A Revisitation (Zorolo)

A metallic clank echoed across the narrow dock as I, Kichaa Mesoa, stepped from the sloop deck onto the planking. The captain was still gaping at the golden royal he had received as fare for my voyage–it was an overpayment, but the ride had been smooth as glass, and reminded me of some of my better times. Besides, money never had been much of an interest to me. Seldom were the times when my way of life required more than a few pieces of silver or gold to furnish a cheerier welcome to a strange place.

This was a place as familiar to me as any. I had almost died on this island, a long time ago. By luck or grace, I had not, but it was an experience that I would never forget ... and because I could never forget it, I would always remember this place, this island, this port. My fingers traced down to the sword on my hip; it was different now than it had been then. The Rose of Summer was the sword that I lost, though I had forgotten where, and it was the sword that had kept me from death here on this island. That, and the grim kindness of a man I had never seen again.

With a sigh, I began moving towards my goal. Never mind that it was my first day arriving on the island, or that the sand-and-dirt arena I sought may have been destroyed long since, I had to see it for myself. The port was still small, barely passing off as a city, and it had wide-lane streets all through it. The entire place was designed to be a shipping center. It was a shame that it had not been built on a more appropriate trading route, because it would have blossomed quickly with the steady commerce of such a position. I smiled, and remembered that blossoming cities also outgrow certain fanfare icons, such as coliseums.

No one bothered me as I walked through the dusty, dirty roads. Most of the island folk were either on their own business or minding their own business that day. They had learned through time and experience that bothering a man with a sword could be as dangerous as it could be interesting. Few people were averse to showing people that they knew how to use their weapon, even if it was unnecessary or cruel. Because no one bothered me, my mind wandered back to my goal, the place I was going: the coliseum.

It was in sight by that time. A small gathering of outbuildings, one of them a dining hall, were the only upright buildings, all of them built sturdily from a nearby quarry that had long since run out of useable stone. My long strides brought me close enough to it that I could taste the salt and blood from inside the arena. It had seen combat recently, but it was quiet ... I found myself wondering whether it was closed for the night. No, it was too early in the day. What day of the week was it? Sunday? Yes, that was why it had closed. No one on this island opened their doors for business on Sunday. All the better for me, I supposed.

I stopped at the entrance. It was a narrow chute, with shallow steps and a heavy, iron-braced wooden door at the bottom. The door hung open partway, clearly broadcasting that there was nothing going on inside the pit, but still I hesitated. Almost without a thought, I felt my hand move to the ivory hilt of my sword. My steps faltered, but they took my down to the door. My hand never shook until I reached out to push open the door, and I felt a phantom pain cling to my left lung. The memory of cold, hard steel rushed through me, then vanished as the door opened onto the sand and dirt of the arena.

Without a thought, I found myself walking forward.

Drip, drip, drip.

That sound. The sound of water dripping from the old prisoner holds that I had found myself in. That's what I get for wandering though, mayhaps. I've never been a person who so easily found himself lost as I found myself found, but maybe I just oversimplify my situation. The iron bars on either side of me; the smell of decay and death; also, a hint of mold all seemed to be lingering, but not a one dulled my senses in the least.

Originally I had began walking through those halls in order to find something as I had found in my battle with Nikudemon: Simply put, a battle of shear strength and will power of a person, and not so much a battle of magical and aura energies, as I had enjoyed in my battle with Johnny Bones. Such a thing, however, was a very rare thing to find, and farther, a rare thing to actually be able to engage in to use a person's fullest strength. Unlike other foes I'd fought recently, only Nikudemon and Rain had forced me to get clever without using the nigh endless uses of my aura.

Still, the darkness of this place was a bit of a hindrance, since my aura didn't protect me from darkness or its counterparts. A rather annoying side effect of being aligned completely with good, but still, something that made battles with people who use those magics and skills fun. I think that is why I wish to fight Miss Cadenza one day, to see if I truly have the tact and mind to compare to her shadow magic. Still, I wonder how poor Zachary is doing in her training, I...

I can't think of such things now. Obviously the Dome has sent me to this odd place to find a true opponent in which to give the full extent of my natural power. I must learn the limit to my strength, speed and power before I can even hope to bring celestial balance. If I merely leave everything to my aura, then I'll never be a complete person, and forever trap myself in the tidings of powers that I only somewhat understand.

I need a duel of swords to make myself more worth what I had once been. I adjusted my jacket and unzipped it, allowing my right forearm to rest upon the hilt of my sword as I walked through the unlit passages where, at one time, slave warriors had been kept. I still hated the fact I'd been sent here, but apparently here was where I'd meet a person who may, or may not, change my life. People have said before that less has changed theirs.

The smell of fresh air bombarded my nose as I continued to walk nonchalantly through the halls, my carefree smile crossing cheek to cheek. I found it standing just above me... or mayhaps it was in front of me, it was hard to tell. Everything is very indifferent when you look at it from several angles, for what is above you from below is what is below you from above. Such were things I'd look on to understand why things were the way they.... wait...

Anyway, I pulled my fist back, and with a mighty punch, I sent the trap door flying off of its hinges and into the stand. I pulled my body out of the underground and looked around, dusting myself off. Man it had been damn dirty down there. It wasn't as dirty as some places or people I had seen, but still, it was pretty bad. After all, I recall this one story about Zachary falling down a trap door into a sewer and landing in the...

Dammit, I did it again! Anyway, my eyes scanned the arena, in search of the challenger who would prove to me that I needed training. My eyes examined everything before me, stopping only on a young lad. Well, not so much young as lower in age then me, nor in appearance, but seemingly slightly less battle hardened. Mayhaps it wasn't that, but something about him seemed to lack the feeling of death that permeates around those who have lived judiciously by it? If that was the case, then he had seen the Grim Reaper face to face before, but not often.

For a long time, every battle I fought in was a life and death circumstance, and then, one day, I found that was no longer the case. I had not seen the specter of death in a long while, and perhaps to meet him once more would invigorate me to train harder and become stronger. Who knew. All I knew is that I'd get no stronger fighting someone like Johnny Bones. I needed a stronger foe, and not in the sense of skills or gadgets or inane things like those, but someone who's warrior spirit was like mine had once been.

I needed to rekindle my warrior spirit, so then, and only then, would I surpass even my old Master, Kurenkento, and perhaps even the man who's shadow is cast over my love. I'd make her father pay, and perhaps this battle would set into motion all of that which would change before that fight came to pass. I took a deep breath and held it for a moment before exhaling in a relaxed manner. Time to introduce myself.

