Flash Fiction: Sword Dancers
Cyborg Ninja: Grey Fox
Two Enter and One Shall Live
The two men slowly walk towards each other and stop on the middle of a lonely field. The sun has almost set on that grassy field and the two men have only each other to pay close attention to on that barren field devoid of life. The man in white garb unsheathes his highly polished sword from the scabbard on his hip and takes a defensive stance. He spreads his legs evenly and crouches so that he may counter any action taken toward him. He than grabs the hilt of the sword with both hands and steadies it to the center of his body. Facing him, the man in black garb moves his hand toward his back and grabs the sword handle that is just visible over his shoulder. He quickly unsheathes his sword, the sound of metal scraping the wood scabbard echoing in their battleground. With a quick step, he moves one foot in front of the other and points the edge of the weapon toward his enemy for a flash attack. They stand there as if they are waiting for some natural sign to start this life-and-death struggle. White hopes against hope that this fight will end in a draw as he stares towards Black’s way. The sun’s orange glow starts to fade like a match flickering in the wind: it is almost time to begin.
The sun finally sinks below the horizon as nature finally signals the fight to begin. Now all they have is the brightness of the moon to shine on them as they commit sin. Black makes the first move; he dashes towards White with lightning speed. Black’s sword glows as it rushes to find a fleshy home. He swings the weapon toward White, and with a crash of highly crafted metal, the fight is under way. White braces for the blow and takes Black’s sword attack with skill and grace to minimize the shock. White quickly pushes the enemy’s attack with force and sends his opponent backwards with that counter. As Black falls to the ground from the massive push he had gotten, both of them feel the surge of adrenaline coursing through their bodies. Black can hear the cry of a wolf. White tastes the salty sweat that has washed over his face; it has never tasted so bitter before in his life. The men’s senses have heightened with the heat of the battle. They both can hear the night symphony that surrounds them, the frogs singing, the crickets playing their violin legs, and the grass rustling in the wind. The night is a vivid and gorgeous night to behold, but for one of them a perfect night to die.
White decides to make his move, and he lunges at Black with his sword leading the way. Black quickly knocks the attack to the side and sidesteps his enemy’s movement to his more vulnerable side. As white is thrown in one direction, the other side goes to the direction where his sword arm is not present. With a quick swipe, Black cuts into White’s arm and leaves with him a deep gash and searing pain. Black quickly runs backwards as White stabs his sword into the ground and grabs his shredded arm with his now-free hand. Black’s eyes smile as White clenches his teeth in surging pain and kneels to the ground in knee-buckling agony. White studies his arm where he took that grave injury, crimson blood gushing from the wound and staining his white garb with red. He takes a piece of cloth from his pocket and makes a bandage for his hideous misfortune. White begins to feel the sorrow of what it is to take part in a battle once more. With his healthy arm, he lifts himself with the aid of his sword onto his shaky feet. White knows that his next blow will have to count if he wants to survive this battle. White gives a determined glare to Black, as if to signal this next clash will show who will be the victor in this struggle.
White calms himself and focuses at the task at hand. His vision sharpens as the blood surges in his body like a boiling pot. The pressure during the pain was unbearable, but now he has concentrated this force into the will to win at all cost. He takes the sword from the earth and, with his good sword arm, slings it over his shoulder to show that he will be using a dangerous stance. He stands up straight with ease as he finishes demonstrating that he will use the “berserker” stance. This stance, as he was taught, is only used as a last resort because it sacrifices defense for offense. Black isn’t fazed by this sudden turn of events, and he quickly gets into his response stance. He stands up straight and jabs the sword at his enemy. He points the edge and with the other hand, holds the blade in place. He is going to rush in, using the point of the sword to cut the wind for an extra burst of speed for the final cut. White closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them once more. As he does that, he speeds towards his enemy with god-like speed. In that same instant, Black jolts from his stance and runs full speed with his sword leading him to his destiny. Black brings the sword to his chin the last moment before they meet and readies to cut with speed. White runs with the sword still slung over his shoulders, and at the moment he comes face to face with the other man, he swings the sword downwards.
White slashes his sword with the force of a hammer, and Black strikes back with the speed of a gun. The swords crack together with the skill of their owners behind them and sparks fly as both of their might clash on that sullen night. The berserker sword smashes through Blacks sword, the shards of the sword sparkling in the moon light. White’s sword finds Black’s chest and makes a diagonal mark across his chest. The force of his hit makes White stumble over his own weight makes him tumble onto the ground after they cross paths. Black, after meeting White’s blade, slows his pace down to a jog, then to a walk, and then finally stopping completely. He runs his hand across the mark on his chest ad feels the gap running along his chest. He than tastes the iron taste of blood rushing up in his throat and the mark suddenly gushes torrents of blood. Black falls to his knees and, with a loud thud, collapses dead to the ground. White, with throbbing pain in his shattered arm, comes to his feet after the rolling tumble that he was issued after the final showdown. With a heavy heart at the sight of his fallen victim and his own mortality, he wipes away a tear and the blood off his blade. He turns around away from the grizzly sight and begins to limp away. He sheathes his sword on his hip and swears on his life that he will never use his sword to kill again.
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