Chapter 122. Not Even Worth the Effort of a Proper Duel
They broke apart briefly, the distance between them charged with the static of impending violence. Circling each other across the cracked, uneven ground, the only sounds were the ragged scrape of boots on stone and the wet, labored breathing of two dying engines.
William used the momentary reprieve to recalibrate. His vision was tunneling, the edges blurring with crimson, but his mind remained a cold, analytical blade.
He catalogued the tells: the masked man shifted his weight toward his left leg, favoring his right side, an old injury, deep-seated and stubborn. His blade work was beautiful, but it was rigid.
It was the technique of a scholar who had mastered the art of killing through repetition, not through survival.
’He fights by the book,’ William thought, blood pooling in his mouth. ’But I wrote my own Chapters in hell.’
Without warning, William exploded forward. He didn’t dodge the masked man’s preemptive lunge; he chose to collide.
He shifted into Stone’s grounded stability, dropping his center of gravity until he felt like part of the earth itself.
CLANG!
The masked man’s sword struck William’s raised blade with enough force to shatter granite. The shockwave traveled through William’s bones, making his teeth ache, but he didn’t budge an inch.
The masked man’s eyes widened behind the porcelain; he had expected resistance, but not an immovable object. Using that split second of shock, William pivoted, driving a series of lightning-fast, controlled thrusts into the man’s exposed ribs.
THUD. THUD. SHINK.
"You change philosophies mid-engagement," the masked man panted, stumbling backward as blood began to seep through his armor. "It’s impossible..."
"A fighter commits to a style! That’s how the mind organizes itself under pressure."
William spat a glob of blood onto the dirt, a vicious grin splitting his bruised face. "Maybe your mind does..."
"Mine’s had plenty of practice organizing itself around whatever works instead of whatever’s comfortable."
The fight devolved into a sustained, grinding massacre. The rhythm was no longer a dance; it was a demolition.
William became a shapeshifter of violence, cycling through configurations to erode the man’s composure. When the masked man unleashed a desperate, crushing overhead strike, William didn’t retreat; he triggered the mechanism.
CLACK SHINK.
Aetherion merged into its Greatsword configuration. William met the blow head-on, using Stone to absorb the full, bone-jarring impact.
The ground beneath his boots spiderwebbed with cracks.
BOOM.
Before the masked man could even register the change in mass, William triggered the split again.
CLICK CLACK SHINK.
Back to Double Wield. The sudden loss of resistance sent the masked man off balance. William closed the distance instantly, using the momentum of the Greatsword’s stop to launch a flurry of staccato strikes.
Slash. Thrust. Parry. Rip.
"You fight like someone who’s died more than once," the masked man grunted, his voice cracking with genuine fear. "There’s a quality to it."
"A willingness to spend everything, because you’ve already learned that holding back doesn’t protect you from anything that matters."
"Then you’ve been paying attention," William growled, his inner voice screaming as his broken ribs ground together with every movement.
’One more push... Break him before I break.’
"I know a great deal about many things, Instructor Wade," the masked man said, his mocking tone replaced by a desperate seriousness. "It is the curse of patience."
The masked man’s blade came in a genuine killing stroke, fast as a viper’s tongue. William met it with Double Wield’s crossed guard.
KCHINK!
The impact was deafening. Sparks showered between them like burning embers.
William’s muscles screamed as he held the lock, feeling the raw strength of the man trying to overpower him. But William wasn’t trying to overpower; he was waiting to exploit.
While one blade held the enemy’s sword trapped in a grinding bind, SKREEEEEEE, William’s other blade became a separate entity. With a vicious twist of his wrist, he diverted the second blade in a low, vicious arc aimed at the masked man’s kneecap.
CRUNCH.
"AGHHH!" The scream that tore from behind the mask was primal.
The blade bit deep into the joint, severing tendons and grinding against the patella. Blood sprayed across William’s boots in a hot, dark fountain.
