Luke wasn't usually a person who acted with his emotions. But he'd been irritated beyond reason for the past day—first with the disappointing structure of the EAUD, then the hot and arid climate, then Collins' desire to kick him out of his office, then . . . well, you get the idea.
He cracked his knuckles while looking at Jerry menacingly. "I slept on a couch last night and my back still hurts. Let's get this over with."
Jerry looked confused. "Don't you have a room?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Luke snapped. The guys and girls that heard the conversation immediately began whispering to their friends. It wouldn't take long for them to figure out that he was the Couch Man—and he wanted to be anywhere but in the fighting arena when that happened. He looked at Denma. "What are the rules?"
"There are none," Denma said smugly, crossing her arms. "The first person to surrender loses. Maiming and killing is allowed."
Luke glanced at the instructors in shock. Maol just shrugged, while Lamfatur was studying a spider crawling through the sand. Never in his life had he seen a group of instructors this neglectful of agents. Jerry seemed to pick up on his emotions. "What, are you scared?"
The bully was confident with his abilities. Everyone there was on his side. All he needed to do was to show this newbie his place then uphold his reputation for the rest of his years at the EAUD. It was like killing two birds with one stone.
To everyone's surprise, Luke just grinned at him. "On the contrary. I thought I'd have to hold back."
Jerry subconsciously took a step back, studying Luke's face intently. Then he cursed internally. Luke was just using big talk. There was no way he could be stronger than Jerry, one of the more powerful third years.
If he'd seen the results of Luke's previous tests, though, he might've changed his mind.
"Enough," Jerry snarled. "If you're so confident, why don't we up the challenge?"
"Sounds like you're scared," Luke drawled out. "Fine. What're the conditions?"
"I get to use this,"—Jerry unsheathed a small short sword—"and you have to wear this."
Jerry threw something at Luke, and he caught it with two fingers. He studied the black cloth then exclaimed, "There's no way you want me to fight against you blindfolded and weaponless!"
"It won't be as bad as you're thinking. If you're not bluffing, then you should easily be able to beat me. Otherwise, I'll make sure not to hurt you too badly."
Luke didn't even need to look up to know he was lying.
But Denma was grinning ear to ear. "With my position as a lead instructor at the Eastern Artenian Universal Defense, I declare this spar honorable!"
Honorable my ass, Luke thought gloomily as he put on the sleeping mask. Immediately, the light was muted out into shades of black. Luke felt pitifully vulnerable now. The blindfold might've not blocked every ray of light—but it did the trick.
The crowd cheered loudly as the two young men took their positions. Some snickered as Luke almost tripped over the foot of a human-shaped target. Lamfatur quickly steadied him before stepping away while a group of volunteers quickly moved other obstacles out of the way. Soon enough, a fifty-foot-wide sparring arena had been erected.
The preparation had been short, but the crowd knew the fight would be even quicker.
~~~
"How was the trip here?"
The man raised an eyebrow at Collins as he slipped through the door into the penthouse office on the top floor of the Tsipas center.
"Mr. Tsipas," Collins said respectfully, bowing his head slightly. "Seeing your wonderful hair once again makes me forget the strain of taking the elevator up two floors to your office."
The bald headmaster scowled at the captain. Just under six feet tall and almost blending in with the brown bookshelves flanking his desk, the middle-aged Nicholas Tsipas looked like any ordinary office worker—and not the head of a top secret intelligence organization. "My lack of hair has nothing to do with my hair follicles. It's a choice of style."
Collins' smile only grew bigger. "That's what they all say, Headmaster. You shouldn't look at it negatively—hair loss has treated your looks well."
"It's not hair loss . . ." The man sighed as he realized that he'd walked right into Collins' trap. "I didn't call you here to talk about my wardrobe choices. I heard that you've admitted a student."
"Plenty of bright students have joined in the middle of a term," Collins said innocently.
"You know what I mean, Collins. In your six years serving this fine institution, you have never once sponsored a kid." Tsipas raised an eyebrow. "Especially one that can be deported at a moment's notice."
"Headmaster—"
"Explain. Now."
Collins turned serious. "You deployed me for a mission last week."
"How could I forget? You were assigned to figure out Mercenary Zero's identity—as well as scout out those scummy Wartenians in their strategic camps in Central Artena. Then we lost contact with you. I was afraid that I'd cut your pay one too many times and you had decided to defect."