"Hello there," I began as I walked towards this brown haired man, who's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, "I am Zorlo, the fencer of Tasogare, and it is an infinite honor to meet you. I have come in search of a duel of swords, so would you be so kind as to grant me this wish?" I asked him in a sincere voice as I bowed and offered my hand. "I'd greatly appreciate it, since it is the only thing I have desired in a long while," I stated in earnest, pondering what this man was thinking.

I'd know soon enough.

The soft sound of a hand gripping ivory, a rasp-like hiss as metal brushed against leather, and a sound halfway between a whistle and a hum as my blade whirled off to my right side. Sunlight shone on it as I turned around and lifted it to my own eye level—I was strong enough that, despite it being a long sword, I was able to hold it there as some men would hold a rapier or a short sword. My eyes scanned the green-haired man speaking to me, and I took in the easy posture he had taken, the way he rested his hand against the hilt of his sword. This one was a fighter, not like some of the thugs and such that typically wanted to brush up against me in the streets.

"I am Kichaa Mesoa," I said to the man, my manners forthright but my tone a bit lacking in welcome, "I suppose I could spare time for a fair fight. Swords only, first to admit defeat or become unconscious—those are the rules I usually follow."

My body turned fully to face the man, and my ease dissolved into complete relaxation. I had learned long ago that being tense and wary and ready to move was seldom as useful in a fight as was the ability to relax the muscles, to think on the moment and react accordingly. Sometimes it was better just to know something was coming than it was to actually avoid it. These things were distantly in my head as I gripped my weapon with both hands, taking the low guard that so many swordsmen swore to be useless. Myself, I approved of the low guard because it was comfortable to me, and because I was accustomed to the easy position of it.

By the time my mind was focused, I had mostly forgotten the reason I came to this arena. There was the faint knowledge that I had been here for a reason, of course—I was no fish, that my memories would leave me in mere seconds—but I still had my thoughts together on the task at hand. Whatever else I came here for did not really matter anymore. I gave a salute, my strong arm lifting the blade of my sword vertically in front of my face, then set about examining my opponent as cautiously as I could do. It was dangerous to be incautious in a fight, and never let it be said that I loved danger.

Zorlo looked like a good fighter. He had that aura of power that most people can neither sense nor see, and he looked like he knew how to use it to his advantage. A few people had commented that my own aura was a bit impressive, for a gray aura, but I have never been able to use it for anything more than just what normal people use theirs for, basic things like walking or eating. The sword he wore was nothing I was familiar with using or sparring against, with a thin blade an ornate handle that made it look more for show than for combat. Even so, the way he let his hand hang on that sword said things more expressively than I ever would be able to: he trusted his sword absolutely, knew it as I knew my sword. He had probably killed with it.

"I am ready," I said, hoping that this one was not one of the kind that killed for fun. My worst times fighting had been against such people. They were the only men I had ever killed.

"Those rules are fine to me," I replied as I drew my sword and stabbed it into the ground, taking a releasing a deep breath. The time had come that battle would begin shortly, and yet I wasn't yet sure how to go about this fight. The spirits of this ring danced nimbly about the stands, taking their seats. This would be a fight not soon forgotten, I suppose.

I had already taken into account my foe's intense focus. It was something beyond natural, and even beyond supernatural. This kind of focus was the sign of a true warrior: complete focus on the task ahead without any kind of deviation from what he was pondering. That kind of focus was divine, and proved to myself that I, perhaps, needed some focus. I planted both of my feet firmly and closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind of all that afflicted me.

A wise warrior had once told me that the truest path of a warrior was serenity. The serene state of mind allowed a person to grow more powerful then either anger or sorrow; more powerful then envy or greed; and, mayhaps, even more powerful then those which are called right or wrong. Although I was afflicted by none of these, I was caught in complete thought: about the world, about Zachary and his training, about Selene, and about what I may learn. Too many minds, I suppose.

Even so, I had fought with this many conscious minds at once and still won. There were, however, times when my thoughts detracted from my fighting. I couldn't allow myself to become distracted or drawn away by anything, although I did have to remain true to myself. If I were to fight this man, I'd fight him in my own way, even if it meant defeat. Slowly, the time of first blood was drawing in, so I had to focus up.

I pulled my sword from the ground and zipped up my jacket. My breathing and mind were calm... or as calm as they could be, but I still waited for this man to move. He was strong. I could tell through his posture and focus, and no matter how hard I tried would I never match this man in sword combat? No, I couldn't think such things, not now. The fight was too close for any doubt or unreasonable emotions. I had to put everything into this fight in order to prove that I, Zorlo, was truly as powerful as I hoped I was.

"Shall we begin?" I asked as I pointed my sword at this man and awaited his move. This was the most serious part of the fight: Who struck first?

My hands steadied. My breathing slowed. My eyes widened slightly, blinked once, and then I moved. My first attack was easy—a straight line slash, right to left, from as far away as I could reach. One of my most useful traits is my reach, and that trait infused distance into my swing. The canny fencer stepped aside, quick as a cat, and I noted that he was probably faster than I was. That kind of dodge was nothing that could not be done by someone with quick feet, but that had never been my area of expertise.

I felt myself adjust my balance, slide a step left, and faced him again. My focus riveted itself on him, on the dangers of the arena: the walls were too close for my liking, the ground too loose, and I was out of practice. I had not fought for a long enough time that this part was as much a test of him as it was of myself. The tense in my muscles had receded to a faint memory, and my feet balanced into complete stasis on the balls of my feet. My guard switched to a knight's grip at my chest, blade vertical, and I slid into a steady trot around my opponent.

He mirrored me, but he was faster. I refused to let him push me quicker, so I stopped and swung at him with a backhanded, over-the-shoulder chop. He met the blade on his own, and I felt the clang reverberate into my arm as the titanium clashed against his hilt. I smiled, directed my attention elsewhere. The focus never drifted, of course, but my eyes scanned the sands, the walls, drifting back to him only enough that it would not seem like a trap; I was showing him an opening, testing him for how he would react to that revelation. Would he attack it? Would he stand? Would he circle? I renewed my trot, this time pushing in on his space.

My blade flicked out now and again, never coming close, but I flashed it forward towards him to see him tense. Only once did he move to block, that being the second time, and the others he simply watched with a keen and wary eye. I found this interesting. He was confident in his speed. My testing continued.