William didn’t wait for him to fall. He twisted Aetherion out of the bind and stepped into the man’s guard.
"Your patience just ran out," William whispered, his voice a guttural rasp. "And mine never existed."
He swung the single blade in a brutal upward slash, catching the masked man under the ribs.
SHHHHLLLLUCK.
The blade tore through flesh and muscle, leaving a gaping wound that wept crimson down the man’s torso.
The masked man collapsed to one knee, a broken marionette with severed strings. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and steaming in the cold air.
But the pain didn’t break his spirit; it ignited something far more dangerous.
Something primal. Something that bypassed all his calculations and left only the raw, unthinking fury of a wounded predator.
"You... arrogant... piece of shit!" the masked man roared, the sound distorted and wet behind his porcelain visor. "I will carve that smirk off your face and feed it to you!"
He didn’t rise with grace; he rose with violence. Abandoning all pretense of formal technique, the masked man launched himself forward in a desperate, frenzied assault.
His blade became a blur of silver rage, each swing aimed not at a tactical opening, but at William’s throat, his eyes, and his heart.
WHISH! WHISH! WHISH!
William didn’t panic. His mind had already shifted into a state of cold clarity, the ’eye of the storm.’
As the first killing blow came, a wild, horizontal slash aimed at William’s neck, where William simply tilted his head. The blade whistled past his ear, close enough to cut a stray hair.
FWOOSH.
"Too wide," William taunted, his voice eerily calm. "You’re swinging like a child throwing a tantrum."
The masked man screamed in rage and unleashed a cascade of strikes.
Slash. Thrust. Cleave. Rip.
Each one carried enough force to split an oak tree. But William was no longer a stationary target; he was water, impossible to grasp, impossible to break.
He shifted into a wind stance, his body swaying and undulating in perfect synchronization with the incoming steel. When a vicious thrust came toward his solar plexus, William didn’t block it; he pirouetted, letting the blade pass through the space where his body had been a millisecond before.
SHIIIIING.
"Missed again," William whispered as he spun behind the man’s shoulder. "Is this what your ’variables’ predicted?"
"A madman swinging at ghosts?"
"SHUT UP!" the masked man bellowed. He spun around, delivering a backhand slash that caught William across the cheek.
SLAP SHINK.
Blood sprayed, but William used the momentum of the hit to roll backward, immediately springing up into Tide configuration.
As the masked man charged again, steam-engrained, William met him with a series of circular parries. Each time the enemy’s sword struck William’s blades, William redirected the force, sending the masked man’s own momentum spiraling uselessly into the air.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
It was a humiliating display. The masked man was pouring every ounce of his life force into these attacks, his muscles quivering with exhaustion and fury, while William moved with the terrifying economy of a butcher.
"Look at you," William said, stepping lightly between a series of desperate stabs. "All that training, all those years of studying the ’perfect’ way to fight, and here you are just a rabid dog barking at the moon."
The masked man’s rage reached a breaking point. He abandoned his sword entirely for a moment, lunging forward to tackle William, intending to crush him under his weight.
But William was ready. He dropped into a stone stance, planting his feet like iron pilings.
THUD.
The masked man slammed into William’s shoulder with the force of a runaway carriage. But William didn’t buckle.
He absorbed the impact, the ground cracking beneath his boots, and as the man’s momentum carried him past, William grabbed the back of the man’s neck with one hand while his free hand gripped the hilt of Aetherion.
"Let me show you what real technique looks like," William growled into the man’s ear.
With a vicious twist of his hips, William drove his elbow backward into the masked man’s face.
CRACK SPLAT.
The porcelain mask shattered. Shards flew through the air like deadly confetti as the man’s nose and cheekbone collapsed under the impact.
The masked man stumbled away, blood streaming freely from beneath the broken mask, his vision swimming in red.
"You’re not even worth the effort of a proper duel anymore," William said, his breathing still controlled, his eyes fixed on the wounded animal before him. "This isn’t a fight..."
"It’s more like this is an execution to me."