He switched mid-strike to Italian rapier work, his longsword suddenly moving with a speed and precision that was breathtaking. I flowed into the shadow arts of Shinkage-ryū, becoming a phantom, impossible to target.
"Incredible! You move like water!" he gasped.
"Water does not move," I corrected. "We only perceive it as moving. It is an important distinction."
He tried Spanish saber techniques, then Ottoman scimitar work, each one a different move, desperate attempt to find an opening in my defense. I countered with the adaptability of Suiō-ryū, matching him blow for blow. The crowd was silent, watching us cycle through a dozen different fighting styles in as many seconds. But while he was switching frantically, I was simply responding, like a man lazily swatting at flies.
"Come at me!" he finally gasped, his frustration boiling over.
"Why would I? You are doing all the work for me," I said. "You are showing me everything you know, and it is all... enough."