All the while, I looked for signs. Was he a talker? The silence of a quiet fighter often disturbed a man who was accustomed to taunts, wagers, or even in some instances a complete conversation. Was he an instructor? Some swordsman saw fit to critique, criticize, or point out openings in the technique of another fighter, whether to help by awareness or to hinder by over-correction. Was he a dominator or a follower? Would he attack, now that the fight had been opened, or would he step back and let me work on him? These things I wondered, keeping the list ready to be filled even as I trotted around him.

My foot touched the ground slowly as I finished taking a step back, again keeping my eyes keened in upon the warrior in front of me. He was something not of this world... or at least something that wasn't common place. I didn't quite know what to expect yet by his showings, but I knew that he had something big up his sleeves. One thing I did know, however, was that this man had more to show me then just what he had demonstrated.

I looked at my sword for a moment before stabbing it into the ground and bending over and placing my fingers upon the sand. My fingers closed into a fist, grabbing some of the sand, and letting it seep from between the cracks of my holding, letting it return from whence it had been collected. This arena was like any other a person could come to, yet also not. It wasn't every day, after all, that fate placed you in the predicament you wanted to occur. Strange luck, no?

My eyes rose from my hand to the other warrior, who hadn't moved a step yet. I clapped my hands together a few times before placing my left hand around the hilt of my sword and standing to my full height. I removed my sword from the ground and pondered what I had just learned in the few moments I had been unarmed. This was all very interesting indeed.

Examining ones foe was one matter of judgment of a warrior, but examining the battlefield during combat was an unorthodox measure; and a lesser man would have taken advantage of my apparent distraction to strike. This man hadn't. He was truly a swordsman, through and through. Only a coward would an attack a man off his guard, which proved to me this person was just the fighter I was looking for.

I pointed the golden blade of my weapon towards my foe and then slid one foot back slightly. My test of dignity was complete, but now I had to do one more test: A test of skill. This man had tested my competence with a sword, so mayhaps it was my time to test his. The only question I had now was how to approach a strike. I could easily lunge, and take him off guard, but would that work? I wanted to know. I had to know!

My sword cut the air like tissue paper as it moved towards my foe, who readily moved his weapon up to block. The tip of my blade echoed off of this man's own blade and pushed him back two steps. He was more sturdy then I had initially assumed, which meant I'd need to be careful. Well, with this new knowledge, I could more readily prepare attacks and counter attacks. However, for some reason, I didn't move my sword.

Time stood still for a few moments before I finally leapt backwards and looked at this man, this Kichaa person. He didn't seem fazed at all by my speed, nor by my movements, nor my attacks. He was absolutely focused... just the way I needed to be. Not yet... I needed to remain relaxed for now. Who knew when I'd need to actually fight with all one hundred percent, after all?

The feigned carelessness made me wonder. It was an honest enough test, one that I had seen used by some of the wiser swordsman during the heyday of random encounters, but it was not something I would have expected to see from someone as carefree as this green-haired youth. The surprise did not linger. Even the idea of letting his sword out of his hand was foolishness itself—most chose to fake a blunder, or tried to strike up a conversation—but I wondered if he had any kind of motivation for trying something as risky as he had. Perhaps he really was just a carefree young man willing to try anything at all that came into his head.

It was a theory worth testing. My foot slid forward, my weight bending at the knee as my balance shifted from both legs to just my right, and I pounced on the man like a tiger: quick, agile, but strong enough to leave and impression and slow enough to be avoided by someone accustomed to that kind of attack. As I did, I left myself purposely open, a visible gap in my style just below my left shoulder that, to an untrained eye, would look like nothing more than a movement of the pectoral in that area. To a swordsman, and to this man if he was as good as I got the impression he was, it would be open and obvious as a piercing-point for anyone good enough with a blade. The movement was careless in its audacity, but I had a dozen ways to counter an attack to that area.

More to the point was my actual attack. The movement, aside from that one place, was fluid and complete, as catlike as the analogy of a springing tiger, with my sword sweeping forward in a quick arc towards Zorlo. It would provide a nasty cut if he did not move, though I doubted he would take the hit, and it was aimed to maim the right arm. Too obvious to be anything more than a test, but too strong to be shrugged off—that was what I intended, and it worked perfectly.

Even as the green-haired man stepped away from my swing, his thin blade whipped out towards my weak point. It was a spur-of-the-moment reaction, not a practiced style, that produced an attack like that one, and I became immediately aware that I was facing off against something akin to a kindred spirit. I also became aware that this particular swordsman was not completely devoted to using his sword, else the attack would probably have hit. That is a measure of how well it was executed: he never blinked or showed hesitation, simply dodged and retaliated with all the precision of a striking cobra. I found myself wondering what name his type of sword carried.

Not one to caught, I shifted my balance point to the hell of my left foot, and touched down with the ball of my right just in time to put a strong horizontal parry across my chest. The thrust had been admirable, close to perfect. I allowed myself a satisfied smile, and focused even more on this new opponent of mine. He would be a challenge, and I found myself resenting the part of me that held back from the immediate gratification of a furious onslaught. I knew I could do it: if I pushed him hard enough, it was more than obvious that he would cave into the attacks. The more calm, precise part of me was enjoying it as it was. I would wait, and enjoy this as much as I could, prolonging it for his sake as much as my own. He might even learn soemthing.

I took a few steps back, keeping a tight grip on my sword as I watched this man. He was good. Very good, in fact. Just what I wanted. No, just what I needed, in order to learn the strength I had had before I discovered my powers. Well, I still had a lot of practice then, since I'd only found his opening at the last moment. I'd get him next time.

Quickly, my feet moved me from left to right, closing the gap as I zigzagged towards my foe. My sword flashed through the air, buzzing loudly through the sliced air, and quickly causing my foe to roll to the side, evading my attack. Good move, but I couldn't let my guard, since this was like a game of chess: each move had to be precise and planned, or else a strategy would fail. Quickly, the other swordsman swung his sword in a horizontal arc towards me, but with a quick step backwards and moving my sword, I intercepted the attack.

I felt a bit strange, I shall admit. With each attack, I could feel my body tense before and after an attack made by either myself or my foe, and couldn't explain at all why. For now, I wouldn't think about that, because all it would do is distract me, and reduce my response time. I very much needed my response time if I were to win this fight, since it seemed this foe had the ability to react in an instant.

