The air tasted like iron.
Abel stood barefoot on the sand, his two tanto glinting faintly under the morning sun. Around him, the courtyard had transformed — the stone arena replaced by a circle of pressed sand, marked with faint lines where past battles had bled away into memory. The crowd formed a ring around it, murmuring quietly, waiting for the next name to be called.
"Abel Kyoshi," a voice announced.
Then: "Dahlak Kyoshi."
The murmur died. Even the wind stopped.
Across from him stood Dahlak — taller, older by a few years, his stance relaxed yet alert. His katana rested loosely at his hip, but the calm in his eyes carried the weight of training. When he stepped forward, the sand didn't crunch — it whispered.
Abel's grip tightened on his tanto. His breath came slow, deliberate.
This was it. His first fight as part of the clan ranking.
"Rules are simple," the referee said. "First to yield or fall loses. Death… is not forbidden."
A single bell ring.
Then — silence.
And then movement.
Dahlak moved first, drawing his blade in a single, fluid arc — iaijutsu, fast and pure. The steel flashed silver, a crescent cutting through the air. Abel barely caught it — his left tanto snapped up, metal meeting metal with a crack that split the air.
The impact trembled through his arms.
He parried, twisted, stepped back — the rhythm instinctive, born from two days of endless training that now felt pathetically short.
Sand scattered under their feet.
Dahlak pressed forward — no wasted motion, no excess. Every strike was a lesson, and Abel was still learning.
The katana slashed downward. Abel ducked, spinning sideways. His right tanto caught the edge of the blade and deflected it, the recoil singing up his wrist. He countered — a horizontal sweep at Dahlak's ribs — but his opponent turned it aside with a flick of the wrist, barely shifting stance.
It was like fighting the tide.
Every time Abel advanced, Dahlak flowed.
Every time he retreated, Dahlak chased.
"Too tense," Dahlak said softly, their blades locked. His voice carried no malice — only certainty. "You'll fall before I even get tiered."
Abel gritted his teeth. "Then I'll end it first."
He pushed forward — a flurry of quick strikes, each aimed to test, to force an opening. Dahlak stepped back once, twice — then pivoted. Abel's next attack met empty air, and the older boy's elbow struck his shoulder, sending him stumbling.
Abel hit the sand, rolled, came back to his feet.
He could taste dust. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
He's faster… but not untouchable.
He steadied his breath. His feet sank slightly into the warm sand, grounding him. The world narrowed — no crowd, no sound, just the hiss of metal and the pulse of his own blood.
Dahlak lunged again.
This time, Abel didn't block. He sidestepped, letting the katana slice through his sleeve, the wind of the blade cold against his skin. Before Dahlak could recover, Abel slashed low with his left tanto, the blade grazing Dahlak's thigh — a line of red against tan skin.
The crowd gasped.
Abel didn't celebrate.
Dahlak smiled faintly. "Better."
Then his eyes sharpened.
He raised his blade two-handed. Abel saw it coming — the shift in stance, the tightening of muscles, the gathering of energy in a single breath.
He's going to—
The katana fell like lightning. Abel crossed both tanto to block, but the force drove him to one knee. The steel screamed against steel, sparks flying as the edges kissed and scraped. His arms burned. His bones screamed.
Then — a shadow moved above the crowd.
Stipo, perched on the rooftop, watched silently — his expression unreadable, but his presence felt like weight. Abel didn't notice. He couldn't afford to.
Dahlak twisted, pushing Abel's guard aside — the next slash coming faster, deadlier.
Abel ducked low, rolled beneath the blade, came up inside Dahlak's reach. His right tanto snapped forward — too close to block. Dahlak barely shifted his torso, the blade grazing his ribs.
The crowd murmured again. Blood dripped onto the sand.
The rhythm changed. Both fighters slowed — their movements heavier now, more deliberate, every motion calculated.
Breathe. Watch. Listen.
Abel's training echoed in his head. He steadied his stance, waiting for Dahlak's next move.
It came — a feint, then a real strike from the opposite side. Abel reacted, steel meeting steel, sparks again — but this time, his blade didn't shudder.
For the first time, he felt the rhythm.
The heartbeat of combat.
The tanto traced a narrow arc, catching the morning light. He wasn't thinking anymore. He was moving — instinct, muscle, rhythm. His fear didn't vanish, but it stopped ruling him.
The blades locked once more — eyes meeting inches apart.
Dahlak smiled. "Now you're fighting."
Abel didn't answer.
He twisted his wrist, the edge of his tanto turning Dahlak's sword aside. His other blade rose — a cut aimed for the shoulder.
Dahlak deflected — barely.
Both stepped back, breathing hard, sand swirling between them like mist.
Neither had won.
Neither had lost.
The crowd roared for the first time.
From above, Stipo's lips curved faintly — not quite pride, not quite relief. "So… he's learning..." he murmured.
Abel's chest heaved, sweat streaking down his temple. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air, heavy and real. His arms trembled — not from fear, but from effort.
And yet… a smile broke across his lips.
For the first time, he wasn't running from the fight.
He was inside it.
The tanto in his hands hummed softly, reflecting the rising sun.
Somewhere deep inside, something had awakened — small, fragile, but alive.
To be continued…