"Have we arrived?" The youngest of the duo glanced about, addressing his query to the shapeshifter with a direct gaze.
Such a stare was an explicit challenge to a clansman. Before I could even ponder the situation, Mateo's reaction was swift.
"Who gave you permission to speak?" He retorted sharply, striding forward to tower over the boy. "I endure your presence because our cousins sent you, not a member of their own clan. I endure it because I understand: our kin are in dire straits, unable to spare any manpower. I comprehend why such young ones, barely weaned, are sent – if you're captured, your youth will earn you a lighter sentence... I understand all that, but it doesn't mean you can talk! Silence yourself and stop bothering me."
The appropriate response for the brothers would be to remain quiet and avoid displaying any defiance. After all, dealing with a wrathful wererat in such a desolate, remote location is far from desirable. I find it hard to believe that these boys, raised in such a world, didn't comprehend these elementary precautions. Instead of heeding the warning, the older of the two gracefully sidestepped and his left hand disappeared beneath his jacket. A futile gesture. Regardless of whether he had a sawed-off shotgun or a blade, his odds were negligible considering their physical disparity and close proximity. Not only did he signal aggressive intent, but he also retorted.
"Your job is to safeguard what has been entrusted to you, not to sermonize, you baretail!"
It was a grave mistake. Mateo, in an instant, erupted into a flurry of rapid action. He didn't transform. At the third level of control, there's no need for such measures to handle a couple of youths. In a flash, he had them both by the throats, hoisting them from the ground.
"One more word and I'll snap your necks, you mongrels! Continue berating me, pups, and your demise will be slow and... painful."
I had the impression that Mateo wasn't going to stop at mere threats, but then the door creaked open once more. A couple of dockworkers stumbled into the hangar, obviously inebriated. They staggered across the trash-strewn floor to the moonshine still, guffawing loudly. At the distinctive sound of the door, Mateo quickly set the brothers back on the ground and released their throats, signalling them to keep quiet with a gesture. But naturally, the drunken dockworkers couldn't pass by the tractor without encountering the earlier arrivals.
"Oh! Mate! We were just..." Instantly, the ebullience drained from the drunken pair, replaced by a palpable fear. "We were heading... and uh... back... straight away... Swiftly, yes! We won't disturb... yes."
The infamous reputation of the Skyre clan was well-known among the dockworkers, so their sudden change in demeanor was comprehensible to me. Running into Mateo alone would have been one thing, but encountering him in the company of clients was entirely another. The Skyres' business was such – it didn't appreciate prying eyes. If the transaction was significant, these two men who preferred to drink on the job could very well meet a sudden end. The moment this realization crossed my mind, an insufferable itch emerged in my left palm. Almost tear-inducing! No! I must resist the urge to intervene! But the legacy of Izao ignored my internal plea. It was stubborn, just a fragment of a soul, thoughtless, unchangeable, perpetually frozen in its form. And the itch intensified. I could withstand it, but if the shapeshifter killed them, my connection to the shard would weaken. Consequently, my energy would take a significant, likely irreversible dip. Cursed be the young, extremist Izao who left me this inheritance! I impulsively jumped onto the moonshine wagon's roof, but managed to suppress the compulsion to step in just in time. Timely - because the shapeshifter had no intention of harming the dockworkers.
"Get moving, now!"
"Yes, we... right! Yes, swiftly!" One of the dockworkers promptly replied.
I shifted my gaze to the youths and a chill ran down my spine. The eyes of both boys were eerily calm. They'd narrowly escaped crippling injury, yet they were as tranquil as turtles – unnaturally so! And there was more...
The older brother was staring straight at me! As if he could see me! But how? Before I could decide on my next course of action, the one peering up at the wagon's top stepped back and announced.
"A raig is here!"
In the next moment, the younger brother vanished from the physical world, and a familiar whispering roar echoed in my ears:
"Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!.."
Then, the older of the duo transitioned into the Break!
"Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!.." The sound of the shift to the projection state, only audible to raigs, grinded against my ears like sandpaper.
"...Damn!" I had just enough time to exclaim in surprise and launch myself upwards with all my might.
Mateo's three-tailed tattoo wasn't just for show. He reacted swiftly to the loss of his clients, beginning his transformation but failing to complete it in time to evade... The massive hwando[1] in the older brother's hands sliced down smoothly, severing the lifeline of the shapeshifter. The younger one leapt at the dockworkers, bisecting them both at waist level with a single sweep of his blade.
A second passed...
And there were three corpses!
I have witnessed plenty in my life, including the killing of people, but now... The ease with which the boys committed a triple homicide rooted me to the spot. Due to this delay, I missed my chance to escape.