I kicked my foot backwards slightly, throwing myself backwards and landing on my heels, sliding slightly. I now had room to figure out how I was going to fight this new and skillful foe. Skill was just what I needed, but there was something else he had; something else that Nikudemon had when he ascended his demon magic and became a true swordsman. Something that I hadn't even considered until just this moment. It was the best explanation on how they were so capable or quick response.

"Instinct..." I whispered as I finally had some idea about how they were doing it. Simply because I had a very minute idea about what they may be using didn't mean I had any idea how to deal with it in the least. I sighed and prepared an attack for his foe. I'd keep him on his feet, and see if he really did rely simply on his instinct, rather then his senses. There was only one way to truly know.

I burst forwards, sand shooting from under my feet as they erupted forwards, and held a bent left elbow back as I readied to bombard my foe with one of my specialty techniques. "Normally, I wouldn't use this attack, but I need to know something," I told Kichaa with a smile as I readied to strike. "Mirage Thrust Rain!" I yelled as I began to throw thrusts like mad. I had to see just how well this foe could guard multiple attacks. If I were right, he should get away with either no, or minimal damage. Either would tell me I was, at least, partially right.

This one was better. Even as he said the words, which I found admittedly distracting, I recognized the tensing of his muscles. It was a flat giveaway, now that we had been testing each other for a few minutes. Every time he attacked, he tensed. Every time I attacked, he tensed. It was almost as if he was thinking out his every motion before he ever did it, then put it into practice the same way a chess player would make a move he had anticipated in advance. There was nothing aggressive or defensive about the way he fought, just the weighted movements of planning and forethought.

I decided quickly that this was a habit I would have to force him out of, if I wanted to fight for more than just a few minutes—and it was a good thing I decided quickly, too, because my body had started to move long before the slow, slow thoughts had ever been finished. My body, twisted as it was, was balanced perfectly to accomplish exactly what I had in mind.

The faintest shift forward, the grinding crunch of my feet sliding across the loose sand of the arena, and a quick pounce were all it took to get me inside the range of my opponent. The fighting style that brought me this close—I was, quite literally, close enough to feel his breath on my neck—was still an experiment, something I had only heard of and seen a few times in my career. Infighting: getting so close to your opponent that they could neither defend nor attack, and their only choice was to try to get back out of their position. My body pressed against his, knee to hip and chest to shoulder, for only a second before my hand found what it was looking for on his chest.

With the front of his jacket in one hand, I swung out of his comfort zone after having been in it for less than a second, dragging him to the side as I went. My hand came down over my head and a crack sounded against the walls of the arena as the pommel of my sword smacked against the back of his head. I dropped him, and he went down like a sack of rocks.

"Normally," I said, shoving him onto his back as he blinked the stars from his eyes, "you would have gotten killed for trying something like that. Did you have a death wish when you made that up?"

Our swords clanged against each other. He had been quick about retaliation, even when his eyes were probably still showing him a fireworks show, and that was respectable. Even lying on the ground, he had the presence of mind to swing his sword at my lower left calf; if he had struck, it would have cleaved clean through my heel and crippled me for the rest of my life. I wondered if he found it as a surprise that I was able to see it coming and block it, but did not ask. A good swordsman only used as much taunting as was absolutely necessary.

Thinking about it at that moment, I suddenly realized exactly what that man meant the instant he told me that my Mirage Thrust Rain was a near suicide attack. The drawbacks of it being a severely limited range attack had proved to be annoying in the past. In fact, that was why I had my Aura Skills, but I had already told myself I wouldn't draw upon that wealth of power. For now, I'd need to be more clever, although I now had thoughts about not thinking at all. That had worked in the past, right?

Slowly, I closed my eyes and completely shut my consciousness off, wondering exactly what it would do. I had never done something like this before, but hell, I'd seen Rain do it and have insane reaction time. After all, how different could it be for me. Anyway, it seemed that reason, logic and strategy had all failed here already, so I might as well try something random.

After that, for a few minutes, there was simply nothing but what my mind took in as images. Kichaa's sword moved swiftly, but I managed to narrowly avoid it each time. When I came to, I found the only major drawback to that attack: I couldn't counter attack... at all.

Well, trial and error, you know. So that had been a miserable failure for offensive purposes, but it had given me a moment to know what it felt like to be Johnny Bones: absolutely empty headed. Now then, thinking about this, there had to be some median between complete rationality and absolute suppressed consciousness. What in the world was it?

The pain in my head didn't exactly help the thought process, but it did teach me what in the world I was missing. The swordsman's blade sliced powerfully towards me, and before thought could begin, my blade locked with his. There it was! The thing that seemed to fill itself in. The most basic of human thought: instinct! I was utterly astounded I hadn't thought about it earlier, but now that I had, it was so very simple a thing that I'm amazed I hadn't thought about it until this second. Kind of embarrassing, actually.

Now then, for a balance. I'd trust instinct and reason as a combination. Instinct to do menial things, and reason and logic to deal with a larger strategy. Namely, how long until I start showing my favorite tricks that I really don't use often. It would be a good chance for me to use those skills again, actually. After all, I had only found a chance to use most of my non-Aura Skills rarely. Time to see what mixed planning could do to defeat an impressive foe.

I didn't feel like waiting for him to try again.

The heat was creeping back into my blood, now that he was taking this seriously. What had been a cold match was getting a bit hotter, what was a slow dance was becoming a fast one. The smooth way I usually conduct my business, money or fighting, was rushing away like a riptide, and it was fine by me. I couldn't even remember the last time I felt like pushing my fist through someone like this.

My sword skittered across the thin blade of his rapier, shoving it aside by main strength and brute momentum, almost entirely skipping the part where it moved through air so that it could crunch down on hard metal. If it had twice as much as my last three swords had, it probably wouldn't survive the whole fight. That awkward feeling that someone else has a better sword was rushing through my veins—not that it did anything to slow me down—and the only way to prove it wrong was the break him down. Worse sword or no, I was in this fight completely.

The edge of my sword caught in the corner between the gold of the edge and the silver of the guard just a fragment of a second before my own disc-guard slammed against his silver basket hilt, shoving hard. I felt a leer enter my eyes and spread across my lips, then pushed down on his light weapon with one hand, my other coming across the give him a handy left hook right in his jaw.

