I've dreamed about this since I was a child.
Zac deflected the polearm's swing with his longsword, defending against any subsequent counterattacks.
This amazing woman, I've dreamed of fighting her since I was a child. Her actions were swift and agile. Even wielding a polearm, it looked as light as a dagger in her hands.
The crowd murmured in anticipation as the final match of the day began. The arena—a massive coliseum with tall stone walls and a gleaming marble floor—echoed with the ring of swords. Fencers warmed up and stretched at the sidelines.
Zac Wright, in his sleek black fencing attire, gripped his rapier tightly.
The reason I took up fencing was that woman. I had to get better, to keep up with her, to find harder opponents, and beat them.
Across from him was Aric Vale, a seasoned fencer with a reputation for quick, precise strikes.
The bell rang.
The two combatants faced each other at opposite sides of the raised platform, their eyes locked on one another. Zac's position was relaxed but controlled, while Aric was a silent confidence personified. His muscles were tightened, ready to strike if given the least chance.
Round 1
Zac struck first. In a sudden, fluid step forward, he attacked, his rapier glinting through the air.
If she were here, she'd lunge out her arm, bare-handed, catch the blade, and drag me off balance.
Aric parried with ease. There was a loud ringing of steel. Zac back-stepped, setting himself up for the next exchange.
He is not as fast as she is. His movements are swift, yet the way he holds his rapier betrays uncertainty in his capability. Why?
Aric riposted with a vicious thrust towards Zac's chest. Zac was prepared. Instinctively, he shifted his weight and stepped to the side. The tip of Aric's rapier swept past within inches. Zac flicked his wrist, and his sword flashed towards Aric's side. The attack was deflected by a hair's breadth.
The audience collectively gasped, sensing the gravity of the fight.
Round 2
The fencers stood farther apart now, each measuring the other. Zac's breath came evenly. Aric's face tightened, the fight wearing on him.
Zac feinted high, went low, and struck. Aric, caught off guard, tried to parry, but Zac's sword slid under his guard, striking his leg with a touch.
"Touché!" the judge shouted.
Aric's brow furrowed in annoyance. He gripped his sword tightly, tensing. Zac, unwavering, stood ready for weakness to appear.
His left arm is weak. Do I target it?
Round 3
Aric attacked, unleashing a rapid series of strikes at Zac's head and shoulders. Zac parried the first, ducked under the second, and twirled to avoid the third. Quickness and anticipation gave him the edge.
In an instant, Zac stepped aside, and Aric's sword swiped the air. He made a precise thrust to Aric's torso.
"Touché!" the judge shouted again.
Aric stumbled backward, winded but not done. He regained his breath, recovered. Zac, unperturbed, knew the match was coming to an end.
By now, she would've had me on the ground and kicked my sword from my hand.
Round 4
Aric grew desperate. His attacks were wild, his movements stiff. Zac was still fluid, waiting for each attack.
Aric wildly swung at Zac's throat. Zac easily parried, riposting with a beautiful attack to Aric's chest.
Time slowed as Zac's sword struck home. Aric's sword dropped from his hand, and he dropped to one knee.
"Touché. The bout is over," the judge announced, raising Zac's hand in victory.
The crowd erupted into applause. Zac straightened, a faint smile on his face. Aric nodded his head in deference to Zac's higher skill.
Zac's eyes gleamed—not just with victory but with the joy of a game played with skill and grace.
Having accepted his trophy, Zac did not linger. He walked to his car and drove back to the hotel. The journey was uneventful, but his mind was anything but calm.
When he got into his room, his gaze landed on a wooden sword lying on the ground. He took it and his mind started to drift to her. He almost involuntarily took a stance—a stance he had invented himself. Or perhaps it was already there, but he did not know from where.
He extended the blade before him, his legs shifting into stance. The stance was akin to the cleaving of mountains. His knee was bent slightly, allowing for a swift counter or an immediate attack without compromising his balance.
The stance had been forged in hundreds of battles with her. It was a technique devised specifically to counter her personal style. With any other adversary, it would be a vulnerability.
He shut his eyes, remembering the image of her movements. Her sword—a thin black polearm with a red ribbon tied on it—seemed to be a part of her. She never hesitated, never gave him a chance to think. She always dictated the pace.
She lunged ahead in his mind. Zac defended, his wooden sword intercepting the trajectory of the polearm. He snapped his wrist hard, withdrawing his blade and jabbing it forward again. The motion created a rush of air to propel the blade ahead.
She twisted her body with an almost unnatural grace, moving around the polearm. Its blunt end just missed his face. The red ribbon cracked through the air, briefly blinding him. Zac stepped back, narrowly missing her strike.
Her proficiency with the polearm was unmatched. It danced with her as though it was a living part of herself. Zac had once aspired to achieve a similar oneness with his sword but had not succeeded. Instead, he had forged something different—something greater.
From ballet training, he had made his body more agile and faster. Though he was not as quick as she was, he could dodge her blows and return them with accuracy.
The battle had reached a crescendo in his mind. She spun her polearm, kicking up a storm of thrusts. It felt as if a shower of polearms fell on him. Zac deflected most of the blows, looking for an opening.
She capitalized on the opportunity, rushing in with an uppercut. The line of her attack was ideal—it could cut and disarm. Zac let her come, the afterimages of her strikes closing in. In the last instant, he rotated his body, minimizing the impact and dispatching a swift kick to push her aside.
Though they were afterimages, they had the same power as the blast of a gunshot. Zac avoided the remnants of her attack, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Huff… Huff…"
The wooden sword slipped from his grasp. Sweat dripped down his pale face, his muscles afire with exhaustion. He staggered to a nearby water bottle and drank a long gulp of the cold water.
Later in bed, Zac's thoughts still dwelled on her.
_I anticipated her making that move—the one where she tosses the polearm, catches it by the ribbon, and flips it back into her hands._
The inner struggle had been intense, but not as realistic as when he was asleep. When he dreamed, the struggles were real.
He glanced at the nightstand, covered in empty water bottles. He weakly smiled before sleep claimed him.
In the dream, he was standing in a barren wasteland. The ground beneath his feet was scorched, blending seamlessly with the oppressive darkness. There were mountains in the distance, their jagged peaks clawing at the horizon.
If it was night, he would not even be aware that he was alive.
Zac's hand closed over the hilt of the sword at his side, pulling it out in a smooth motion. He stepped into the stance that he had been trained into over countless battles.
She appeared suddenly. Her curly black hair swirled around her, obscuring most of her features. Her polearm was planted in the ground, then she rushed forward.
Her step was slow initially but gained momentum with each stride. As she narrowed the gap, she took to the air. The red ribbon trailed behind her, whipping through the air like a serpent, wrapping around Zac with deceptive grace.
He had expected this move—not because she used it frequently, but because the terrain made it inevitable.
Zac slashed at the polearm as it came toward him, parrying it just enough to avoid a direct hit. He rotated his body, using the momentum to strike from an unforeseen direction. The impromptu action caught her off guard.
A wicked smile spread across his face.
"You're not the only one with tricks," he said, his voice echoing through the void.