I've always had this dream.
Zac swung his longsword, parrying the polearm's swing and halting any counterattacks.
Since I was young, I've dreamt of fighting this amazing woman. Her movements were swift and agile. Even with a polearm in her hands, it felt as light as a dagger.
The crowd murmured in anticipation as the final match of the day began. The arena a grand coliseum with towering stone walls and a floor of gleaming marble, echoed with the sound of swords clashing. Competitors warmed up on the sidelines.
Zac Wright, clad in his sleek black fencing attire, adjusted his grip on his rapier.
The reason I became interested in fencing was that woman. I wanted to get better, to keep up with her, to find stronger opponents, and to beat them.
Across from him stood Aric Vale, a seasoned fencer with a reputation for precise, lightning-fast strikes.
The bell rang.
The two competitors faced each other at opposite ends of the raised platform, their eyes locked. Zac's posture was calm and controlled, while Aric exuded quiet confidence. His muscles were coiled, ready to strike at the slightest opening.
Round 1
Zac took the initiative. With a quick, fluid step forward, he lunged, his rapier slicing through the air.
If she were here, she'd push her arm forward, catch the blade barehanded, and yank me off balance.
Aric parried with ease. The sharp clang of steel echoed. Zac retreated, resetting for the next exchange.
He isn't as fast as she is. His movements are swift, but the way he holds his rapier shows doubt—doubt in his skill. Why?
Aric countered with a sharp thrust aimed at Zac's chest. Zac anticipated it. Instinctively, he shifted his weight and sidestepped. The tip of Aric's rapier missed by mere inches. Zac flicked his wrist, sending his blade toward Aric's side. The strike was narrowly deflected.
The crowd gasped, sensing the intensity of the fight.
Round 2
The fencers stood further apart now, each studying the other. Zac's breathing was steady. Aric's expression tightened, the fight wearing on him.
Zac feinted high, pivoted low, and struck. Aric, caught off guard, tried to parry, but Zac's blade slipped past his guard, scoring a touch on his leg.
"Touché!" the judge called.
Aric's brow furrowed in frustration. He tightened his grip on his sword, steadying himself. Zac, unwavering, watched for signs of weakness.
His left arm is weak. Should I target it?
Round 3
Aric attacked, launching a rapid series of strikes aimed at Zac's head and shoulders. Zac parried the first, ducked under the second, and twisted to avoid the third. His agility and anticipation gave him the edge.
In a split second, Zac stepped aside, letting Aric's blade swipe through empty air. He delivered a precise thrust to Aric's ribcage.
"Touché!" the judge announced again.
Aric stumbled back, winded but not defeated. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Zac, calm and composed, knew the match was nearing its end.
By now, she would've pinned me to the ground and kicked my sword away.
Round 4
Aric grew desperate. His strikes became erratic, his movements aggressive. Zac stayed fluid, anticipating each attack.
Aric swung wildly for Zac's throat. Zac parried with ease, countering with a flawless riposte aimed at Aric's chest.
Time seemed to slow as Zac's blade made contact. Aric's sword slipped from his grip, and he dropped to one knee.
"Touché. The match is over," the judge announced, raising Zac's hand in victory.
The crowd erupted in applause. Zac stood tall, a faint smile on his face. Aric nodded respectfully, acknowledging Zac's superior skill.
Zac's eyes gleamed—not just with victory but with the satisfaction of a battle fought with precision and grace.
After securing his trophy, Zac didn't linger. He made his way to his car and drove back to the hotel. The journey was uneventful, but his thoughts were anything but tranquil.
Upon entering his room, his gaze fell on a wooden sword lying on the floor. Picking it up, he found his mind drifting to her. Almost instinctively, he adopted a stance—one he had developed himself. Or perhaps it already existed, though he remained unaware of its origins.
He extended the blade forward, his legs shifting into position. The stance resembled the parting of mountains. His knee bent slightly, allowing for a swift retaliation or an immediate strike without compromising his stability.
This stance was born from countless skirmishes with her. It was a technique forged solely to counter her unique style. Against any other adversary, it would be a liability.
He shut his eyes, summoning the image of her movements. Her weapon—a sleek black polearm adorned with a crimson ribbon—seemed like an extension of her body. She never hesitated, never allowed him time to strategize. She always seized the initiative.
In his mind, she lunged. Zac countered, his wooden blade intercepting the polearm's trajectory. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he withdrew his blade and thrust it forward. The motion created a burst of air, propelling the blade toward its target.
But she twisted her body with an almost unnatural grace, spinning around the polearm. Its blunt end came dangerously close to his face. The crimson ribbon lashed through the air, momentarily obscuring his vision. Zac retreated, narrowly evading her assault.
Her mastery of the polearm was unmatched. It moved with her as though it were a living extension of her being. Zac had once aspired to achieve a similar connection with his sword but had fallen short. Instead, he devised something different, something superior.
Through ballet training, he had honed his body to be more limber and agile. Though he couldn't rival her speed, he could evade her strikes and counter with pinpoint accuracy.
In his mind, the battle had escalated. She spun her polearm, unleashing a storm of thrusts. It was as though a downpour of polearms descended upon him. Zac deflected most of the strikes, biding his time for an opening.
She capitalized on the moment, surging forward with an upward slash. The angle of her attack was impeccable, it could both cut and disarm. Zac allowed her to approach, the afterimages of her strikes closing in. At the last second, he twisted his body, minimizing the impact and delivering a swift kick to push her aside.
Though the afterimages were illusions, they carried a force akin to the blast of a gunshot. Zac evaded the remnants of her assault, his breath ragged and uneven.
"Huff… Huff…"
The wooden sword slipped from his grasp. Sweat cascaded down his pale face, his muscles aflame with exhaustion. He staggered toward a nearby water bottle, taking a long sip of the cold liquid.
Later, as he lay in bed, Zac's thoughts lingered on her.
I anticipated her using that move—the one where she throws the polearm, catches it by the ribbon, and flips it back into her hands.
The mental skirmish had been intense, but not as vivid as when he was asleep. In his dreams, the confrontations felt tangible.
He glanced at the nightstand, cluttered with empty water bottles. A faint smile graced his lips as sleep overtook him.
In the dream, he stood in a barren wasteland. The ground beneath him was blackened, blending seamlessly with the oppressive darkness. Mountains loomed in the distance, their jagged peaks clawing at the horizon.
If it were night, he wouldn't even be sure he was alive.
Zac gripped the sword at his waist, unsheathing it with a practiced motion. He shifted into the stance he had perfected over countless battles.
Suddenly, she materialized. Her long, wavy black hair floated around her, concealing much of her visage. She planted her polearm into the ground and then broke into a run.
Her pace was measured at first but accelerated with each step. As she closed the distance, she leaped into the air. The crimson ribbon trailed behind her, snaking through the air like a serpent, wrapping around Zac with deceptive grace.
He had prepared for this attack—not because she used it frequently, but because the terrain made it inevitable.
Zac slashed at the polearm as it neared, deflecting it just enough to avoid a direct hit. He twisted his body, using the momentum to strike at an irregular angle. The unexpected maneuver caught her off guard.
A sly grin spread across his face.
"You're not the only one with tricks," he said, his voice echoing through the void.