The Sword (2)

When you are about to sleep after spending your day, what do you think?

Do you think that you have spent your day getting better at what you are doing?

Or would you think that you are a failure and you should have tried better?

Everyone would have a different thought, wouldn't they? Isn't this the beauty of being a human? We are all different.

But at the same time, are we that different?

Some of us are failures, but have we not tried our best?

From the sword's small surface, I saw the reflection of myself.

I was smiling.

The sight of my own determined, defiant grin sparked something deep within me. The reflection seemed to mock my weakness but also challenged me to rise above it.

'Is this my limit? Is this where I fall?'

The estoc gleamed with an almost otherworldly light, drawing me in. I could feel its presence, its call. It was as if the weapon was waiting for me, urging me to take hold and fight back.

The weapon that I had held. In the modern world, the weapon was only used for the sake of competing.

I was a fencer, the world champion. I remembered the thrill of the competition, the rush of adrenaline as I faced my opponents, each match a test of skill, strategy, and endurance.

In those moments, my master's words echoed in my mind. "Bruce, remember this: the true essence of fencing is not just about winning or losing. It's about understanding yourself and your limits and pushing beyond them. It's about the dance between you and your opponent, the silent conversation held through each parry and thrust."

The estoc was not just a weapon; it was an extension of my will, a symbol of my determination to overcome any obstacle. In the modern world, it has been a tool for sport, for proving my skill and discipline. But here, in this brutal reality, it was a lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

I could still hear my master's voice, calm and steady. "Every time you take up the sword, you are not just fighting an opponent. You are fighting your own doubts, your own fears. You must learn to trust yourself, to trust the blade. It will guide you if you let it."

As I lay there, reflecting on his words, I felt a renewed sense.

'Is this my limit? Is this where I fall?' I asked myself once more, the question lingering in the air.

The answer was clear. No, this was not my limit. This was just another challenge, another opponent to face. And like all the others, I would confront it head-on; I would not escape.

I reached for the estoc, feeling its weight in my hand, its balance perfect and reassuring. It was more than just a weapon; it was a reminder of who I was, of the strength and resilience that had brought me this far.

As my fingers wrapped around the hilt, a strange sensation washed over me. The weight of the weapon, which should have felt unfamiliar as this was the first time I was holding it, did not. Instead, it felt like an extension of my own body, as if the blade and I were one.

The world around me seemed to fade, the sounds of battle growing distant. It was just me and the estoc.

My grip tightened, and a surge of energy coursed through me, merging with the blade. It was a sensation, unlike anything I had ever felt before, a connection that transcended the physical.

I rose to my feet, the pain and fatigue momentarily forgotten. The soldier who had bested me moments ago was advancing again, his eyes filled with confidence. But now, I felt a newfound resolve, a fire burning within me.

'That is right. I can see your sword.'

In my eyes, everything was clearly laid bare.

SWOOSH!

He swung his sword, but this time, I was ready.

CLANK!

I parried his strike with ease, the estoc moving with a fluidity that matched my thoughts.

STAB!

The soldier's eyes widened in surprise, and I seized the moment, countering with a swift thrust that caught him off guard. The estoc pierced through his defenses, finding its mark with precision.

"Argh!"

The soldier gasped, blood spilling from the wound, and he fell to the ground, defeated.

"The essence of combat." 

I muttered.

This was the real essence of combat. This was how it meant to be a swordsman. It was not about showing off as a competition. Being a swordsman meant something different.

"You either cut your enemy, or you get cut down."

That is what it is meant to be.

"If that is the case. I am going to cut anyone who shows in my path."

CLANK!

I parried another strike that had just come from my right side. I turned to face my new opponent and saw another soldier looking at me, holding a spear.

"Hahaha…..How ironic…."

I laughed, feeling the irony of the situation.

Just a minute before, I was the one holding the spear, and the enemy was holding a sword. But now, it was completely reversed. I was the one holding the sword, and the enemy was the one holding the spear.

SWOOSH! CLANK!