The older of the brothers, in his projection, was a Korean warrior clad in plate-like black armor, and a heavy closed helmet with a visor fashioned into a demonic face. He looked like an infernal demon, moving with rapid, reckless speed. His sword, a gray hwando as tall as him if you include the hilt, danced with the speed of lightning.
The younger brother's armor was strikingly similar, only golden in color, and the mask that concealed his face bore the visage of a Korean dragon. His sword was identical to his brother's, and he wielded it with equal assurance.
Break Knights!
And judging by the nearly completely rusted blades – Fallen Knights!
Such are the names given to the raigs who have abandoned the essence gifted to them in pursuit of their own interests.
The decision dawned on me as the older brother lunged in my direction. He leapt right from his spot under the roof! Second level? Damn, I can't do that yet, so I'm making a run for it!
But as soon as I leapt towards the nearest wall, the younger one, with a speed beyond my reach, using Sliding, blocked my path. Damn! He's second level too! I can't slide like they do yet – where no contact with the surface is necessary for propulsion. The speed difference between me and this duo was akin to that between a runner and a pair of skaters! Escape was impossible... There was a chance to pass through the wall, this would have given me a head start and time to lose myself, but that route was now blocked.
"Guys!" Without looking, I jumped backward, landing on the adjacent beam. I had the upper hand in that I knew this warehouse like the back of my hand. "I'm not with them!" My left hand burned like a red-hot iron, but losing some energy, even if permanently, was a preferable alternative to losing my life. So, I ignored the burning sensation.
"Do not listen to him!" The "demon" immediately retorted, addressing his brother. "We still have a job to finish!" I dodged his attack, increasing the distance between us.
Damn! This situation was dire! I couldn't see his face, but his tone, his readiness to kill anyone for their objective – I'd encountered people like him more than once in the Middle East. His words made it clear that there would be no negotiations.
Indeed, there wouldn't be.
So there was no point in talking.
The raig in black armor jumped onto the same beam as me and launched a powerful slash from above. This time, I didn't retreat but instead advanced. "Word" darted out of its scabbard like a blue arrow, meeting the hwando at a position eight-to-three[2]. It wasn't a direct clash but an angled contact, causing the blades to quickly glide past each other and leading my adversary to stumble in his charge. Meanwhile, my sword continued its attacking motion, guided by the rhythm of my step. With my left hand, I assisted it, nudging the guard of my enemy's hwando away from the path of my blade.
Hush-hush-hush...
The soft whisper of "Word" meeting the neck of the hostile raig fills the air. Their armor provides no protection against spiritual swords; it's as if my blade's blue steel treats it as nonexistent. A human would already be dead at this point, choking on blood spewing from a neck sliced to the vertebrae. But he is a projection, so instead of dying, he merely turns translucent. His wound immediately heals, and the armor regains its integrity with a slight grinding noise.
You can't kill a raig in the Break in such a way, which is why I chose this approach, an otherwise fatal lunge. I knew it wouldn't be lethal. My strike halved his energy reserves without causing a mortal wound. A de-energized raig is ejected from the Break back into the physical world. This transition doesn't kill raigs either. The vanquished one only loses all strength and falls into a coma-like state, or rather the deepest of slumbers, until his energy is restored. So, depleting their energy is my only plan for survival. To eject this pair from the Break and then flee. Yes, I've witnessed many deaths, violent ones included, but I've never killed, and I'm not about to start now!
One more hit like that, and the "demon" would be out. But instead of taking the shot while he was visibly shocked, I had to leap upwards and shift my position by pushing off the roof. Otherwise, the "dragon" would've chopped off my legs with his monstrous blade. Damn, he got here quickly!
In mid-air, I grab onto a familiar rope, change the direction of my jump, and confront the "dragon." Seeing my move, he charges at full speed to intercept me. "Word" effortlessly parries the massive hwando aside, but my counterattack misses. It's clear that this duo recently took up swords, but they've trained in some martial arts school, and a good one at that! The younger brother manages to dodge my blade at the last moment. This is bad! Worse still, the elder has already recovered and is trying to intercept me mid-flight, descending from above.
His eyes flash with triumph, having observed that my sword is not in a defensive position. His slash, considering the strength of his weapon, would leave me dazed and defenseless. Then, finishing me off in the physical world would be child's play for them.
But instead of my defeat and a triumphant roar, a scream filled with agony escapes his lips:
"Ahhh!!"