"That Mercenary Zero you're talking about? He's in our sparring arena right now."
A pause. Tsipas' eyebrows were furrowed together. Then he jumped out of his office chair like a frog. "You brought the man back here? Into our headquarters? Collins, have you finally gone mad?"
The captain stayed calm. He handed the headmaster his loose-fitting glasses back, which had launched across the room with his violent movement. "He's a boy."
"You're telling me—the bane of the Wartenians was . . ."
". . . a boy that hasn't even turned eighteen."
The headmaster slumped back down on the chair. "Why did I promote you to be the leader of our top squadron? You're going to destroy us from the inside! Mercenary Zero is a Wartenian!"
"He was," Collins corrected. "Then he helped me escape with the mole data from the Agency. If that doesn't prove his motives, I don't know what will."
"Wasn't he the one that captured you in the first place?"
"Luke is a brilliant child," Collins said honestly. "He's probably on par with me in terms of fighting. I have no doubt that if he really wanted to kill me, I wouldn't be standing here. He must've planned this years in advance to get his hands on the Wartenian servers."
If Luke had been there to witness Collins' awe-filled expression, he would've been completely appalled at the misinformation that the captain was accidentally spreading. But he wasn't there—so the headmaster's ears were enveloped in lies.
"Even one tiny incident," Tsipas warned after a moment of silence, "and he's out. Mark my words."
The captain just smiled. "Give him a few hours, and he'll shake the EAUD to its core."
Tsipas groaned at the thought of it. "Get out of my office," he ordered.
~~~
This wasn't Luke's first time fighting blindfolded.
Fighting without the assistance of his eyes was fairly common back in his Agency days during night special operations missions. Night vision goggles were a blessing—unless they were crushed to destruction in melee combat.
And then were the times when his own allies somehow managed to hinder his job. One time during the aftermath of an ambush, an especially jumpy operative from the Wartenian military pepper sprayed Luke straight into the eyes, thinking an enemy operative was sneaking up on him. Ten interrogations later—and the ensuing raids—Luke finally had time to go see a doctor. And then . . . well, you get the idea.
But this time, he had no allies to lean on. The crowd was cheering so loudly that Luke could barely hear Denma's countdown—let alone if Jerry was still there. He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves.
". . . two, one . . ." Denma continued faintly. Luke straightened up, trying to act as intimidating as he possibly could without knowing if he was facing his opponent. If he could strike even a moment's worth of hesitation into Jerry, well . . . he'd take anything he could get.
"Go!" Denma yelled from the sideline, followed by excited cheers from the crowd. And suddenly, Luke tensed.
Through the Royal training in the Agency, Luke's body had been pushed to the limit. Behind the scar-ridden body might have been a scared and lonely teenager—but that couldn't hide the fact that he had above-average hearing and a brain to use it.
Wind rushed from the side as Luke listened attentively. He waited for one second, then two . . .
Now! His mind screamed.
He stepped backward, easily dodging Jerry's first swing. He kicked a mound of sand into the air—a makeshift smoke bomb. His opponent spluttered as some grains landed into his panting mouth.
Luke's head snapped forward with a predatory grin as he heard the sound. It was now his turn to attack.
Jerry feebly attempted to stab forward, but Luke batted away the weapon. Sweat and desperation filled Luke's nose as he grabbed onto Jerry's neck and punched.There was a satisfying crack as his fist made contact with his nose.
"You'll pay for that!" Jerry howled in pain as he ripped himself away from Luke and stumbled back.
"Come at me with all you've got," Luke welcomed. "'Cause if this is the best the third years can offer, then the EAUD should probably cut some of their stupid history classes and replace them with something better."
Despite the crowd's support for Jerry, Luke knew that his opponent was getting nervous. A broken nose meant a lot of pain and tears, both which would inhibit Jerry's fighting capabilities. And there was a high chance that, out in the sandy world that the ink dark blackness of the blindfold was covering, he was using one of his precious arms to staunch the bleeding. Keep on going, Luke. A few more blows and you can finally find your dorm room.
The thought got his blood pumping. But he could hardly hear his heart beating faster over the shouts of the crowd.
Wait. Was Jerry attacking again?
Wind brushed against Liam's foot, and he jumped back, stumbling on a rock. But no dagger came slicing down.
Same with the next blow.
And the next.
