Then Nikephoros raised his greatsword and charged. Even against the light, Gene saw his movements with strange clarity. Drawing his sword toward his body as though to thrust, he suddenly changed direction and dodged left. Just as their blades seemed about to meet, he slid his down to the hilt in an instant and beat the enemy’s sword aside. Carrying himself deep inside the opening, he saw Nikephoros’s arm before him. A very thin line remained on the upper arm.
Gene’s mouth closed hard. Turning the blade that had pushed his opponent’s sword left, he slashed across the chin. It was almost a sweeping blow.
Slash!
Blood spattered his face. He did not stop. Raising his withdrawn sword horizontally, he thrust into the upper part of the general’s chest, where the chain mail had torn. When he clearly felt its keen edge pierce muscle, he wrenched it out and sprang away. Ordinarily, a wound that grave made a counterattack nothing to fear.
But just as he had expected, Nikephoros’s sword thundered down over his head. Steel rang. Gene pushed it aside, gritted his teeth, and cut diagonally downward. Shoulder, armor, right arm.
Quissus seemed to shout something, but Gene no longer heard him. He stepped back into a defensive stance, turned halfway on the ball of his right foot, and struck toward the shoulder again. Nikephoros pressed him as though he had been waiting. In a few moments, Gene stabbed and slashed five times. Each attack had enough force to kill an ordinary man, and spectators close by could barely follow its speed. He abandoned the very notion of an ending. As though facing a training dummy, he simply attacked without pause.
The spectators stared in a daze, their mouths open. The noise had vanished completely. A one-on-one contest, lightly armored to begin with, rarely lasted so long. A fleeting opening generally decided life or death, victory or defeat. Yet what they were watching was like dozens of duels joined together. Each individual attack was death itself. Nor did that death remain only on the stage. Watching alone brought sweat to their bodies and a chill of fear to their backs.
Weary of the usual familiar entertainments, the citizens had eagerly anticipated a spectacle they would remember for days. None had prepared himself for what he would truly see. The man for whom they had cheered was no hero from a play, someone they could safely watch. This was real. Anyone touched by that blade would stop breathing in an instant.
In truth, even the Brothers of the Hawk were realizing, as they watched, what sort of person they had laughed and joked beside every day. Because of Gene’s ordinary manner, they had briefly forgotten what the name Shadowhawk contained.
Quite a few also noticed how strangely difficult Nikephoros was to put down. Gene’s slash across his chin ought to have split it as far as his mouth, yet the bleeding had somehow stopped. Gene had cut into his chest until the point showed at his back, but there was no change in his movement. His other wounds too had vanished, leaving only faint traces. By contrast, blood continued running from Gene’s shoulder. Most of the blood spilled on the stage was his.
But Gene did not stop. He seemed to have forgotten everything and entered a world of his own. That made the sight more terrible. He was only one man with a sword, yet the threat suggested he might cut down everyone gathered here, not merely the general.
Nikephoros was pushed back to the edge of the stage. Retreating another step, he struck the fence behind him. An opening appeared the instant he turned his attention backward. Gene thrust without mercy.
Nikephoros arched away, knocked the fence over, and fell down one step. Spectators cried out. Gene swung at the neck. In fact, his sword caught and scored the collarbone, but the injury was no obstacle to the general. After all this fighting, Gene had noticed a few very deep wounds still remained. His opponent was not immortal.
Taking advantage of his higher position, Gene stabbed twice into the shoulder, then tripped the retreating man’s chest and knocked him down. Nikephoros fell down two steps. Gene jumped after him and landed on his body. Before he could plunge his sword down, however, the general threw his whole weight around him. The two rolled several times, struggling together.
Both lost their swords. Nearby spectators fled in panic, pushing one another and falling. When the rolling men struck the now-empty seating, Gene was fortunate enough to be on top. In hand-to-hand fighting, the younger man would naturally have the advantage. And Gene was good at wrestling.
Wrapping Nikephoros’s neck and right arm together, he squeezed with all his strength. Realizing he was caught in a technique, Nikephoros struggled to escape. But Gene had angled his body away, so his kicks struck empty air. With his remaining free hand, the man desperately reached for his fallen sword, but it was still two spans beyond his fingers.
“Ugh…”
The pressure continued. The arteries in his neck were compressed, and his face turned blue. Gradually, he could no longer make a sound. At last, when his eyes rolled up and even his struggles ceased, Gene released him, rose, and picked up his sword. Looking down at the man, with a foot planted on either side of his waist, he judged that the strangling alone should have killed him.
But there was no knowing when this man might rise again. There was no room for mercy. Gripping his sword in both hands, Gene drove it down. Blood splashed up.
With the spectators screaming, he could not hear whether Nikephoros cried out. Those who had fled the nearby seats were crashing into people farther up the stands, raising a commotion. Several were crushed by the sword’s ghastliness and ran screaming down the aisles.
“S-stop! Stop it!”
Nikephoros did not move. Gene still held his sword tightly. Then he suddenly blinked. His hand trembled slightly. Hal, standing close by, murmured, “Is he finally dead…?”
Then Antonia rushed over, crying, “General!”
Gene pulled out his sword and stood. Still somewhat doubtful, he looked down at Nikephoros’s corpse. Antonia collapsed to her knees and wept. Only upon hearing her wails did it feel a little real. Gene did not quite welcome it, but sheathed his sword and raised one hand, then bent it before his chest in a gesture of respect to his opponent.
It was then that a shout sounded from somewhere.
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