That's right, one sword couldn't defend in time, but I have two. His hwando at full speed collides with "Purity" in my left hand. Izao's wakizashi goes by this name, symbolizing the naive understanding of right and wrong, of good and evil, the unblemished idealism – that's what "Purity" represents. This blade urged me to protect the dockers and scorched my left palm. Because of it, although I'm inwardly a forty-year-old cynic who's seen a lot in life, I still find myself in situations better suited to a naive youngster. If my actions go against "Purity's" principles, my connection to Izao's soul shard weakens. This shift leads to a decrease in energy and could even reach a point where the shard, rather than assisting, repels my spirit – a process that could end quite tragically. Unlike "Word," which is theoretically capable of changing its properties over time, "Purity" is a snow-white blade, forever frozen in its form, since the consciousness that spawned it no longer exists. Immutable, eternal idealism.
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The "demon" screams, his agony stemming from the fact that "Purity's" blade strikes the rusted area of his sword, leaving a deep notch, almost a centimeter in depth. If we were fighting in the real world, I would never dare to block such a hefty weapon with a wakizashi, a small blade. However, the rules here are different. "Purity" is unchanging and indestructible as long as Izao's shard exists, allowing me to set it fearlessly against the enormous Korean two-handed sword.
The collision of our swords mid-air, combined with the momentum of the enemy's attack, throws me downwards. Now on the hangar floor, I size up my chances. The brothers are faster than me due to their Sliding skill, but their reaction speed doesn't surpass mine. They have the upper hand on the ground, but I have the advantage of knowing the environment better. I could navigate this junkyard blindfolded. So, moving the fight to the beams was a wise decision on my part, given the restricted space and the numerous wires and ropes dangling from the ceiling. Additionally, these young men are noticeably unskilled with their weapons. It seems they started learning how to use them quite recently, after acquiring the abilities of the Break Knights. That doesn't surprise me. Why would modern youths need proficiency with a blade? There's absolutely no need for it. Just like in my world, fencing here has transitioned from a practical skill to a hobby for enthusiasts, and very rare ones at that, with maybe one fencing club member for every hundred practicing boxers.
The brothers who attacked me probably practiced taekwondo rather than kendo. However, even kendo wouldn't have been of much help in this situation. For twenty years, I was trained by the silver medalist of the Olympic Games in épée, a team event but still an achievement! Granted, my wife taught me theatrical destreza, a subset of the Spanish fencing school focused more on entertainment than functionality. Still, even with its "theatrical" prefix, destreza, or sword dance, is one of Earth's finest blade-wielding schools. Any Eastern martial art, whether the highly-regarded kendo or the Chinese way of the sword, is no match for the Spanish school. When my wife inaugurated her "theatrical fencing" club under the Grand Theater's patronage, she invited Japanese and Chinese masters to the opening. I still vividly recall her defeating those strong, experienced men, all holding various black belts and high-level dans. Vicky fought twelve matches that day and won all of them, without the "masters" even once striking her with their weapons. It was a spectacular display. Of course, I'm not her. Even after years of training, reaching her level is as challenging as reaching the moon. But I'm not just any random guy. What began as a desire to impress the woman I love evolved into a genuine passion for the sword. Fifteen years of training were not in vain. In 2007, we clinched the bronze at the international festival of theatrical destreza in Barcelona, a quadrennial event. Bronze, among the three thousand pairs participating in the tournament! And even though I was more of a follower, I played a significant part in earning that medal.
Had this fight taken place on a flat surface in the hall against ordinary people, it would have been over swiftly. This duo wouldn't have even survived ten seconds! But their speed, coupled with the three-dimensional nature of the fight, means that I'm more focused on defending myself and considering my own survival than launching attacks. Moreover, the brothers evidently have more experience as raigs. The Break, along with all its related abilities, is familiar and natural to them.
Many argue that the longer the weapon, the greater the advantage in a duel. Theoretically, this is true, but only up to a specific limit. This limit varies for each individual, and the maximum blade length in all European schools equals the swordsman's arm length. Anything beyond this size becomes a hindrance, reducing the weapon's maneuverability. That's why my replica of the Colada El Cid isn't an exact duplicate of the ancient sword, but adapted to my hand — slightly thinner and a palm length longer than the original. The hwando, on the other hand, is a heavy sword. It's designed not for duels but for battlefield fights, proving effective in skirmishes or armored formations, yet it becomes highly inconvenient against a dueling sword.
