Maybe I should have let Yang squeeze the answers out of him.
Weiss adjusted her grip on Myrtenaster, the familiar weight a small comfort. She could already hear the impact of Ember Celica deflecting Miló in a clash of steel. It sounded like they were trying to knock each other unconscious. Typical.
Around the classroom, the other students were engaged in their own technical sparring sessions. Ruby was excitedly explaining something about her scythe as she fought, Arc was flailing around, and Nora seemed to be treating Cardin's mace like a minor inconvenience rather than a legitimate threat.
Doctor Oobleck zipped from pair to pair, his words flowing just as rapidly as his movements.
"Miss Rose, remember that leverage is key! Mr. Arc, footwork is the foundation of all combat! Miss Valkyrie, we are not trying to break the floor!"
His lecture continued as he orbited the sparring matches, observing stances, correcting grips, occasionally tapping a student's shoulder to shift their weight or loosen tension.
She didn't care. Not really. Not right now.
Her focus was in front of her. On the enigma that had copied her weapon for some reason.
Black eyes met light blue.
Drago Geas was taller than her by far. Maybe half a head above even Yang. Short black hair, skin lightly tanned, which was unusual for someone claiming to hail from Atlas. He had the faintest smile on his face—like this was amusing, or like he already knew how the fight would go.
Just... relaxed. Or arrogant.
She glared at him, but he seemed completely unconcerned.
He mirrored her pose exactly, even down to the angle of his wrist. A perfect copy, except—
His blade was wrong.
It wasn't Myrtenaster, not really. It had no Dust chamber. No rotating mechanism. The color was off—a cold, pale blue that almost looked translucent. Like ice. Or glass.
Had he made it with his Semblance somehow? Was it a projection? A hard light construct?
Was she hasty in challenging him the way she did without consulting with Yang and Pyrrha? Yes.
Did she care?
...Well, maybe. She was a tad rude and she gave also up on an opportunity to spar with Pyrrha Nikos herself...but the moment he pulled out a copy of her weapon, this was already decided.
The weird part was that he didn't even recognize her at first. He mistook her for Winter.
Weiss didn't know whether to be annoyed or flattered, but it didn't matter right now. What mattered was that if he were some obsessive fan or stalker, he would have chosen her sister's dual swords to mimic. But he hadn't.
He picked Myrtenaster.
Which he couldn't have known about until today, presuming he didn't lie about not recognizing her.
This meant that his weapon—his copy—had been made sometime in-between the moment he first laid eyes on her, and now.
A timeframe of around 15 minutes.
But why?
Why would anyone do this?
Was he mocking her? After just meeting her?
The thought stung, more than she wanted to admit. But the way he stood there—so casual, so faintly amused—made the idea plausible. Or was it something else? A warped sense of flattery? A convoluted attempt at flirting, maybe? That possibility made her throat tighten.
She didn't like not knowing. And the more she looked at that faint smile, the more she wanted to knock it off his face.
She straightened slightly, mind drifting to old etiquette lectures. The countless hours of instruction on body language, reading people's intentions from how they carried themselves. How the eyes, hands, and spacing of the feet could give everything away.
It didn't help. He gave nothing away. He was calm. Still. Serene in a way that made her skin crawl.
I'm overthinking it
She decided she would find out, one way or another, but first, as someone much more crass would put it... she would kick his ass.
No more internal speculation. No more glancing at Yang and Pyrrha. No more wondering what Professor Oobleck was shouting in the distance. Everything faded, like white noise behind a thick wall of ice.
Only a stray though remained, slipping out just before her breath stilled.
It's the first time I wish my opponent would talk more instead of less.
She focused.
He mirrored her stance—elegant, upright, point forward. A duelist's guard.
Fine. Let's see how much of it he understood.
She lunged.
A quick thrust, then another—measured, testing, almost casual. Myrtenaster danced with precision, jabbing at his defenses.
He blocked each one.
And each time he did, she recoiled with a little more revulsion.
A rapier block was meant to be a deflection, the edge angled to guide the opponent's blade away while maintaining one's own point toward the target.
He twisted his wrist like he was swinging a cleaver. Parried with the flat like it was a saber. Braced his footwork like he was expecting to clash blades, not redirect them.
"You are wielding a rapier, not a slashing sword," the words came unbidden as her strikes intensified.
His smile widened. Just slightly.
He kept blocking the same way.
He parried her thrusts like they were swings, used his wrist like a hammer, even tried to pivot his shoulder as if winding up for a baseball bat.
She ground her teeth.
"A proper parry is with the forte," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "You angle the blade. You redirect."
"Hmm..." he mused aloud, tone relaxed and unbothered. "What's the difference?"
Her lips tightened.
So he was mocking her after all.
The way he asked it—it had to be sarcasm. The kind of insincere innocence one might expect from a smug noble trying to get under someone's skin at a banquet.
A wave of irritation bloomed in her chest.
