The two fighters advanced. Zeva's hand never left the hilt of her sword, her thumb already pressing lightly against the guard for a smooth draw. Gurion, in contrast, rolled his shoulders loose, cracking his neck with a sharp pop.
"Looks like we're getting two honorable, slow starts back to back!" Quincy announced brightly as they crossed the dojo's polished floorboards. The wide sliding doors had already been thrown open, letting in the soft garden light as the pair took their positions in the center.
"You look determined," Zeva remarked, her gaze scanning him from head to toe.
"Against you, determination's the only thing I've got going for me," Gurion replied, raising his fists into a tight guard.
A very slight smile touched Zeva's lips. "I suppose that's true. Still, let's have a—"
She never finished. Gurion lunged forward, closing the gap in two swift strides. Her hand twitched to draw, but his heel slammed hard against the hilt of her sword. The impact shoved the blade back into its sheath with a jarring clack.
Zeva grunted and brought her arm up in time to block his follow-up punch toward her jaw. "Smart," she admitted through clenched teeth, pushing back to gain space.
She reset her stance and went to draw again—but Gurion was already there, his hand snapping down over hers before the blade could clear an inch. With a twist of his wrist, he forced her hand down and drove his knee into her midsection. The breath left her in a sharp grunt.
"You little—" she snarled, swinging an elbow toward his temple. But Gurion slipped back, releasing her hand before the strike could land.
She growled, stepping in for a fresh attempt at her blade, but his foot lashed out, connecting solidly with the crook of her elbow. Pain shot up her arm, forcing her grip to falter.
"Goddess damn it!" she spat, snapping her other arm up just in time to block his roundhouse kick.
She tried again—pivoting to the side, her body twisting for a fast, clean draw—but Gurion surged inside her guard, shoving her sword hand hard against her own hip before she could pull it free. His other fist whipped toward her ribs, forcing her to twist away and reset yet again.
The crowd roared with every interruption, their excitement mounting. Zeva's eyes narrowed, her frustration mounting by the second.
"Just let me draw my sword!" she barked, her voice nearly a growl.
"What is this strategy?" Quincy called out, her voice half-amused, half-incredulous. "Looks like The Martial Artist is not going to let The Blade ever draw her weapon!"
The crowd erupted in cheers at the unexpected tactic.
In the fighters' waiting room, Edluar leaned forward on his chair, eyes tracking every twitch of the fight. "Looks like he's following our advice well," he said with quiet satisfaction.
Ulrich chuckled, arms folded across his chest. "It's the only way he's got a chance. Once she draws that sword, it's over." His grin widened. "Still… damn, this is fun to watch."
Up in the stands, Wolf was not nearly as calm. "Oh, come on! Create some distance and draw your sword already!" he barked, gripping the hilt of his own weapon like he might throw it down to her.
Back in the arena, Zeva let out another sharp grunt of frustration as Gurion batted away her latest attempt to free her blade and countered with a snapping kick to her ribs.
"Fine!" she spat, pivoting on her heel. She broke into a run, boots pounding across the wooden floor.
Gurion didn't hesitate—he chased her instantly, every nerve fixed on her sword arm. He was already reaching to stop the draw again when every instinct in his body screamed Move!
He dropped low in an instant, something cutting the air above him with a sharp whish. Looking up, his eyes widened—Zeva was no longer empty-handed. In her grip was a polished bokken, its surface gleaming under the sun.
Only then did he realize—she hadn't been retreating to gain distance. She had been running for the nearest weapon rack along the arena wall, intent on grabbing anything remotely sword-shaped.
"I don't need my own sword for this," she said, twirling the wooden blade in one smooth flourish. "And even if I've never used an Aerunian blade before, I'm sure I can make it work."
Her smirk widened, and then she was on him.
The wooden blade swept up in a spiraling arc, feinting high before snapping into a vicious diagonal cut. Gurion barely raised his guard in time, the strike rattling his forearms. She pirouetted, turning the momentum into a low slash that whipped toward his legs—he leapt back, but her follow-up thrust nearly took him in the gut.
The crowd roared as Zeva danced through the famed Blossom family style, her every step light and her attacks blooming into one another without pause. Gurion's training kept him alive—barely. A block here, a desperate weave there, but more often than not her blade cracked against his side, shoulder, or thigh.
Her swordplay was a storm, and he was just a ship struggling to keep afloat. But he'd seen her style once before, and Edluar and Ulrich's drills were the only thing stopping him from sinking outright.
"Wow, wow, wow! As soon as The Blade got her hands on anything sword-shaped, the tide of battle has completely turned!" Quincy's voice rang out over the deafening cheers. The audience had risen to their feet at the sight of the Blossom family's artistry returned to the arena.
In the stands, Wolf slammed his palms together and whooped. "That's what I'm talking about!" he bellowed, standing to cheer as if she could hear him.
In the fighters' waiting room, Ulrich let out a low whistle. "Well… that was fun while it lasted."
Edluar didn't take his eyes off the fight. "He hasn't lost yet. Look at him."
Back in the arena, Gurion stood panting, sweat dripping from his chin. His arms were aching, his ribs throbbed, and blood ran from a split along his brow—but his eyes stayed locked on Zeva.
And in the back of his mind, the words of Avaro Crassus rang like a war drum:
"If you can win the Tournament of Greatness for me, and give me all the coin from it, I'll let you keep your village!"
He couldn't lose—not yet. Not ever.
For Woodsman Creek.
Gurion charged, teeth bared, ready to end this match in his victory.