated." I had spent nights studying the elegant techniques of renowned sword masters, memorizing each posture and strike, and now I was ready to deploy that repertoire with surgical precision.
I let Gareth's momentum carry him forward before stepping aside and countering with a swift, circular motion that drew from the mimicked sword forms. The precision of my strike wasn't flashy, but it was deadly accurate—every movement designed to target vulnerable pressure points. As my blade skimmed across his forearm, I felt a subtle shift in my own focus. The system silently updated my combat log: "Strike Successful: Pressure Point Target Acquired. Ocular Stability: Maintaining Concealment." I knew that pressure points could incapacitate an opponent quickly, and I had practiced these strikes until they were second nature.
Gareth grunted in pain as my sword found its mark, but he wasn't down yet. His eyes, burning with indignation and rage, narrowed as he roared, swinging his weapon in a flurry. I stepped back, deflecting a heavy blow with a calm parry and then swiftly repositioning myself. Every movement was precise—an artful dance choreographed by necessity and honed by countless hours of practice. I could feel the flow of my triple affinity—a subtle interplay of fire, wind, and nature magic—that had been my secret ally. Even though I masked it under the guise of a simple duel, every fiber of my being was alive with controlled power. My system window remained hidden behind the veil of my calm exterior, its indicators stable despite the flurry of activity.
I focused on my breathing, each measured inhale and exhale a mantra to keep my inner turmoil at bay. I could feel the familiar hum of the Mangekyo Sharingan just behind my eyes—a potent force that demanded caution. I forced myself to block out its seductive allure, remembering the cold warning from the system: "Ocular Strain: 40% - Do not exceed." My mind was a careful balance of technique and restraint. Every movement was calculated to avoid any uncontrolled activation of that inner power.
Gareth's next attack was more desperate—a series of aggressive strikes intended to overwhelm me. I shifted my stance, my body responding with a fluidity that belied the tension churning within. I tapped into my Mimicry ability further; I copied the precise, efficient sword forms that I had observed from masters in previous duels. In a seamless flow, I parried and riposted, each strike aimed at the pressure points on his joints and muscle groups. My blade brushed his skin with the delicacy of a whisper yet carried the force of a decisive verdict.
A sharp cry burst from Gareth as I landed a particularly precise strike to his side. The force was not meant to maim but to subdue—a warning shot that left him gasping for breath. The gathered crowd erupted into a mixture of gasps and murmurs. I took a brief moment to assess the situation; my internal system displayed a discreet notification: "First Blood: Opponent's Vital Points Compromised." I knew that this wasn't a fight for pride—it was a strategic maneuver designed to deter further aggression. I wasn't trying to kill him, merely to prove that unchecked brutality had its consequences.
Gareth staggered, his face contorted in shock and pain, yet he still raised his weapon in a feeble attempt to continue the duel. His eyes blazed with humiliation and fury. I could see the veins in his neck throb as he attempted one more wild swing. I sidestepped effortlessly, then closed the distance between us. In one swift, controlled motion, I delivered another series of strikes—each one targeting precise pressure points along his arm and shoulder. I could hear the dull thud of his armor as his body went slack, and a final, defeated groan escaped his lips. The duel was over.
The training ground fell silent once more, save for the ragged breathing of Gareth and the soft clinking of his dropped sword. I stood there, my heart pounding in my ears, and felt the weight of what had just transpired. I had drawn first blood—not as an act of cruelty, but as a necessary demonstration to keep my secret safe from those who would use it against me. The system discreetly logged the encounter: "Duel Outcome: Victory. Precision Strikes: Successful. Ocular Concealment: Unbreached." Every parameter confirmed that I had managed to balance the brutal efficiency of my training with the necessary restraint required to hide my true capabilities.
As the duel concluded, a murmur of respect and subdued fear rippled through the crowd. Some students glanced at me with newfound curiosity, while others whispered behind cupped hands. I maintained my composed demeanor, offering a polite nod to Gareth as I extended a hand to help him up. His pride, as much as his body, had been bruised, but I was careful to project the image of a gracious victor. In that moment, I was not the fearsome warrior I truly was, but a modest student who had simply defended himself against an aggressor.
Afterwards, I retreated to a quiet corner of the training grounds to collect my thoughts. I couldn't afford to let my guard down—not when every duel, every confrontation, was a potential opportunity for my secret abilities to slip through the cracks. I retrieved my discreet wristband and rechecked my status window. The indicators were stable: HP remained full, MP was intact, and, crucially, my Ocular Strain was holding steady at a manageable level. My system log confirmed that my Mimicry and pressure point strikes had executed flawlessly, keeping the overwhelming surge of power firmly under control.
As I sat there in the cool, fading light, I allowed myself a moment of reflection. The duel had been a necessary test—a reminder that even in a world where I was forced to hide behind a meek persona, the strength of my true self was undeniable. I had proven to Gareth Thornweaver and to the watching crowd that I was not to be trifled with. More importantly, I had maintained the delicate balance between exposing my hidden power and safeguarding my identity. The system had been my silent partner in this dance of steel and strategy, and its data reassured me that I was still in command.
I replayed the duel in my mind—the swift riposte, the calculated strikes to pressure points, the controlled parries—and each moment reinforced a hard truth: survival in this treacherous academy required not only raw talent but the discipline to mask it. Every duel, every challenge, was a double-edged sword; while it provided an opportunity to hone my skills, it also risked revealing the potent force that lurked beneath the surface of Aidan Morvell.
I considered the implications of what had just happened. The system's next quest notification had already started to flash softly in my peripheral vision: "Quest Update: Maintain Ocular Concealment in All Combat Encounters." It was a reminder that while I had achieved victory today, every future conflict would be a test of the same principles—control, precision, and the unyielding need to remain an enigma in the eyes of my peers.
Slowly, I gathered my sword and sheath, ensuring that I made no sudden movements that might draw unwanted attention. The training ground began to clear as evening approached, and I melted into the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who had learned to navigate the labyrinth of S-Class politics and martial challenges. I knew that my performance today would be discussed in hushed tones in the corridors and that Gareth Thornweaver's defeat would serve as a cautionary tale among those who sought to bully their way through the academy.
As I made my way back toward the dormitories, the fading light mingled with the lingering adrenaline in my veins. I couldn't shake the image of my opponent's faltering eyes—the brief, vulnerable flash of defeat that reminded me how dangerous unchecked aggression could be. It was a lesson, one I had learned with painful clarity. I vowed silently that I would continue to hone my skills, refining each strike and parry until I could master every nuance of combat. For every moment of violence I was forced into, there would be an equal measure of control—an unspoken promise that the hidden depths of my power would remain my own.
That night, as I lay in my modest dormitory room, I reviewed the duel in my mind and on my wristband's system log. The data was reassuring: every metric, every calculated strike, confirmed that I had successfully maintained the balance between raw power and necessary restraint. The label "First Blood" now served not only as a marker of victory over Gareth Thornweaver but also as a testament to my evolving mastery of both sword and secret.
I closed my eyes with a determined resolve, knowing that each duel, each challenge, was another step toward a destiny written in the delicate balance of concealed strength and careful strategy. I was Aidan Morvell—the quiet anomaly whose hidden potential was measured in precise strikes and controlled power. And as I drifted into sleep, I promised myself that no matter what trials awaited me, I would continue to forge my own path—one calculated step at a time, with first blood spilt in the service of survival.