I stumbled back, caught off by the quickness of his punch, which I hadn't fully expected at the moment when our swords clashed. I leapt back afterwards and pressed my attack, my sword slicing the air like nothing, and narrowly missing my foe's body by inches. I was inclined to make sure he knew what I was doing, so he could think I was being predictable, when in reality, I had a plan fully mapped out... kinda. That last blow took a bit of the plan out of me.

A quick movement made my sword veer off course, and gave me a minute to charge in. My shoulder pushed forward first, driving itself into this man's chest, and causing him to step back slightly. As soon as I had a moment to regroup myself, I pushed my rapier forwards, but a quick move had the broad side of the swordsman's blade stopping the tip of mine. I pushed hard, trying to somehow get through the strong metal of Kichaa's sword, but to no avail. I had to do something, or risk taking another blow from him.

I push forwards hard one more time and quickly spin forward, slashing my sword down and causing our blades to clash again. The force of my attack sends you back slightly, and I grasped my sword, getting ready to make another attack. I rush once again, slashing my blade fiercely, intent on overwhelming the swordsman, but he defended himself with great ease. I now switch to the defensive, intent on finding a well placed strike that will change the tide of this battle.

I guess that means I'll just need to be creative.

My pivot is well-timed, in the effortless sort of way that brings to mind times when something slips from your hand and, at the last possible moment, you accidently manage to catch it before it crashes against the floor, or the ground, or whatever is beneath you. As soon as he went on the defensive, my pivot sent me instantly into offensive. I hadn't ever really left it, to be honest, but when he pressed his attack I had given him room to move, to fight. Even if I thought it was worthless to let him try, it was the more enjoyable thing to do. Prolonging the fight, for his sake and mine, might force the both of us to learn a thing or two.

Him especially, I thought.

The way he moved, the way he attacked, the way he shifted his weight, was all right; that was the problem. Because it was all right, it was all wrong. He shifted his weight perfectly to attack, so I had known he was going to attack. He shifted his weight perfectly to defend, so I had known he was going to start defending. The only truly random, off-the-wall thing he had done was that trick he tried when he rammed his shoulder into my chest. It had sent me off-balance, it had made me take a step back, it had even knocked some of the wind out of me. His mistake that time was not in what he did or how he did it, but how he followed it up. He should've pounced, but he didn't. That surprised me.

Zorlo had a lot of technical skill. It was time to teach him that technical skill is only worth having when combined with ferocity, intent, and blunt strength. Even one of those things, in great enough quantity, can make up for lack of technical skill. The trick was, none of those could be as perfect as technical skill, since technical skill could be augmented or could augment any of the other three. So it was the best of them.

I shifted my weight forward on my right, an attack, back on the left, a defense, and my expression changed to a clever glint in the eye—or so I imagined. My sword arm flashed out, stabbing one-handed at the center of his balance; it was batted aside perfectly, but to the wrong direction: he put it to his right side, my left, putting it in a perfect position to be drawn back across in a backhanded slash. It smashed against the rapier edge, catching it full and strong, and flinging him aside. I moved closer, my hand moving to punch him, but he was learning. His head whipped aside, his vision narrowed, and I stepped in close enough to kiss him.

My knee came up, I twisted, and my leg jammed into his side, setting me off balance enough that I had to hop-skip away for two or three steps. His sword whizzed out while I was doing this, caught me in the shoulder with a shallow stab wound, and retracted. He was certainly learning.

Oh, how fun this battle found itself becoming. I had finally managed to strike him with my blade, however, this boded ill for myself, since I now had to find a way to prevent this swordsman from returning my favor. Such an interesting place the battlefield was, especially when a person was learning something new. Now then, the time to truly test what I had examined was now.

So far, I had found that he could read my moves, probably based on something I wouldn't take note of. Perhaps the way I moved, or the way something happened. I wasn't too sure about how, but he could tell what my strikes would be before then came. Also, as I had when my sword had clashed against Rain's, I found a need to use something that wasn't just my blade to strike at my foe. This skill proved most handy against true swordsmen, since they were more skilled at defending a blade then a fist, then when fighting a brawler like Johnny Bones. However, I could still apply the same logic I applied in every fight: give it everything you've got.

Come to think of it, a change in tempo might be interesting.

I shifted my left foot a little bit, stabbing my sword into the ground and keeping my eyes close upon my foe. He didn't seem to respond more then keeping a close, fixed gaze upon me. Keeping an eye on someone like myself wasn't always easy, though, because the instant I start moving, it can become hard to distinguish what is bent light, and what is my body. I lifted my hand from my blade and clapped them together. I smiled and quickly grabbed my sword, blocking a vertical slash from my fierce foe, and pressed my blade against his, barely evading a swiping left hook that nearly met my face.

I leapt back. Apparently my gesture of speeding this up had been mistaken as an insult. Well, no time to clarify now. Time to simply turn this battle up to a new level, is all.

I shifted my right foot, and his eyes remained locked on me; however, what had been me at one second had been replaced by light particles that had been displaced in my movement, as I appeared to his side and swung my sword down this time. The swordsman barely caught a glance of me before rolling to the side and slashing horizontally towards me. A quick leap back and I had cleared myself of danger at that moment.

The blade of my sword dragged along the ground as I recoiled and his blade moved through the air briefly as we both swung forwards, clashing blades hard. The recoil of our blades and the sparks from the scraping of the weapons lasted for mere instances before we both leapt back. I took a few short breaths, and then one long one to relax myself. I was only warming up still, so obviously the odds of me hitting him weren't too likely, and even when I had, my odds weren't much better, since he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

Even so, I took note of the small cut on my cheek. He'd hit me when we had broken the sword lock, and I hadn't noticed. What luck, maybe I'd finally get a true chance to test my swords skills, and perhaps adapt some other ones from other swordsmen I'd seen in the past. Who knew?

I brushed my fingers against the pierce wound in my shoulder. It was close to a scar I held from the last time I fought in this arena. Not directly on it, of course, but close enough that it became a startling coincidence. My mouth drooped into a frown, and I found my eyes drawn to my opponent. I felt myself staring.

He moved. The first time it happened, I dismissed it with a grain of caution. This time, it was too fast for me even to follow, but I heard him. My sword flashed back, I spun on my heel, our swords locked guard-to-guard, and I stared at him like he was a feast after a ten year stroll through the desert. His cheek was bleeding from where my blade and scraped through his guard, and my eyes adjusted to look at it: not deep, compared to cuts I could have put other places, but it had hit the bone in his cheek. I could have taken him then, probably. He hadn't even noticed it.