Liam growled in frustration as he kept dodging phantom blows. His ears were the only reliable thing in the fight—and now the crowd was trying to take that away from him as well. This was definitely unfair. He couldn't believe that the instructors weren't doing anything about this.
But on second thought, it made perfect sense. He could imagine it now—Denma laughing in glee along with the crowd, with Lamfatur impassively staring at the fight. But Maol . . . he should be doing something, right?
Little did he know, Maol was gazing at Luke with hope in his eyes, completely infatuated with the fight. He would be no help.
Air wrapped around Luke's head. This time, he reacted a bit too slow, bringing his arm up to defend. Jerry's dagger dug into his skin, but could only slice a thin but long wound across Luke's limb before the boy stumbled back.
"You should give up," Jerry taunted as the crowd cheered louder. "Can the baby not deal with a small wound?"
Small wound my ass, Luke thought as he cradled his injury. His adrenaline prevented him from feeling the pain temporarily—but given the warm blood seeping over his fingers, the wound was bad.
Jerry didn't stop there, however. His strikes were like a viper, hidden under the leaves of the crowd's noise. Luke's body danced around the blade at superhuman speed—but no amount of experience could fully equalize his disadvantage.
Only a few minutes later, Luke took a step back defeatedly. His shirt was a mess of thread, showcasing his muscular build to the world. He thought he heard a few gasps of shock at his gruesome scars, but he was more concerned about the slash down his thigh—or the fact that Jerry had nicked his skin right above the jugular.
Finally, even Denma had to draw the line. She shouted over the crowd, "I declared this spar over—"
"No," Luke said firmly.
"You will lose a limb if this continues, boy."
"You said the spar won't stop unless one of us surrenders."
Denma hesitated. Then she finally stepped back. "The EAUD is not liable for any injuries past this point."
"The trash probably doesn't even have family to give his life insurance to anyways!" Jerry laughed. "Who would want a worthless runt like him?"
Luke tensed angrily—then his patience snapped. "Stop stalling and come at me," he growled.
"As you wish," came the response—and then he disappeared.
Luke could feel the blood pumping violently to his brain. Still, he tried to collect himself. With his open wounds, he probably only had a solid minute left before he needed medical attention; his injured arm felt strangely numb. He gathered his senses . . .
There!
Luke swung with all his might, hitting air. Jenson's laugh reverberated through the sparring arena as he swung for Luke's neck from behind the boy. "Say goodbye."
But then, to everyone's surprise, Luke chuckled—a deep sound that sent shivers down their spines. "It's a feint, you idiot!" In a flash, Luke ducked under the blow, spun around, and disarmed his opponent. The next second, he forced Jerry to the ground. He placed a knee on his back and pulled his dagger arm roughly behind his shoulder blade until Jerry cried out in pain.
Using the last of his strength, Luke ripped the blindfold off and traced his gaze around the shocked crowd. His eyes locked with Denma's. "Well?"
Denma snapped to attention. "Right . . . I announce the victor of this spar as Luke Jenson! Welcome to the EAUD!"
She finally said my name, Luke thought wryly. He looked around. The fight had completely wrecked the orderly feel of the arena; deep grooves from his movements crisscrossed the sand as if a bulldozer had made its way through there, and sand coated everything in sight. Luke suddenly became self conscious. I'm going to get a lot of grief for this.
Just then, the crowd grew silent, leaving the only thing pounding at Luke's ears the shuddering of the metal bleachers—and the distant crunching of footsteps. Luke weakly turned his head.
At the entrance where she'd turned tail and fled less than an hour ago, was Jocelyn. Her skin had turned back to its brown sheen. She hummed happily as she skipped into the arena. "James Lamfatur, I see you doing a great job as usual—"
Her eyes drifted to the scene everyone was watching—bloodied sand and a heavily injured newbie smashing the blood-covered face of a third year into the said bloodied sand.
Immediately, Jocelyn's skin returned back to the pale sheen he'd seen before. Seeing her reaction, Lamfatur now stood up, sweating nervously. It was obvious he had a thing for the pretty woman. "Applaud our newest student!" he quickly ordered. "Agent Jenson will be a great new addition—"
"It's Atlantis," Luke croaked out. "Agent Atlantis. If anyone doubts my skill ever again, I will not hesitate to bring the wrath of the seven seas upon you."
As the crowd halfheartedly cheered and Jocelyn hurried toward him, Luke face planted into the sand—right next to Jerry. Then the darkness took over.