The soldier's eyes narrowed, sensing my confidence. He lunged at me with the spear, aiming for my chest. I sidestepped, the estoc moving effortlessly to deflect the attack. The spear's point missed me by a hair, and I countered with a quick, precise thrust.

CLANK!

The spear clashed with my estoc, the force of the impact reverberating through my arms. The soldier was skilled, his movements fast and deliberate. He attacked again, thrusting the spear with deadly accuracy. But I could see through his moves, anticipating his strikes.

SWOOSH!

The spear came at me again, but I twisted my body, dodging the attack and moving inside his guard. My estoc flashed, cutting through the air with lethal precision. The soldier tried to block, but he was too slow. My blade sliced across his arm, forcing him to drop the spear.

"Argh!" he cried, clutching his wounded arm.

I didn't hesitate. With a swift motion, I brought the estoc down, aiming for his heart. The blade pierced through his chest, and he collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

Breathing heavily, I looked around the battlefield. The sounds of clashing weapons and cries of pain filled the air, but I felt a strange calmness. The estoc in my hand was an extension of myself, a symbol of my determination and resolve.

"That is right," I muttered to myself. "No matter who stands in my way, I will cut them down."

********

The battle raged on for hours, each moment a test of endurance and willpower. As the sun began to set, the fighting finally subsided. The enemy retreated, leaving the battlefield littered with the fallen. The adrenaline coursing through my veins gradually faded, replaced by a deep exhaustion.

We gathered the wounded and regrouped, the weight of the day's violence heavy on our shoulders. Despite the fatigue, a sense of accomplishment filled me. I had proven myself today, not just to my comrades but to myself.

As the night descended, I made my way back to our training location. The camp was quiet, the soldiers resting and tending to their wounds. I felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation as I approached Master's tent.

Upon reaching the tent, I found Master sitting outside, meditating. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady and calm. The sight of him brought a sense of peace, a reminder of the path I had chosen.

Before I could speak, Master suddenly spoke, his voice breaking the silence. "It seems you have found something."

I stopped, surprised by his words. "How did you know, Master?"

He opened his eyes, looking at me with a piercing gaze. "It reeks from your body."

"Reeks?" I repeated, puzzled.

"It reeks," he said again, his tone sharper. "You brat. Just because you fought some weak soldiers, do you think killing others is fun?"

I flinched at his words, the harshness of his tone cutting through me. "No, Master. I don't think it's fun. But I felt a connection with the sword, a sense of purpose in the fight."

Master's gaze remained stern. "A sense of purpose, you say? And what is that purpose? To kill? To enjoy the thrill of battle?"

His words hit right through my heart. As because they were right.

'Enjoying the thrill of the battle...That is right….'

One part of me who was deprived of the battle was yearning for it.

Bruce.

When I was training to be a fencer on Earth, there was always something missing inside. When I became the world champion, when I became the strongest youngster in the world, I did not feel satisfied at all.

Rather, I felt empty.

And now I was slowly realizing the reason why. It was because whenever I battled in the competition, there was something that was always missing.

The thrill, the stakes, the real consequences of losing or winning—these were elements that competition could never fully replicate.

In a tournament, the worst that could happen was losing a match. But here, on the battlefield, the stakes were life and death. Each fight held real, tangible consequences.

As I stood there, reflecting on Master's words, I began to understand myself better. On Earth, the competitions, the medals, the titles—they were all hollow victories. The true essence of combat, the raw intensity and life-or-death stakes, had always been missing. That was why I felt empty even after reaching the pinnacle of my sport.

The battlefield filled that void. It provided the adrenaline, the challenge, and the high stakes that had always eluded me. But I also knew that this realization came with a dangerous temptation—the thrill of the fight could easily lead to losing oneself in the violence to becoming consumed by the desire for battle.

"Brat," Master said, opening his eyes. "You are training for the sake of beating someone, don't you?"

And then he stood up, his expression stern and unyielding. "With the way you are now, you won't be able to defeat him."

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