What a disappointment.
If he'd just been untrained, that would've been one thing. But this? This deliberate, infuriating pretense? It was either arrogance or stupidity. Likely both.
She would treat it accordingly.
"A rapier is an extension of your arm," she said, her voice taking on the haughty tone she reserved for particularly dense individuals. "You don't block with it—you redirect." As she spoke, she demonstrated, her blade sliding against his in a flowing motion that pushed his point offline while bringing her own toward his shoulder. "Like so."
He barely managed to twist away from the strike.
"Your blade is too loose. That's not fencing, that's flailing," she sniffed, circling him with brisk footwork, Myrtenaster poised like a scalpel. "Are you trying to parry or dust cobwebs?"
She struck again—faster now. The tip of her rapier slid past his half-hearted guard, rapping against his ribs.
A dull shimmer bloomed where she struck.
"Don't twist your wrist like that."
Another thrust. This time, she feinted low and stabbed high—right into his shoulder.
He blocked again, wrong again. His grip too tight. His feet too square. No finesse. No tension control.
"Why even attempt this, if you're so incompetent?" she hissed, jabbing with growing speed.
He didn't respond.
He just kept smiling.
The worst part was—it wasn't even smug. Just content. Relaxed. His black eyes followed her, drifting across her every movement. No. Not just her movement.
Her arms. Her torso. Her hips.
She shuddered, fury igniting in her chest.
Was he ogling her?
*Strike*
He was definitely ogling her.
Another strike. This one across his thigh. He barely stepped back. Still watching. Still smiling.
"You could at least try to improve, you know?" she snapped, thrusting low—then flicking her wrist to catch his forearm.
The shimmer again. Grey and dull.
"You're not holding a club. Stop bracing it like you're about to swing at a tree."
Faster now. She stepped in, slid past his guard, and drove Myrtenaster into the crook of his elbow. He flinched—not from pain, but from surprise.
"Honestly, have you ever practiced with this kind of weapon?"
His smile didn't fade.
It widened.
Now he was outright grinning.
That was the final straw.
With a flash of movement, she disengaged, sidestepped his half-hearted reposture, and lunged.
Her rapier struck true—clean across the back of his hand.
A sharp ripple in his aura. He recoiled slightly. The false Myrtenaster fell from his grip.
It hit the floor—and shattered.
Tiny shards of translucent blue scattered across the floor. confirming her suspicion that it was indeed crafted from some sort of energy rather than physical materials.
Weiss stared at the pieces, momentarily distracted by their their color. Light blue, just like her eyes. But now that she understood what kind of person stood in front of her, her interest waned.
Her anger didn't.
She took a measured breath, leveling her rapier toward his empty hand.
"If you do have a weapon you actually know how to use," she said coolly, "now would be the time to pick it up."
Geas rubbed his wrist, fingers brushing over the reddening skin where her final strike had landed.
Weiss blinked.
That looks… swollen.
Wait—had she hit him too hard?
No. No, her control had been fine. She didn't go all out. Maybe a little spirited, but—
Her breath caught.
His aura must be low. The thought struck like ice down her spine. The spar with Professor Port earlier…
Of course. That match had been brutal. If he had already burned through most of his aura, then the dull shimmer she'd seen with her strikes—dull because it was weak—meant the usual buffering was almost gone.
Which meant... those hits actually hurt more than she intended.
A pang of guilt surged through her. She straightened, lowering Myrtenaster half an inch, words already forming on her tongue.
"I—"
"My, my," he interrupted, still holding his wrist, eyes flickering with a strange glint. "I felt like a leaf caught in a gale. What an aggressive style you have..."
His smile didn't fade. "Around 7,000 hours of training, too. How exquisite."
Weiss froze.
"…Excuse me?"
Were her ears playing tricks on her?
How did he—?
But there was no time to ask.
Geas straightened, the teasing glint in his black eyes sharpening to focus. "Either way," he said, letting his wrist drop to his side, "it's my turn now, no?"
She didn't even see it happen.
One moment, his hands were empty—the next, a sword glinted before her eyes.
Her arm snapped up on instinct. Myrtenaster met its copy with a ringing clash that jolted up her bones.
I didn't see him form it. I didn't see him swing.
No. He didn't swing.
He thrusted.
A perfect, textbook thrust. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
She parried, barely, but he was already shifting. Another lunge, this time lower—toward her thigh. She countered with a sweep, flicking his blade aside before stepping back.
He advanced. Controlled. Deliberate.
Stab.
Redirect.
Recover.
He moved with a rhythm that was familiar. Too familiar.
The next attack came at an angle—half-feint, upward cut, intended to bait her into overcommitting.
She didn't fall for it. She'd used that same technique thousands of times.
Another thrust—shallow, narrow, testing her guard. The kind she used in the first few seconds of a real duel to judge her opponent's defense.
He was using her attacks.
Her strikes. Her parries. Her rhythm.
Weiss's eyes widened.
