Richard did not like being addressed in such a manner. Accustomed to everyone around him tiptoeing and, for the most part, treating him with respect, he could not tolerate insults.
"Sir, which year were you champion?" he asked calmly.
Richard practiced fencing and, naturally, kept track of international championships in the sport. With his excellent memory, he remembered perfectly well the names of all medalists over the past ten years. Since 1979, not a single competitor from Britain had even won bronze. The coach looked to be no more than twenty-seven, which meant he could not possibly have been a medalist.
"In eighty-six!" Mr. Vince replied pompously.
"Hm…" Richard was brimming with irony. With clear sarcasm, he asked, "Sir, in 1986, at the international fencing championship, the silver medal in the individual event was won by the Romanian Miklos-Gabor Bodoczi. In the team event, the Soviet Union team took silver. Sir, are you Soviet, or did you change your name from Miklos to Stanley, while also getting plastic surgery and dyeing your hair?"
"No, I'm British," Mr. Vince faltered. "U-uh… I misspoke. I meant the 1985 championship."
At that, Richie gave a pointed snort and said with mockery,
"Team event—Italy took silver. Individual event—Jaroslav Jurka, Czechoslovakia. It seems to me, sir, that you're quite a remarkable liar."
The children, their faces hidden behind fencing masks, began to laugh. Anyone could see that the coach was lying.
Mr. Vince did not like that. More than that—he flew into a rage.
"Shut up, you snot-nosed brat!" he shouted sharply at Richard. "You made all that up just to humiliate me. It won't work, you little mutt!"
"Sir, do you know who you're talking to?" Richie asked as if speaking to someone mentally deficient, his tone gentle and almost sympathetic. "I am Richard Grosvenor. For such insults, you could find yourself in serious trouble."
"You dare threaten me?!" Mr. Vince's nostrils flared, his eyes bloodshot. "Show me, pup, what you've learned. I'll give you a personal lesson!"
"Sir, I'm not threatening you. I'm merely stating a fact."
Despite his exhaustion, Richard remained a gentleman and kept his composure. As much as he wanted to curse the braggart who did not know how to deal with children, the boy stayed polite.
The substitute coach was already swinging a practice rapier. He froze in an attacking stance and pointed the blade at Richard.
"Well, pup, are you going to stand there all day? Get out here—now!"
"Ah…" A heavy sigh escaped Richard's chest. "Sir, I will ask my father to ensure that you never teach anywhere again."
"Even if your father were a prince, his word would mean nothing!" Mr. Vince declared confidently.
"On the contrary, sir." Richie drew his épée and trudged onto the strip. "My father may not be a prince—only a duke—but he has enough influence to make sure you are never allowed near children anywhere in the United Kingdom."
"Ha-ha-ha!" Vince laughed unnaturally loudly. "You little liar! You can tell those fairy tales about your rich and all-powerful father—who's also a duke—to someone else. I'll beat the urge to lie right out of you!"
Despite the fact that the liar here was Vince himself, and Richard was telling nothing but the truth, nothing prevented the substitute coach from carrying out his threat. He might not have been a champion, but the man had far more fencing experience. Add to that the strength and reflexes of an adult… In short, the weight class was clearly not in favor of a transmigrator trapped in the body of a nine-year-old boy.
Vince struck hard. After every thrust, Richie ended up on the mats. The pain was unbearable, but the coach's furious shouts forced the boy to get back on his feet and keep fighting. After such a beating—and there was no other word for what was happening—there would clearly be bruises that would take a long time to fade.
In the end, Richie—exhausted, furious, and pushed beyond his limit—grew so enraged that after another blow, lying on the mats and unable to find the strength to rise, he lifted his head and shouted in a fit of emotion:
"May you be smashed, squashed, and twisted to pieces!"
At that very moment, Richie felt himself losing consciousness.
When Richard opened his eyes, he saw a white ceiling. His nose tingled with the smell of medicine and that unmistakable scent that lingers after a room has been treated with an ultraviolet lamp. Looking around, he noticed that everything was white and concluded that he was in a hospital.
A nurse peeked into the room. Seeing that the boy had woken up, she closed the door. From the corridor came the loud clicking of heels. Less than ten seconds later, Richard's anxious father was standing by his bed.
"Son, you're awake. The doctors said you lost consciousness due to exhaustion, but I didn't believe them."
"Dad, I want to ask you to make sure that the coach who led our fencing class today never comes near children again."
(End of Chapter)
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