Blades clash, the clanging sound of screeching metal bouncing off the walls as the two dueling figures fall back, reassessing each other with dialed in eyes. One, a young man with olive colored skin, draped in the finest silk robes money could buy with an ornate Hengdang in hand. The other Charlotte, Pierre brandished in front of her, always prepared to strike.
The battle had started but a minute ago, the second bracket in the Combat Test. Charlotte had high expectations for Hellfire, to battle those she could never when she was at home. Gone would be the gaudy tutors with their pompous attitudes, gone would be the showmanship that plagued her in court combat, gone would be the boring choreographs, and gone would be her ceaseless boredom. Here, she would be invigorated by the clashing of her weapon against another, by the battle with demons with her life on the line, and by the escape of that tedious court life she so hated. She would change her drab life for the better and escape the weight of expectation.
Only to realize she hadn’t escaped a damn thing.
“Your swordsmanship is almost to my own level, madam. I didn’t expect such an accompaniment at this level of the test.” The man says, his nose turned up at her. Snobby prick, only here to show off and make connections. He doesn’t care for the art of combat, only seeing it as a means to an end. Granted, her parents had told her to do the same. Unlike her, though, he openly relished in it.
“To you too, sir.” She replies almost on instinct, her court training embedded deep within her psyche. She hated this, hated every part of this. This entire “battle”, if you could even call it that, was a farce– a show to put on, and one she had to participate in. To enrage the family that backs this person would be disastrous, a lesson her father had drilled into her head. Appease, befriend, and charade her way to the top. Just thinking about those rules made her sick to her stomach. That didn't reach her face, however– it never did.
Her feet shift in tune with her adversary, positioning themselves to dash back into combat once more. Her stance is practiced, closed, and defensive while his is open, gaudy, and impractical. She could count five openings on him already, his stance barely able to cover half the area it needed to. It's a mishmash of styles with clashing ideologies, a frankenstein of defense, offense, and flashiness that could only function in a show; though, the circumstance made her the begrudging actor.
Her opponent is the first to dash in, his Hengdang slashing sideways in a wide arc. Charlotte bites her cheek as she rushes in, Pierre coming up to clash, the ringing of metal on metal cascading out. He pushes off, swinging toward her blade once more. Not her, or the armor on her: the blade. She steps back, feigning fear as she clashes with him again and again. Her eye twitches, watching every opening with a dull yearning in her heart. She could end it with one move, almost any move to be frank. Another slash toward her left his neck exposed. A riposte into a stab forward would leave him skewered. Instead, she dodges backward, her blade sweeping toward his ankle. He jumps the sweep, his Hengdang poised to stab at her shoulder.
She barely resists the grimace that creeps at the edge of her face, a small voice in the back of her head whispering to blast him backward. His blade wasn't even defending anything anymore! It would be so easy... instead, her blade snakes up the to slap it away, his guard shattering open completely. Her family would be annoyed with her ending the fight before abilities were used, as would his, but she could explain it away as an honest mistake. She couldn't have known he'd be that weak. Her eyebrows furrow as she watches his blade. A blow like that should’ve slapped the sword out of his hand, but it doesn’t.
Iridescent strings suddenly erupt from the handle of his blade, wrapping around his hands while lashing at Charlotte in wild, unpredictable patterns. She dashes back, slicing all that gets too close as the two return to a neutral stance.
“Most impressive, madam,” He says, strings slithering around him, his breathing heavy. They bind the handle to his hand, any hopes of disarming him rendered obsolete. “You’ve pushed me to this state. Count yourself lucky. Very few have seen my heirloom’s ability and lived to tell the tale.” He says smarmily, confidence leaking into his tone. The strings writhe around him, looking more beast like than many of the demons Charlotte read about. “Let us end this quickly, yes?”
“Of course, sir.” She says, her voice as cold as the tundra. Her hand shakes around her blade, a hint of excitement bleeding into her bones. Finally, she could just end this without any complaints. She slowly slides her blade back into its scabbard, taking a deep breath as she positions herself, the snobby bastard across from her pointing his blade toward her. Strings erupt from the tip of the blade like water from a shattered dam, the lot of them aiming to ensnare her. With a bit of concentration, she could feel their relative position to her via the wind, even with her eyes closed. She concentrated further, feeling the currents creating a path in her mind. His ability was versatile, and the openings would be scarce if his opponent was anyone else; unfortunately, she was not anyone else.
Her eyes snap open as she bolts forward, foot sized imprints embedding themselves where she once stood. She weaves through the strings, ducking and slicing where she needs. Their path was fixed, so painfully readable if anyone with a shred of skill looked just a bit closely. The young man's eyes widen as she approaches further, his arm waving like a conductor in wild waves. Charlotte could feel the minuscule change in the air before it actually happened, easily ducking the club of strings that lash for her head. Another joins it, and another after that, and another after that.