So that's how it was.
Their blades parted with a metallic hiss, and for a fleeting heartbeat, Weiss met his eyes again.
They shone golden.
Weren't they black before?
It didn't matter.
He was better then before, yes. But she hadn't shown him everything. Not by a long shot.
She lunged, blade extending, rotating her wrist for a six-point thrust—an advanced fencing technique meant to prod six distinct openings in rapid succession. A maneuver Winter said was wasteful. Weiss had perfected it anyway.
Geas caught the first three. Barely. The fourth slipped past his guard and caught his shoulder. A shimmer of aura flared grey. He stumbled—
But recovered instantly.
By the sixth, he was already adapting.
She pulled back, heart hammering. No taunt came from him. Just that damnably serene smile and the hush of a repositioning stance.
She struck again. A diagonal upward slash, the same kind that baited him earlier.
This time, he deflected perfectly.
It didn't make sense.
No one learned that fast.
Her strikes came quicker. She used a different flow now—Shattervale-style fencing, favored for erratic rhythms and sudden tempo shifts. But even as she pivoted, snapped, stabbed—
He adjusted.
Block.
Counter.
Feint.
His guard was still raw in places, but it was tightening. Sharpening.
She increased her speed, pushing herself to the limits of what could be done without her glyphs. Remarkably, he matched it. Not exceeded it—matched it exactly. Same speed, same strength, like he was calibrating himself to her capabilities.
Her jaw clenched.
Her techniques.
Her footwork.
Her tempo.
Her range.
It was almost like fighting herself in the mirror, only the mirror was catching up.
Another clash—rapier to rapier. Sparks flew. They circled, steps mirrored, boots squeaking in rhythm.
Silence fell over her world as the rapiers clashed and they circled each other, again and again. Everything beyond their exchange faded from her awareness—Oobleck's rapid commentary, the other students' bouts, even the classroom itself.
Only the ring of steel remained.
Only the flow of movement.
Only the two of them.
A feint. A parry. A lunge. A spiral turn.
Her blade skimmed his coat. His slipped past her cheek. They drew back again.
Perfect balance.
Impossible.
Exasperating.
Exhilarating.
All thought fled.
There was no room for words. No room for annoyance. No room even for pride.
Their duel spun into something unnatural. Something elegant. Every move was mirrored. Every flick of her wrist, every shift in her footwork, every feint meant to draw him out—matched. As if he was not simply reading her, but becoming her.
She ducked low, twisting under his blade to strike at his ribs. He stepped back, angling his wrist to deflect—not simply the blade, but the momentum. It was the exact counter Winter taught her for uneven terrain.
He shouldn't know that.
But he did.
She turned, countered high, feinted left, lunged right. He copied. Again. Again.
Again.
Metal rang like bells.
Sweat dripped down her spine.
She parried a low thrust on her right—and then—
Pain.
A dull, shocking pressure bloomed on her forehead.
She froze.
What?
"What?"
Her hand reached up instinctively, her guard dropped. And there, right in front of her—
The tip of his rapier. Resting dead-center between her eyes.
Then it shattered.
A soft, crystalline noise like a chime. She watched it dissolve into slivers of translucent blue. Not glass. Not ice. Something in between. Each fragment twisted like a tiny snowflake before disappearing into the air.
"A gale needn't fear feints of any kind," he said casually, voice feather-light in her ears. "But you do."
Her mind was still catching up, replaying that final exchange—every flick, every step, trying to understand what happened. But the words came anyway, unbidden, shaped by sheer will.
"The fight isn't over ye—"
"All right students, class is over!"
Oobleck's voice cut clean through the tension like a scalpel. "I hope you all enjoyed this lesson. Next time, we'll focus on counter-pressure during multi-weapon engagements!"
Around her, groans and cheers. Footsteps thudded against the training floor. A hammer fell with a loud clang, rattling the whole classroom.
Class was… over?
No. That couldn't be. It hadn't even been—
She looked down at her hands. They were trembling. Her lungs burned, chest rising and falling faster than she thought possible. She hadn't even realized how hard she'd been breathing.
How long had they been fighting?
She didn't know what to say.
What did someone say after that?
"Thanks for the spar. Let's fight again sometime,"
She blinked. Her eyes snapped away from Oobleck, back to him.
Golden eyes met hers. No—just for a moment. Then they shimmered… and faded back to black.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
What was that supposed to mean?
Politeness warred with the fire still boiling in her chest. Part of her wanted to thank him in turn. Part of her wanted to demand he summon that damn sword back and finish what they started.
Neither instinct won.
She stood there, silent.
Then—
"Weisscream, close your mouth or you'll start catching flies."
Weiss turned her head, slowly.
Yang grinned, smacking her gauntlets together with a loud bang.
"Yo, new guy! Nice moves you've got there. Let's go get some lunch, what do ya say?"
Of course Yang was going to make this even weirder.
Weiss groaned.