Chapter Seven: The Dance of Blades

Bigger stood beside the Master, his heavy arms folded, his eyes squinting as he tried to work out how a single man could take the O-Form and not even lose his balance, his mind racing through every move he had ever learned, every warning from the elders, but nothing made sense. All around us, the stage creaked with the tension of the crowd and the anger of the warriors. The air was alive with the scent of dust, sweat, and the leftover tang of Silver’s lightning.

It did not take long for Biga to make up his mind. He dropped his arms and stepped onto the stage, rolling his shoulders, giving the Master a look that asked for forgiveness and permission all at once. The Master did not say a word. The meaning was clear—if you cannot defeat him, none of us can.

Now there were four against me: Silver with his twin blades crackling, Daves, always fast and sharp, Hairline swinging his spear-like blade, and Biga, whose every movement sent a tremor through the boards. The other Nuniya fanned out along the stage, each with a look that said this was now a real battle.

Silver was the first to attack, lightning jumping from his blade as he darted in, eyes wide with rage, “So the only thing you can do is dodge and block? Pathetic!” he spat, blades flashing so quickly the crowd could barely follow the arcs of blue and white light.

I ducked beneath one, slid away from the next, smiling, letting the storm pass by, and I called out, “Ah, Silver, you swing those things like you’re chasing a chicken for supper! Try harder—maybe next time you’ll clip a feather.”

The villagers laughed in bursts, nervously, some clapping their hands to their mouths, afraid to show their amusement but unable to help themselves.

Daves was beside me then, launching a spinning kick that sliced the air. I leaned away, wagging a finger, “Fast, Daves, but you step too loud! If I was a goat, you’d scare me off before you even got close.”

Hairline’s blade came from above, the shadow of the steel like a falling tree, but I spun away, grinning, “Is that a blade or a mop, Hairline? If you miss me, at least you can clean the stage after!”

Biga came next, his fists like rolling stones, and I danced between his arms, slipping under, popping up beside him, whispering, “Biga, you hit like thunder but you move like rain—loud but easy to dodge.”

The crowd was split between fear and laughter, some shouting encouragement, others too stunned to speak. Four warriors, all attacking at once, yet not a single touch landed. The Master watched, silent, searching for sense in what was unfolding.

Silver bared his teeth, his anger near madness. “Enough of this dodging, fight like a man!”

I shook my head, still smiling, “Now, Silver, don’t rush things. A good story takes its time.”

Then I stopped moving. I stood still in the middle of the stage, smiling as the warriors circled, their weapons and fists drawn back. I drew a deep breath, and my voice rang out clear across the hush, “Now, it’s my turn.”

Suddenly the air around me shimmered, the sound of the world seemed to flatten and slow, and in the blink of an eye, I vanished from where I stood. Gasps shot through the crowd. Warriors blinked, searching for me—too late.

I reappeared right in front of Biga, so close he had no chance to brace. My fist flashed up, striking his pressure point below the collarbone with a soft, sharp pop. For a moment, everything froze. Then Biga’s huge frame lifted from the ground, his eyes wide with surprise, and he tumbled backward, landing hard on the boards with a thunder that shook the whole stage, arms splayed, out cold.

The other Nuniya stood rooted, unable to believe. Silver’s jaw dropped, his hands tightening on his blades, lightning flickering uncertainly.

One by one, the other warriors attacked—Daves with a burst of kicks and a shout, Hairline leaping with his giant blade spinning, Silver slashing with fury and thunder. But each time, I dodged, spun, or simply stepped inside their guard, tapped a hidden pressure point, and watched them fall, limp and silent, either sprawling on the stage or tumbling into the crowd, every one of them out before they hit the ground.

A blue-robed warrior tried to use wind, but with a light touch to his wrist he crumpled. Another called fire in his palm, but with a twist of his elbow he dropped like a stone. Each warrior’s special power flashed only for a moment before I snuffed it out as easily as one pinches a candle.

The villagers screamed, the warriors shouted, but all the noise seemed far away. I moved through them calm, unhurried, almost playful, leaving a trail of fallen champions behind me. The stage was littered with the best the Nuniya could offer, and not a single scratch on my skin.

Finally, only one warrior remained—the red-haired one, who had stood silent and still from the beginning. He had not cheered, he had not moved out of tune, his eyes fixed on the Master, waiting for a command that had never come. The others lay scattered and broken around us. The crowd held its breath, watching to see if the legend was about to end or if it was only just beginning.