My eyes sought his. Green as a forest, they were having fun, dancing with rising heat. I had to admire is poise. He was as admirable a foe as I had ever faced, probably more powerful than any of the rest I've even met. This one was naturally strong, highly skilled, and he was trained. He had been trained quite a bit, in fact. I could feel it in the way he held his sword against mine, could see it in the way he moved and held himself. This was no ordinary person, no weakling or coward, no mere bandit.

I pushed hard, sent him back. We had both been leaning, but my weight and strength against his own was enough to force his back to straighten. I pushed harder, forced him back a step. Now we were beyond the point of no return. He couldn't just skip away, though it would have been wiser if he had done it from the start. Now he was, essentially cornered in the open, with my weight pushing him back. Even if he tried to leap back, he would just get pushed down.

Then he tried to twist away, realizing his position was indefensible. I flung my weight into a slash, taking no notice of the fact that our swords were still locked together. The move made him stumble, broke his speed for one moment, and then I had my attack ready. I thrust quickly, hit him, drew blood.

He was gone.

As quickly as I had attacked, he had still recovered swiftly enough to get out of my way before the edge of my sword cleaved through his hamstring. Some would say it was a cheap shot, a terrible way of fighting, but it was perfectly fair: if the foe is too fast for you, you render his speed useless. If he is too strong, you make use of your leverage to nullify his strength. If he is too clever, you foil him with simple tricks and startle him with base ferocity. If he is all these things and more, you assault him with such determination that all else becomes an afterthought.

I doubted Zorolo was that last one. He was good, that was definite, but I had faced down dragons and managed to kill a few full demons with nothing but my own skills. If Zorlo could match the ancient wisdom and blunt rage of a dragon, he deserved to beat me. If he could set loose the fiery hatred of a demon, and attack with the same suicidal onslaught as one of those evil creatures, he deserved to send me down. Did I believe he could?

NOT FOR ONE MOMENT.

I finally felt myself stop a few feet away from my foe. That had been close. Very close, actually. However, close wasn't the same thing as actually being hit. Close meant I had made a mistake, which, in this case, could make or break me. Still, it felt good to know that I had, although narrowly, escaped that attack.

Finding myself in situations like that one was one of those things where it became obvious that I might need to focus a little bit more if I wanted to avoid taking too much more damage. Luckily, my speed had compensated well for my lack of focus to allow myself to fall into such a situation. Still, I couldn't always rely that things would turn out the same as they did this time. I would have to make absolutely certain that I was prepared for the next attack, no matter what it was, from my foe. Now then, it came time to prove just how hard my training was and how well it would prove to have helped me for this kind of battle.

I glanced quickly at the blade of my sword and took note of the fact there wasn't a scratch on it. Luckily, my sword was made of a legendary material, otherwise, with the way I handle it, the blade would have certainly met its maker by now. With the intense amount of training and the ferocity of the combat I endured, my sword had to be as strong as I was, otherwise it risked being completely destroyed. My eyes returned to my foe, and I held my sword, tip forward, in front of me.

I knew I would probably wind up having to become serious before this battle came to an end, but for now, I could enjoy having a little fun at least. Again, though, I felt the need to turn up the battle a little bit more. It seemed my foe doubted my whole strength a bit, so maybe a sample of what I could truly do was at hand. After all, when it came to raw strength, it may not have been my strongest attribute, but it still had become quite superior to what it had once been, not so long ago.

I rolled the handle of my sword in my hand and allowed the tip to spin in a light circle as I took to my offensive. I burst forwards with great speed, my body leaving a slight image of myself as I appeared before Kichaa and swung my sword forwards. He moved quickly and raised his sword to the defensive, causing our weapons to clash, and sparks to erupt from their blades. I pushed with a great amount of might and managed to move my blade past his, forcing the swordsman's blade to the left and the tip of the sword towards the ground.

Never one to miss a beat, the warrior quickly recovered and swung his sword horizontally, forcing me to recover myself and swing my sword fiercely in a vertical strike. This strike hit with a combined force strong enough to send a powerful wind to erupt from our weapons and scatter the sand beneath us. The pulse was a good enough signal for both of us to pull back. I smiled, and looked from my foe to my sword and back.

This was so much fun, I couldn't find any other way to describe it. At that moment, I found myself searching for the truest warrior spirit I had. That was the only way I could win. To find the true warrior in me. I had to find it. With that, along with my own growing strength, I would finally be able to surpass my current limits. I had to grow stronger. Soon, I'd have to face my greatest challenge.

Could I surpass this swordsman? Possibly. Was it a necessity to win? Naturally. If this swordsman wanted to prove how strong he was, he'd need to earn a victory from me. As I had learned earlier in life: there is no easy victory!

I smirked at him. I smirked. There was really no other way to go about getting my point across. He had pulled a trick, a good one, a cute one. Holding his skills in reserve was smart, but it had always irritating to me. In a real fight, he would have died three times before I even cut loose most of my own reserve, yet he stood smiling like a school kid, acting almost as if he were winning. It was obvious that he didn't think exactly that, but it was clear as day that he definitely wasn't conscious that he might, in fact, be losing. Or that he might, in fact, be a dead man if he were fighting me on the wrong day.

"Fine," I snapped, my control wire shaving itself down to a hair, "Let us see what you can really keep up with."

I took a step forward, watched his sword flick back up into position. If it was the way I said it, what I said, or just that he was learning—or thought he was learning—didn't matter. I noted the movement in the same way a cat notices a mouse flicking its tail sideways. It was inconsequential. I took another step. I was within reach of his blade, but he didn't attack. Why, I didn't know.

My sword hung at my side, almost casually, and I tipped my head back slowly. My chin tilted back slightly, about level with his nose now, and my eyes narrowed as I looked down at him. If I had expected him to wilt under the gaze, I might have been slightly disappointed, but it never happened and I never expected it.

The pounce might have taken him off-guard, because he stepped back almost by instinct and his sword moved up at what might have seemed an appropriate speed to intercept mine. The time it took to find out would have been wasted, though, so I only acknowledged his sword and relished the thought that I wasn't even swinging at him yet. My sword raised under his guard like the head of a snake, lashed left, cut through the first layer of his green armor, ground against the mail armor under it, then broke a few links from sheer crushing power as it exited out to his side.

