Through the quiet streets, the ebon knight began to move.

Unaffected by the harsh glow of the sun overhead or the rough desert ground he trod on, the silent giant wandered through the streets in spite of the heat of the midday sky. The sun was high, it was almost noon, and the desert showed the effects, whether it be from the peeling paint on the walls to his left, or the empty hitching posts to his right. The streets were quiet, barren of everything but sand and dust. The place was empty. He shrugged, attributing the absence of others to the sweltering heat. They must all be inside their homes, he thought. He sensed a cold chill that seemed out of place in the desert.

Ahead of him, a dust bunny scuttled about in absent-minded circles, as thought it had forgotten where the wind was supposed to take it. The breeze then picked up, scattering it into the air. The tails of his black coat fluttered between his legs, and the dangling, empty sleeve of his left arm blew around with nothing inside to hold it steady.

Memories flickered through his mind, triggered each time he took a step. There was something about the town that seemed familiar to him. His masked face tilted down to the earth, which he could sense he had walked upon once before. He could not remember when, but he had been here before. With a deshi by my side, I once passed this way. He glanced up, his black cowl stared ahead at the junction of the town. Near a saloon, a sole person sat on a bench. A boy with green hair.

Underneath his mask, the dark warrior did not smile. But he knew this boy, and he knew now this town.

“Zorlo,” the giant man whispered, and stopped just before the building. His voice sounded with no curiosity or surprise, nothing even to convey an emotion, but it was a simple confirmation of something obvious. The dark man had been so quiet that the boy jumped upon hearing his name, drawing his sword with a startled exclamation. Then the youth realized whom it was who called his name, and sheathed his blade.

His eyes widened as he stared into the giant’s face. “M-Master?” he asked, uncertain if the dark figure that stood before him was real or a mirage brought about by the bright sun.

The boy’s Master ignored the foolish question, but nodded his head. “What are you doing here?” he asked the boy, his tone exactly as before: emotionless and threatening. “I am here for a battle deshi.”

The young fencer stood up tall, as if bracing himself for something. “As am I, Master Chronos,” he answered, his hands slinking towards the hilt of his sword.

The man who called himself Chronos accepted the meaning of this declaration. With a single sweep, his remaining right arm snaked up to his back, where a simply massive staff was latched. Slowly the teacher drew the weapon, a silver staff laced with purple lines along its shiny surface. His student gulped, as the weapon itself was larger then Zorlo, and probably heavier by several hundred pounds. To his credit however, the fencer did not back down. The weapon’s bottom touched the ground, and the boy watched the surface of the staff gleam lightly, the purple lines pulsating softly. The boy had seen the staff before, and knew that it sensed the magical energy within his being.

The staff drawn, the teacher awaited his deshi to remove his sword from its scabbard. Zorlo did so quickly, and the golden surface of Apollo shined in the bright sunlight.

Chronos growled softly at the blade, twirling the weapon called the Arm Striker in his gloved hand. “Hold nothing back, deshi.” His head bent downwards to take in his foe, to observe the subtle grace in his stance. The copper spikes of his hair stopped just at the outline of the mask he wore, which betrayed nothing. Not even what the Dark Eye was watching. He watched the fencer look at the stump that was his left arm. Nothing remained below the elbow. It had been used, to create the staff twirled in his right arm, and the sword he was to battle again. “The sword you wield bears my mark still. I wish to see how you carry my power against me.”

His deshi nodded, and Chronos noticed a glint of determination in his eyes. “I shall not,” he promised. Already, a bead of sweat had formed on his brow, though the teacher attributed it to the warm environment that surrounded them.

The boy is brave, to face someone like me with no fear in his stance. He is determined to defeat me, green as he is. The ebon knight ceased to twirl his weapon, and levered the Arm Striker horizontally, his hand gripping the center of the staff. Let us see what you have learned of the world, Zorlo.

“Come at me,” he ordered his student. “Now.”

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