Chapter 197 - 195: Next Time.

Chapter 197: Chapter 195: Next Time.

And while the sun’s rising high, the light glinting off his sword as it swings and dives, and arcs through the air, somehow feels like moonlight.

​Most soldiers wouldn’t stand a chance.

​Most soldiers wouldn’t have even tried.

​But Khobi isn’t most soldiers.

Montrel doesn’t know how long they fight for, but it feels too long. His own fights with Khobi –and Khobi’s fights with Rogard –are never short, but even for him, and at this pace, it’s getting ridiculous.

The younger soldiers watching don’t see it –don’t know their sparring well enough to look for it –but the wear is starting to show.

Fights aren’t meant to be drawn out like this; if their blades were sharp and this was to the death, this would’ve been over long ago –one of them, or even both cut down and bleeding into the dirt.

As it is, their blades are blunt, and neither has been able to disarm the other long enough to call it decisive.

Khobi’s armour is bursting at its seams, pushed to breaking point by the twisting and contorting of his body and beneath what skin is left bare, his muscles are pulled taut under the strain; veins pulsing near the surface.

​Something’s got to give.

​And this time, it’s Khobi.

​The building static shatters, and a gasp goes up from the crowd as he and his sword abruptly go flying in opposite directions, hitting the ground in dramatic fashion and rolling.

Then comes the quiet an instant later, as a foot goes crashing into his chest to pin him to the ground.

​Around them, training continues as it always has, but as the silence permeates the air around them this ring feels like it exists on a plane of its own.

​No one moves. The tension is utterly palpable; their bodies heaving in time as one as they stare each other down --one fallen, and one victorious.

There’s sweat dripping down Loac’s neck; his armour dark and flecked with blood, and Khobi’s face is drenched and flushed well past the point of exertion.

They look absolutely wrecked.

​And yet, Loac is grinning , expression triumphant.

And then, so that Khobi doesn’t get any funny ideas about breaking free and stealing his sword –which he was definitely thinking about –Loac stoops, replacing his boot with his knee and bearing down on him with his full weight pressed into his chest.

The wind goes rushing straight out of Khobi’s lungs, and he twists anyways, struggling harder.

​Scoffing, Loac pins his sword arm to the ground with his free hand.

​It’s about as pinned as a man can get. And Loac’s got him locked tight against the ground. He’s not getting up unless he lets him, let alone getting to his sword.

​"...Come on Khobi," Montrel calls, after a long moment.

Because someone has to break the silence before it smothers them all. It hurts him to say it, too, but a loss is a loss. He’s gotten better at admitting it these days, that’s for sure. "It’s Loac’s win."

​Clearly annoyed, Khobi makes one last ditch attempt against Loac’s grip. For a moment there, it looks like he almost makes it, too, but then the fingers wrapped around his wrist tighten, and slam it back into the ground.

​"Nice try," Loac tells him from far too close, breathing heavy and his voice husky.

​"... Fine ," Khobi relents through gritted teeth, expression sour.

He doesn’t look to Loac to help him up as they pick themselves off the ground, and Loac doesn’t offer, but a s soon as he’s back on his feet, dusting himself off, the heavy atmosphere that had consumed the ring dissipates, and Montrel finds himself able to breathe easily again.

For a moment at least, until Khobi spits out a glob of blood and sets his gaze back on Loac and the air between them ignites all over again.

​"I’ll get the next one," Khobi states; a sweaty, bloody mess but with his red eyes bright and burning.

​The gall of this kid. He says it so easily, too. Always does. It drives Montrel crazy.

​"...The next one?" Loac echoes, blinking away a frown; the victorious expression fading to confusion.

​"Are you an idiot?" Khobi scoffs –which Montrel finds quite rich, coming from him.

"Yeah, the next one . Just coz you got one win doesn’t mean you’re better than me.

Like I said, I’ll take you on whenever. So don’t go thinking we’re done here."

​Loac looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

Montrel never thought he’d ever relate to Loac, but he gets it, a little. Khobi’s persistence can be kind of confronting.

It’s impossible to know what conclusion he’s come to, because without another word, Loac turns his back on them and starts to stalk away.

For a second there Montrel thinks he’s going to just storm off and never look back, but when he draws up to Khobi’s fallen sword, he stops.

Then, to the surprise –or perhaps not –of all watching, he picks it up, and throws it back to him.

​It skitters to a halt at Khobi’s feet, and Loac cocks his head expectantly. Tauntingly.

​"Again, then."

​Jaw set, and eyes narrowed, Khobi stoops to retrieve his sword. And when he straightens, the expression he’s wearing is just as challenging.

​" Fine by me ."

("Well shit , we’re not gonna get to spar at all today, are we?" Gandy complains in the background.)

​(" ’ Fine by me ’," Rogard parrots

dramatically from further down the fence before breaking out laughing, "Seriously, how lame can you get, Khobi??")

​("Stay out of this Rogard!")

​("Khobi, can we at least get you some new armour?" Binny chimes in, and a piece of Khobi’s leather armour falls away as if on cue.)

​Montrel knows how this goes.

A b est of three always turns to best of five, and then that turns to seven, and then someone loses count and it starts over.

It’s how they started, after all, and now look where they are.

​(He knows exactly what their score is. He only pretends to forget. And he has the sneaking suspicion that Khobi is the same.)