The attack was followed up instantly by an almost identical slash to the left, quick and powerful, which immediately ripped through the damaged mail of his jerkin—the part right along the side of his abdomen—and opened a gash on his side as it tore across his stomach. My feet had planted themselves by now, and I made good use of my balance and my strength to do havoc to both his attacking and defending power: I grabbed his sword. Not by the blade, or by the guard, but right on his hands. Hy larger, stronger hands wrapped over his, squeezed tight, and crushed his grip under my own as my left hand took full possession of my sword.

In a sweep, I smashed the sword back into his abdomen, this time slashing up and across his torso in a roughly right-to-left direction. He might have lost his breath from this, but I didn't pay any attention. His left hand tried to hit me, but I just contorted by body and let it pass over my left shoulder, then heaved my sword back down against his arm, passing under the shoulder and sliding diagonally down to the right. My position was such that I could execute a perfect, tripping attack, so I took advantage of that by pivoting to my right and sweeping my left foot out and behind his legs, forcing them out from underneath them because he could not use both arms to keep balance. He sprawled in the dirt, and I buried my sword just an inch from the joint of the shoulder on his sword arm.

"That makes it three times I could have killed you."

My eyes bored into his.

"Don't play with me ... Zorlo."

And his name came out sounding distinctly like I was calling him a spoiled, self-righteous, arrogant brat. I might have been. I can't remember. After all, it only took about half a minute for all of that to happen. That kind of quickness is hard to remember.

"I'll give you that. However, I haven't even considered exactly how many times I could have killed you by this time." I shook my blade hand out and looked around. My sword was a few feet from him. I must have dropped it sometime when he took the offensive. Well, it was of no concern, I'd get it back yet. I closed my hand tightly, feeling my fingers coming back to life. My sword hand would be fine in a few seconds. Now then, it is time I show this this guy exactly how serious I could be.

I tightened my left hand into a fist and smiled at the warrior, showing him my hand wouldn't be so easily stopped. After all, I'd trained my body to be very force resistant, even if my resistance to blades was natural. My armor had cuts and grinds in it from Kichaa's last offensive, so perhaps it was time that I returned the favor. He seemed to have similar armor to mine, and I've finally learned the secret to cutting titanium. It took extremely large amounts of time to master this skill, and I could only use for a short period of time without my aura, so I'd have to be very careful.

I tapped my right hand against my pocket where my right gauntlet lay, listening to the time that passed. Kichaa didn't move at all, so I figured I'd give him a taste of just how serious I had become in the past few moments. I felt my strength flowing, and I smiled, even though my mindset had changed. "I do believe it's time I show you the difference between how I was fighting, and how serious I can be," I stated, my voice echoing through the battlefield, coming from behind the swordsman.

I flipped the handle of my sword upwards and kicked the handle of my sword into the air, grasping the handle and spinning the blade around my hand. I stopped the sword, pointing the tip at the warrior. I'd made it a point to move just fast enough to leave no trail, even if I couldn't do it too many times in a row. I didn't need to. Once was more then enough. Even if this guy could follow me. Even if his swordsmanship was greater and more skilled then mine. Even if he had so far stopped all of my offensive, I knew what I had to do: I'd use what I knew best.

I charged at the swordsman, and he made his move, slashing his sword downward, but only to hit thin air. The crunch of his hauberk against the tip of my sword as it passed through the chain mesh and pierced into his side echoed out. I pushed the sword slightly into his abdomen, only getting the blade about an inch into his stomach before jumping back. I wouldn't give him the time to grab my sword and take the offensive again. Kichaa had been given his chance, and now it was mine.

I appeared only a few feet back, charging again towards the warrior, and thrusting my sword forwards towards him as I made my way towards him. The swordsman moved quickly, swinging his sword horizontally, but quickly I leapt into the air, swinging my swords down towards the warrior standing below me. My blade cleaved air like nothing and moved in for the attack. Kichaa, had he not been so skilled, would have likely died here, but managed to move his sword to block my attack.

The blades sparked as I still stood a few feet in the air, knees bent in to slow my descent, but only enough to give me a single edge. Quickly, I used his sword and my sword's clashing point to swing my legs under his blade and drive my feet into his chest. The force hurt a little bit, since my legs struck sturdy, metal armor, but the blow to his chest sent Kichaa skidding back. I don't think he completely expected that move from me, but he'd learn that I could be savage when I needed to. It wasn't normal for me, but it seemed required here.

My foot crashed into the ground as it landed and I exploded forwards, about to make another slash towards Kichaa. He'd obviously knew what I'm about to do, so he had a plan to counter it; there was, however, one thing I don't think he planned on: I had a backup plan, since I knew my first would fail.

My sword was held back just enough to make my strike seem ambiguous, so when I got close enough I could evade his strike, and counter attack. My blade slashed horizontally, but he didn't move, and when I started my actual attack, he was ready, using the flat side of his sword to stop my attack to his side. There was one thing he hadn't planned on: I knew he knew my plan. I moved again, and the sharp cry of his armor against my sword rang out as I cut a nice slash into his back.

I moved away from Kichaa as soon as my attack was finished. I had left a fine cut along most of Kichaa's back. I made sure to make it relatively shallow, simply to prove I could do it. A nice warning for the rest of the battle. "In the past three attacks, I could have ended this battle. What say you now?" I asked him, smiling a bit, but more reserved now.

The pain was tolerable. That was what I concluded, flexing the muscles in my back and thinking about the way he was acting. I thought him ... what did I think him? He seemed naive. He seemed as if he was too young, too inexperienced, or too something. Something about him, the way his eyes, clever though they were, seemed to have no guile or lie to them. He was as easy to read as the page in a book, even on that last surprise attack. It had been a surprise because he caught me, not because it was anything brilliant, but I knew that it was just as much a failure either way.

Though my finger touched the pierce wound in my abdomen, pressed against it, my eyes scanned our position. It had been taken into account at the beginning, but now I found it more important to see where we were, where he was, how we had moved. I found myself formulating a plan, squashed it as childish. Planning and forethought was for chess, for battles, for wars, not for fights or scuffles or spars. If it came to the point when I needed a plan, it would be for escape, not for combat.

"I say," I began, my head turning to examine the arena before coming back to settle on him, "to hell with that."

I approached quickly. There is a speed you can walk at which is aggressive, but not threatening, and slow enough to be seen and reacted to, but too fast to be processed quickly. That was the speed at which I walked, a speed at which he gave no reaction but a slight wariness creeping into his clear green eyes. At two feet, I stopped. My sword was down at my side, its point near the ground at the end of my foot. As I looked down at him from a height difference of half a foot, I realized that this person was just like a child. A bright, talented child who was, in all ways, qualified and capable enough to teach other children—that was what was so different about him, why he was so undefinable. He was an instructor of some kind. All the teachers I had met seemed the same way. Better, but not better.