As soon as I leap onto the ceiling beam again, the "dragon" thrusts his sword forward, attempting to use the length of his weapon to keep me at a distance until his brother attacks from behind. It's a smart tactic. It could have worked, but the beam is narrow, and I don't know how to make detours or step on air. The only move that would have been effective if I only had "Word" in my hands, fails against the double attack. "Purity" collides with the hwando blade, a slight wrist rotation, and like a black mamba, the blue steel of the sword strikes into the open gap, stabbing the enemy's hand. The fight would have been over if my opponent weren't a projection. However, a raig is not so easily dealt with. I manage another attack. This time "Word" deflects the Korean sword, and the wakizashi targets the right forearm. The "dragon's" energy drops by a quarter, and finally realizing that this fight is not a cakewalk, he bolts away from me in a swift leap. I can't pursue the nearly defeated one as I'm forced to parry the "demon's" attacks. The older brother's strikes are erratic but fast and full of rage. It takes me about five seconds to discern his rhythm and avoid leaving myself vulnerable to an unexpected yet lethal attack. The "demon" neglects defense, channeling all his strength into the attack. He is an easy target, but his barrage of blows carries the risk that his heavy sword, driven by inertia, could land a hit even if my thrust is successful. This is not a sport where the first hit wins, even if the time difference is only a fraction of a second. Such an exchange could potentially knock me out. Yes, the "demon" would also fall, but there are two of them, so I can't afford this trade-off.
I'm a mere second away from launching a decisive attack. I've managed to catch the rhythm of the older Korean, and I see gaps ripe for the attack. But time, once again, is against me. I need just a little more, but the "dragon" hops to the other edge of the beam and attacks me from behind. In any other circumstance, the appropriate response to such a two-sided assault would be to create distance. But in this case, it's to my advantage that they are limited in their movements by the narrow ceiling beam and can't utilize sliding.
Furious, relentless attacks descend upon me from both directions. The hwandos in the enemies' hands are eager to reach me, yet time after time, they are denied, deflecting off the blue steel of "Word" or the snow-white "Purity."
For the first time in this world, I smile.
Sincerely.
Just like when I finally discerned the rhythm of this perilous dance — destreza.
One, two, three, four.
The enemy blades howl in impotence.
Four, one, two, three.
Block, deflection, wrist rotation, thrust.
It's a dance, like salsa.
Two, four, four, three.
The rhythm quickens.
The number three rings more frequently in this musical exchange.
I feel pity for these boys. They have already lost, though they are yet to realize it. They are incredibly fortunate that despite witnessing them kill innocents, I won't kill them. Of course, the innocents I refer to are the dockworkers. Mateo likely has enough blood and guilt on his hands to merit his fate. My attacks are cautious, designed not to land so hard that one of them will lose all energy and plunge into the physical world, falling unconscious from a height of twenty-five meters. I systematically wear them down, leading this dance, and it's my decision when it will end. When their energy dips to the critical zone, and they can't use Sliding, I'll bring the fight down and carefully incapacitate them.
I forget... I relax and forget that I'm dealing not with seasoned fighters, but with youngsters who have recently picked up a sword. I forget and miscalculate. Realizing his impending defeat, the "demon" becomes reckless and tries to behead me. Pouring all his speed and rage into his attack, he disregards defense, leaving me with only one way to stop him — with the tip of "Word" at the bridge of his nose.
With a soft pop, the "demon's" projection dissipates, and his body immediately materializes in the physical world. It appears and, unconscious, falls from the ceiling beam onto a pile of scrap metal below us. I didn't mean to. It was instinctual! I shouldn't have retaliated. I should have simply jumped down or up to the ceiling, but my experience in the Break is still too limited to overcome my real-world skills, and so I made this strike. In the gym, during training, a protective mask would have absorbed the impact, and the incident wouldn't have resulted in even a bruise. But here, and now...
My blades dropped, and the "dragon" stood motionless, as if turned to stone. We watched in silence as the young body plunged downward, skewered on the protruding bars of reinforcement, blood splattering in all directions.
I didn't intend...
"A-ah-ah-ah!!!"
The deceased's brother was the first to snap out of the shock. With a guttural, almost inhuman cry, he raised his sword and charged at me. No matter how stunned I was, I couldn't miss such a reckless attack. The blade of "Purity" rested on the guard of "Word," and the hwando struck with all its might and power onto the strong block of the white blade. It struck and shattered right along the line of rust. It shattered and...
The second body falls. It's beyond feeling the break of bones from the fall or the rending of flesh by metal. It's already lifeless. The younger brother died the moment his sword broke.
"...uck!!! Two fools!" The words slipped out of my mouth.
[1] AN: A long Korean sword with a blade length of one and a half meters.
[2] AN: In Spanish destreza, it is customary to divide the blades into twelve parts. The description states that the sword met the opponent's blade with its eighth part from the tip, around the first third of its blade.