"Enough of that," I muttered.

My arm lurched upwards, the jagged tooth of my broken rapier coming up with it and catching his fully functional weapon at the right angle between my blade and its guard. I bent my hand and the screech of metal flowed through the air, my weapon shifting so that the flat of my thin sword was against the blade of his, and thrust immediately downwards. My hand moved towards his, passed it, and latched onto his wrist.

As soon as my grip closed on his, I was reminded instantly that he was ridiculously empowered by his aura to be stronger, faster, more agile, and infinitely more enduring than I could ever have been by natural means. The faint smile that tinged my lips, though, was not one that indicated an acceptance of an inevitable defeat. The spreading, wolfish grin was certainly not meant to convey an air of impending defeat. If, by chance, he failed to note my expression, the crushing grip of my hands and the sturdy stance I had taken probably gave away my intention to not give him a flat, boring victory. There were reasons, lots of reasons, but the main one was pure contrariness. A close second was stubborn anger. Bringing up the rear of the top three was the knowledge that skill almost always trumped raw power.

The fourth reason was probably the most evil reason of all, but it was probably also the one that would see me to either a victory or a tie: when contrariness, anger, and skill cannot defeat raw power coupled with mild ability, trickery will win the day. The wolfish grin and the tightening grip had nothing to do with each other. They way I planted my feet had nothing to do with either of them. When I leaned forward slightly, it was not so that I could have more strength with which I could toss him into a very hard, very unforgiving stone wall. Granted, it would have been quite satisfying, but that was beside the point. The point was that I was tricking him, and he was too naive and too inexperienced to realize that, even when I had a pretty good hold on him and had a great way to deal damage and give me leeway to regain a weapon, underhanded tricks had not been cut out of the equation.

As a matter of fact, they were tons better, because they had become something more surprising than they ever could have been in the thick of an actual confrontation. If someone had been observing from the sidelines, like that strange man in the rafters, they would undoubtedly say that the green-haired freak had left me absolutely no openings. Even holding his wrist, I was still not the one with the advantage. He had a sword, he was stronger, he was faster ... if there were any physical advantages to be had, he had them. Mentally speaking, he was also clearly winning the confrontation. He had broken my sword—a big demoralization, to most swordsmen—and I had ‘narrowly' escaped certain defeat when I used the forté of my broken rapier to defend.

Good thing I wasn't playing fair, otherwise the mental aspect really would have been in his favor.

I smacked him over the head with the basket hilt of my broken rapier. For good measure, spite, and ridiculous self-indulgence, I did it a few more times, just as quickly and with every bit of strength I could pound his way. I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. Heck, it felt good.

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[Graphics by Me.]

[The signature links to Aleksandr Sokoll.]
["I believe in sleeping." ~ Bruce Lee]