Ishida charged with an overhead strike, a classic 'Jōdan no kamae' leading into a standard men cut. It was a very traditional move. I could see the strain in his shoulders, the slight hesitation as he committed to the attack. He was trying so hard to be perfect.
I didn't move. I simply tilted my head six inches to the left. His sword whistled past my ear, close enough to stir my hair. The crowd gasped.
He pulled back, his face flushing red, and attempted a horizontal sweep. I bent backward at an impossible angle, my spine arching like a drawn bow, and the blade passed over me, close enough to trim a few white hairs. The crowd gasped again.
He was becoming frustrated. His movements grew more aggressive, less precise. He was abandoning the form he had practiced for years, all because his first two simple attacks had failed. It was a fascinating display of psychological collapse.