A child who could teach, but who was just as much a child as ever, and just as much in need of teaching as he had ever been. He was not lost, but he was also not entirely certain of where he was. That was not to mean that he was childlike: he was mature, much more than some of the greatest I had ever met. Still, it was definite that he seemed like a child.

My foot scuffed against the dirt.

"In the fraction of a second it took you to get your sword out," I told him, my eyes looking into his with the unabashed honesty and bluntness of a wolf looking into the eyes of a lamb, "I could have had your head rolling in the sand."

I let that sink in for just a moment. He had seen how fast I attacked. He could not deny it.

"The only reason to fight, spar, or train is to avoid situations that involve your own death," I said, my tone and expression never changing, "So you better be keeping score. For them, for you, for the accidents—for everything. As for ending it with these two..."

I flexed my arms forward and backwards, letting it sink in that the one on my back was little more than a scratch. It burned like nothing else, but that made no difference. Pain could be conquered, fear be ignored. The wound was just a small hindrance.

"They were too shallow. Neither would have hit a vital organ. Even if it had been different, I could have had you at the first," here I paused, titled my head up and asked, "Quit acting like a child, Zorlo."

Here I pointed at his sword, "The moment you pick that up, you have to be an adult. You have to be a man. You have to be ready and able."

The attention he was giving me couldn't be allowed to wane. If anything, he was a friend. If anything, I was responsible for telling him things he had missed. If anything, I needed him to know that I was right—even if it was just a moment of him agreeing. For that reason, I had to send him a message he could never forget. My eyes closed briefly, my heartbeat calmed, my breathing stilled, and I opened them again, sharper and more aware.

My sword pierced his armor from the right, the left, at the right shoulder, at the left shoulder and straight down towards his leg. My arm flourished, pushed across his chest, set his armor squealing, dug in and pulled him with it. When he was off-balance, when he was stumbling, I spoke again.

"You have to be ready to kill, to incapacitate, and to ignore whatever line is between them."

He flicked his sword out, but my sword crushed against the guard, sent it aside and forced the arm with it. I struck him on the shoulder, again and crushed down, not cutting but crushing. When he moved again, I withdrew, took his sword below my rib cage, and followed it out by bashing the pommel of mine against the joint in his arm. It cracked audibly, but he never made a sound. My sword quivered in the air, and across his throat a very thin, very vivid red line scrawled. A single red tear fell down under his jacket.

"Morality is reserved for people willing to be bested, and compassion for people willing to die so their enemy can live."

The palm of my left hand pressed against the flat of his blade as it moved towards me, my fingers closed around it, and I pulled it bodily to the side. The flat of my titanium blade came down on his hand, either breaking or splintering a bone in his wrist, and he jerked it away too slowly—my hand latched onto the damaged area, twisted it, and shoved him so that his side was facing me. The flat of my blade smacked against the back of his neck, I let go. My final shove had him stumbling back, and I followed.

He was moving slower now, dazed or confused or simply shocked. Definitely not bested, because the light in his eyes never changed, but he was surprised. For me it was a dull thought in the back of my head that told me: I had never fought this well before. Even in my greatest moments, when it was my life on the line, I had never done so well as now. It was more important now. I never thought to wonder why.

"Never ignore a weakness when you find one. Never hold back a killing blow."

Now his back was to the wall. Now my sword point hovered at the base of his throat. Now my eyes and his eyes may as well have been one.

"And always remember that if you are wrong, that is the worst weakness you will ever have: overconfidence."

My blade dropped and I looked at him, waiting.

I smiled again. For a moment, I had let my focus slim slightly, within his words of how a true warrior should behave. He was strong, and a lot of his attacks had easily caught me off guard, and had even damaged one of my wrists. I couldn't wield my sword in my left hand, so what? It made the fight more fun, I thought. I've never fought with my right hand before, so it'd be a bit more tricky, but it'd be more interesting in the realistic view of it.

I clenched my right hand and looked at my sword. On Kichaa's right side. Now, all I had to do was move him away from it. Personally, I've never been a person to enjoy having to inflict serious damage to people, despite what Roery would say after I beat Kellson to within an inch of his life, but that was entirely a separate situation. That time, I was serving the purpose of justice. Kellson had to be brought to justice for his crimes against the living, and I wasn't about to let him walk away from that battlefield completely intact. However, looking back on it now, the lesson I attempted to teach him didn't really resolve itself because he died soon after and became Johnny Bones. Still, it had been worth the effort, and Johnny was a good deal of fun to fight again, even if he did have a very unrealistic view of his own strength.

Let me see, Johnny Bones, beating the life out of Kellson, serious damage. Oh yes! Now I recall. Yes, I don't much enjoy unarmed melee combat, because it produces a great chance to cause unnecessary damage, but it is effective for quick bursts of disorienting attacks. I realized at this moment, that would be my best bet to push this swordsman back. I would need to strike hard and fast.

I didn't, and still don't, believe it is necessary to go into battle, or training, or sparring with the intent of learning from ones mistakes and being ready to kill at any time. I have always, and still do, believe that combat can exist for simple fun, and to test ones skills. However, I wasn't about to try to reconcile my views with Kichaa, since he had as firm a stance as I did. Actually, I think that was why I enjoyed this battle so much. His ardent fervor kept me on my toes, and his fighting skills were hard to match.

After all, he fought very well, and I knew my swordsmanship was unlike his. His was refined and focused. Mine was simply refined. Also, he held a strong and lasting hope to his weapon and skill, whereas I, used to using other methods and skills during battle, now found that my swordsmanship needed a great deal of focusing and refining. Well, I could do that now, since the opportunity seemed to be knocking.

Now then, to my offensive. I pushed myself upwards, driving a powerful kick forwards, meeting the flat of the swordsman's blade, and quickly spun on my heel, driving my shin into the side of his head and throwing him to the side. My hands touched the ground and I spun around quickly, tossing myself into the air and turning myself over. My left hand stung a bit, but I pushed the pain aside and rolled to my right, grabbing my sword as I rolled and sliding to a stop.

I stood erect again and tapped the blade of my sword against the ground, hearing the beat of a song I had recently heard. "Are you ready to continue now?" I asked him, smiling and looking up at him.