Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"You also want to play at wrestling? Are you still human?" Winters and Aike, having just come off the arena, were helping each other remove their training armor.

Criticism with words was obviously no match for the critique of weapons; Winters was getting more and more worked up, so he threw a punch at Aike's back. Aike was Axel's nickname, and friends of Axel generally called him that.

The fist landed on Aike with a dull thud. Aike didn't feel much—he was still wearing his training armor, after all. It was Winters who ended up in tears from the pain.

"You're right. I'm not human. Hurry and help me get this encumbrance off. If I wear it any longer, it might actually kill someone," Aike said reluctantly, responding to Winters.

The training armor they wore was essentially half of a full set of cavalry armor. It was impossible for one person to put on or take off the armor alone, so during swordsmanship class, the sparring pairs would help each other don and doff their armor.

This kind of insincere self-criticism made Winters even angrier. He punched Aike in the back again. This time, however, he was smarter and removed Aike's armor first, causing Aike to let out a muffled grunt of pain.

After they had taken off their training armor, they hastily stripped off their arming clothes for the upper body, which were as soaked as if they'd just been pulled out of water, completely drenched.

Swordfighters found summer duels particularly painful, and the cotton clothing had to bear as much blame as the sun itself. The Senas Bay area, where Winters was currently located, had the sea as a natural heat reservoir, providing a warm climate.

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Therefore, in the Gulf Region, such cotton arming clothes could easily serve as winter clothing, but wearing them in the summer became torture.

"How did those knights in the old times fight wars in the summer wearing stuff like this? They wore an additional layer of chainmail atop this, didn't they?" Aike said with a sigh as he continued to undress.

"Just don't fight wars in the summer, and it's fine. If you must fight, well, the enemy has to wear the whole set too, so it's a matter of who can endure it longer," Winters replied without much thought, tossing his clothing onto the ground.

They placed their longswords and armor on the stone bench and, bare-chested, ran to the big water vat in the corner of the training room, where they began to guzzle the brackish water with ladles.

Where did this brackish water come from? The swordsmanship instructor had prepared a whole vat of it in advance, enough for all the students in the training room to drink their fill.

People in this era didn't understand ion balance or water intoxication. But the instructors at the military academy already knew that drinking a large amount of plain water after heavy sweating could be dangerous to life.

This valuable insight had cost them two lives.

The brackish water of swordsmanship class embodied a profound yet simple truth: using a technology does not require understanding its deep underlying principles. Birds do not understand aerodynamics, yet they can fly.

Unfortunately, Winters, now gulping down water beside the vat, was far from having any epiphany. His mind was fully occupied with the recent competition.

After setting down their ladles, the two leisurely walked back to their stone bench where they kept their gear. In the square-shaped arena, the ringing clinks of longswords colliding paused and restarted as the duels continued, now with a different pair of swordfighters.

Aike still seemed to remember the bearing and manner expected of an officer, while Winters sprawled carelessly on the ground without regard for appearance, finding the frosty touch of the stone floor particularly comforting.

Once he relaxed, however, the pain returned. Pain from his left shoulder reminded Winters that he had just lost eight points.

Winters glanced down at his left shoulder. A large area around the shoulder was bruised blue by Aike's heavy blow, with the contusion spreading to his collarbone. Everywhere in his field of vision was discolored with bruising. One could imagine the places he couldn't see, like the shoulder socket, were in a similar state.

"Look at this," Winters said, pointing to his shoulder. "I thought you had broken my bones just now. If I hadn't been wearing armor, I reckon that strike of yours could have cleaved me in half."

Seeing the bruising on Winters' shoulder, Aike spoke apologetically, "Indeed, I didn't control my strength well. In that situation, I should have pulled my blow. It also startled me when the strike landed on you; I hadn't expected it to be that solid."

But did Winters truly blame Aike in his heart? Of course not. He had no grievances against his friend, being well aware that bumps and bruises were normal in swordplay. What was the purpose of wearing all that armor if there was no risk?

Despite having safer training swords available, the instructors insisted they used blunted real ones to spar, precisely for the occasional small injuries it could cause.

Deep down, Winters didn't care about the blow from Aike at all. He didn't even realize that his relentless chattering was because he was nervous, subconsciously seeking topics to cover the question he was about to ask.

To ask directly was something he couldn't do. He would feel shame, fear the awkwardness, and worry that he wouldn't hear the truth.

Let a group of boys live together day in and day out, and being tenderhearted gets ridiculed. Everyone tries to present themselves as tough guys who don't care about anything. Winters was no different.

Winters' Adam's apple bobbed. He deliberately avoided making eye contact with Aike, pretending to focus on the duels happening in the arena, showing only the back of his head to Aike. He asked in the most nonchalant tone he could muster, "You, didn't you just go easy on me in those last few rounds?"