CHAPTER 18 #2
The camera holds him there, singled out, as the Blues close in. It’s a slow glide into position, each step a perfect echo of the last as the circle tightens around him.
One of the Blues steps forward and issues a challenge.
Edmund’s hand hovers in midair long enough for me to notice a tremor. His fingers twitch, then lock into a fist. He steadies himself and extends his Blood Ring until it scans across the man’s own with a flicker of yellow light.
The challenge is official.
Around them, the Pinkies move fast. The robots drag back tables and clear chairs, knocking over crystal glasses that crash and spin, with cutlery scattered across the marble like bones. Within seconds, a narrow strip gleams amid the wreckage. It’s a crude but functional piste.
Both men draw their sabers with a flash of graphene, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor.
The Blue challenger advances first, leading with his right.
His stance is centered and low, and his blade is angled to bait.
Edmund shifts his weight subtly before switching his saber to his left hand…
and something changes. His body settles into control, like a ripple of muscle memory falling into place.
Then he drives in.
The sudden burst of speed is so powerful it seems to crack the air. His broad frame moves ruthlessly, and when he strikes with his saber, his entire body strikes with it. A surge of energy radiates from the motion, like a pressure wave flowing through his bones.
The blades clash once, again, then lock in a bind.
Edmund disengages to the inside, then feints, flicking high to draw the guard.
The Blue reacts half a second too late. Edmund follows through with brutal efficiency, his saber arcing in a diagonal slash that looks like a modified cut six, but it’s too fast to track.
The graphene edge cuts clean, slicing through the Blue’s side as if the man’s flesh were boneless.
He stumbles, then collapses to the floor. Blood floods the grooves in the marble, thick and fast, spilling like a bottle shattered at the neck.
The crowd recoils as one, staring at the deep, glistening line carved through the Blue’s torso.
Edmund stays where he is, breathing hard, his blade low and dripping. He lifts his saber to begin sheathing it when another Blue barrels in from the left flank.
No challenge. No Blood Ring scan. No honor.
The Blue charges in high, with a brutish downward cut that’s more street swing than saber strike.
Edmund drops low, trying to slip beneath it, but the pommel catches him hard across the cheek.
He stumbles back, and the cafe roars with excitement.
Several Blues step out of the crowd and move behind Edmund, cupping their hands around their mouths as they shout.
The video has no sound, but it looks like a show of support.
Whatever energy they send Edmund’s way seems to catch.
He crouches low, bares his teeth, and slams the hilt of his saber into the floor.
The marble splits under the impact, and the graphene blade begins to transform in his grip.
The nanotech inside comes alive, sparking, lengthening, and splitting until two hilts emerge. Two blades.
Edmund rises.
And moves.
His body blurs with motion, weight, and speed, compressed into a single, punishing stride.
The Blue is still recovering when Edmund strikes.
One blade carves low across the abdomen, clean and horizontal beneath the ribs.
The second follows like an echo, arcing upward with a bone-splitting force I’d recognize from a mile away.
The Prew Cut.
It’s a technique that originated in the old dueling rings, created by his grandfather, and honed in blood-soaked duels. One blade severs the aorta, while the other slices through the carotid artery.
A strike designed to execute.
The camera jolts, redirected by whoever is recording. The new perspective shows the crowd standing as still as the dead bodies on the floor.
Edmund turns slowly, surveying the onlookers.
His cheek is already swollen, split high across the bone.
Blood streaks down his body in thick rivulets, soaking the collar of his shirt and darkening his suit jacket.
His eyes, bright and unblinking, burn through the screen with a clear readiness to do it again.
Dropping into a crouch, Edmund drags two fingers through the blood on the floor and smears it across his face in a long, defiant stroke.
The crowd erupts in anger. A dozen Blues draw their sabers, graphene flashing as they step forward. But the Blues behind Edmund move faster. They draw in unison and close ranks at his side.
For a moment, the cafe feels like it’s one spark away from detonation. Then the would-be challengers fall back, one spitting at Edmund’s feet before walking away.
Edmund faces the crowd and raises one of his sabers. The blade’s edge still glows faintly, heat shimmering off the graphene. Then he speaks inaudibly, pointing the blade at his fellow Blues, one, another, and another.
The video cuts to black.