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She rips her blade from its scabbard, the wind whipping about like thousands of jagged blades, rending the bunches of strings to pieces. Her heart thrums in her chest, a small smile cresting her lips. It was actually fun dodging through all his strings. It almost reminded her of when she used to take ballet, though the principle was definitely far removed from this. If her opponent wasn't such a snobby prick, she might've asked him for a rematch later down the line. Sadly, he was, so she wouldn't.
Once she's finally in range, she focuses all her attention on the wind. Her figure blurs, then suddenly splits into three distinct mirages that run in three different directions, all toward the young man. He gasps in fear, his eyes widening as he looks toward the figures. Whatever he had expected out of his opponent, clones wasn't one of them. with a roar of desperation, he looks down the middle, stepping forward as he slashes down toward that specific Charlotte.
The air dissipates as his blade cuts through the figure like a knife through butter, a gust of wind harmlessly buffeting against his face. He has no time to correct his mistake before his left side is cut into, warm blood spurting out of the open wound. He cries, trying to slash out at his aggressor. His effort proves futile as his blade slapped away, a metal boot thumping against his chest. He falls backward, the metal tip of Pierre digging into his throat before he can react.
“Concede.” Charlotte demands, her voice cold as ice as her boot crushes down on his ribs. He coughs, grimacing as he looks up at her with a mix of annoyance and begrudging respect.
“Tch. I concede.” He mutters, allowing his arms to go limp at his sides
Charlotte nods her ascent, two mechanical doors whirring open on each side of the room. Charlotte reaches down, pulling the man up by the arm, patting the dust off his fine clothes. Cordial, respectful, and demure. She hated it, but it was a tribute she had to do. No house wants to look weak, so the victor typically shows respect to the loser as a sign of good faith.
“Good fight.” She says simply, nodding her head.
“Good fight.” He responds, nodding in kind as he walks to grab his blade.
Charlotte slides Pierre back into its scabbard, walking out the exit herself into a long hall full of the metal doors. They extend for a good while, each contains its own separate pair of combatants locked in their own duels, fated to progress or fall. The walls are a beige brick, the floor a polished concrete that shows her reflection clear enough to make out the sweat on her brow, the concrete dust powdered onto her skin. It wasn't as nice as the Beta's training rooms, but they were certainly better than nothing.
Slowly, she trails her way through the halls of the base. They’re all so angular in their design, long halls interrupted by occasional rooms and offshoots. Where this one sets itself apart is the lack of stairs, every commodity built on just a singular floor. She’d been here for nearly a week with the strength test taking three due to the mix of travel and occupants. Still, she found ways to pass the time. This place, while not as lively as Beta, had something it didn’t at the current moment.
New Recruits.
Pushing into the rooms, she searches for her own room, and the room directly next to her own. After a modest search, she finds them, immediately walking to the next door room. She raises her knuckle, giving it a single, sharp knock. She can hear the shifting behind the door as someone pushes off their bed. She takes a step back, feeling the air currents as the door swings open.
“Who is it-?” Donovan calls, his eyes locking on Charlotte. “Oh. what’s up, Char?”
“It's Charlotte.” She corrects, a smile twitching up her lips.
“It's a nickname, actually.” He says, cracking his back. “Still, same question. What's up?”
“Hmph.” Charlotte crosses her arms, her head tilting to the side. He finished before her. Not surprising since he didn’t have anyone to impress, no political ploys to play. Still, it stung the competitive part of her heart a bit to be so late to complete. “I was going to inquire on your availability to spar.”
Donovan groans, his head falling as he leans on his door frame, his energy depleting at the word “spar”. He slowly looks up, a look of worry and exasperation on his face. “Dude. I JUST finished my thing a few minutes ago, and we gotta do it again TOMORROW, the day after THAT, and the day after THAT! Don’t you just wanna sleep for a bit?”
“No.” Charlotte says simply, her head tilting to the other side. “Will you join me or not?”
Donovan remains silent for a moment, his mind clearly working. After a moment, he sighs. “Let me get my Tonfas.”
Charlotte smiles wider as he closes the door, unable to contain the excitement of battle. Her heart thunders, trilling in her chest as she tries to calm herself. Since she got here, she’s been sparring with Donovan. His skill, ability, and weapon excited her. It was a near perfect counter to herself, yet she was a counter to him in kind. A game where both sides had an advantage, advantages that cancelled each other out. Not quite even in its entirety, but not completely unbalanced either.
The door swings open once more, revealing Donovan with two Tonfa gripped in his left hand. He looks to her, gesturing her to lead the way, even if he knows the path by heart. The two walk toward the general combat rooms, the area desolate and empty. Most of the staff are either out or overseeing the bracket, leaving the two to spar without prying eyes.
One of the metallic doors whir open, Charlotte and Donovan piling in as loud chunk sounds out, the doors locking mechanism clicking behind them.
Charlotte turns to Donovan, walking with the hilt of her blade gripped tight. "I hope you're prepared. I plan to hold nothing back."
"Really...?" Donovan inquires, regret already painted across his face. Charlotte only smiles brighter, drawing her blade completely, fear overtaking the regret on Donovan's face as he prepares, in vain, to defend himself.
