practicality

The darkness was near-absolute around him, like an inky black fist closed around his body. He lifted a hand up - despite knowing it was there, he couldn’t see it. The darkness felt like it was squeezing his chest, making it hard to breathe. There was an somewhat abstract sense of motion and the sound of a sword being drawn. Without thinking, he reached down instinctively to his side, to draw the single-edged blade he hadn’t realized he had, and brought it up to parry the strike with the flat of the blade, the motion fluid. He returned the strike, and was surprised to find it rebuffed, blocked easily by his opponent in the darkness. Another strike, and another - all with the same results. In between, his attacker struck back - not enough to hit him, but it took all his skill and focus to block the attacks.

Something was wrong here. Something in him told him he should have no difficulty with opponents - not with his katana in hand - and yet here he was, perfectly matched.

Another lunge - this one a little more frustrated, and again, another parry to block. He was starting to realize he couldn’t keep this pace up forever - the blocks had all been clean, so far, but his breathing was getting harsher, more difficult to keep even and controlled. As he readied himself for his next attack a man’s voice - older, a little rough around the edges, but full of command - called out to him. “Behind you!” He reacted without thinking, whirling around and bringing his blade up just in time. It was a messy block, and he could feel the jarring clash of blades up his arms - but a block nonetheless. Something was catching in his throat, and it took all his effort not to start coughing. The voice came again. “Don’t give up. Keep fighting.” He nodded slightly - whether to himself or to his faceless encourager, he wasn’t certain himself, and straightened out his stance again.