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The Duel

His opponent was very capable. Talented. No experience. Which, in all honesty, should be expected from someone who had never dueled before. He was determined however, his life was quite literally on the line. Well, sort of. If he won he would just be executed anyway. But this one was tenacious, he was going to fight to the last breath.

His opponent's weapon was sharp and well honed, a beautiful killing instrument. Exactly what had got him here in the first place, the killing part. But again, no experience, no training.

They started with the usual. Darting stabs and slashes, quick parries. Each gauging the others strengths and weaknesses. This was going to be over quickly.

He let his opponent land a blow, draw first blood. He became confident. After all, he was wielding a powerful weapon, shouldn't he feel confident? He struck again, and again, then went immediately for a killing blow.
Overextended. He dodged, and struck quickly from the sides and behind, hitting vulnerable areas. His opponent crippled, he moved in for the killing blow.

He rose back into consciousness, opening his eyes and orienting himself with his surroundings. The "combat" readout quickly flashed on screen as it was being saved to the archives. He had time only to catch a bit at the top before it disappeared "85 v. 192."

192 then. A new personal record. Another psychopathic genius vanquished. He was told he would never make it in this field; a very competitive field (literally). A psychic executioner with an IQ of 85? Preposterous! But whenever he had doubted, whenever the scorn had gotten to him, began to break his resolve, he remembered the words of his master. "There are no better swords. Only better swordsmen."
They shall call me, Draglide! The thread killer!

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