Brent Stinebaker
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II-113A Friendly Spar (II)
🕑 Added 2025-06-06 19:26:09 +0000 UTCAh. Master John Doe… Dueling him made me loathe the very existence of Skills, Classes, and Essence. Our fight was a pure thing. Our battle was a pure thing. Magic sometimes unmakes a warrior and makes them reliant on esoterica.
But I still remember. I still know. We were animals once. Just beasts of martial delight. And when we crashed force and exchanged steel, I remembered those primal joys…
-Wei An Wei, The Realmbreaker
II-113
A Friendly Spar (II)
Wei readied himself as John Doe prepared to unleash his skill. The fighter’s blade gleamed bright, as if the morning sun was shining across the steel. Wei focused on his adversary’s Essence, trying to glean what he was about to do. Yet there was very little surging energy passing through him. It seemed like he was only refining the edge of his blade—making it easier to cut, faster and more effective.
And then Wei noticed and realized the beauty of the skill. It wasn’t anything that consumed copious amounts of energy. It wasn’t something spectacular in effect or awesome in destruction. No—even the air currents split evenly along the edge of the blade, and all the nicks and damages faded away. “That blade,” Wei’s shell proclaimed, “can cut through anything right now. Anything but your scythe.”
The young master nodded. “Quite a spectacular skill for such a small investment of Essence. Comparatively, most of my skills are about mass destruction and deconstruction.” He smirked at John Doe. “Fine then—let’s give him something to cut.”
Wei manifested his Lance of Calamity. A massive column of fire, destruction, wind, and water coiled around the crystalline mass, and he unleashed it, firing it across the room as floorboards tore up. It drained him of all his Eidolon’s Essence immediately. As it accelerated, John Doe didn’t move; he simply awaited its coming with calm focus, angling his blade perfectly in alignment with the attack.
Wei had half a mind to approach as he usually did—Essence shifting with what little remained of his power and ambushing his adversary. But curiosity demanded he stay his hand. He used his omniscience to watch as John Doe slashed. And as the man cut, he did something fascinating: he reefed his blade in a layer of Essence. It was something pure—something bound to the idea of a cut itself. As he sliced, his Essence clashed against Wei’s deconstruction. And just like when the young master faced the Celestial Vanguard, that clash was enough to create an opening, even as deconstruction ate away at the other Essence.
John Doe twisted his hip. It was such a casual human action—nothing of divine techniques or world-shaking strength—but it was perfectly executed. His cut exploded forward, going all the way through. Suddenly, John Doe surged toward Wei, blade drawn high, coming down in a winding arc.
The young master saw the path of his cut, sensed the deception and the many angles the man could reorient his blade. Inspired by his rival’s warrior spirit and spurred to show what he could do himself, Wei came forth, twirling his glaive as an aegis of ash danced around his body. John Doe narrowed his eyes at Wei’s display but came to meet him regardless. He cut first—his slash perfectly aligned at an angle, coming to split Wei from neck to armpit.
Young Master parried the blow with the haft of his glaive. The ashes lining his very being sparked as their weapons clashed. It was like a tinderbox spitting fire upon wood. Kindling began to ignite, and Wei’s Essence climbed once more, nourished by the clash.
John Doe pressed in. He used his shield as a bludgeoning tool, trying to push Wei’s glaive off to an awkward angle. Young Master adapted immediately, gripping the top of the other man’s shield and launching himself high to stab at John Doe from above. The fighter twisted, thrusting his blade in response; the tips of their weapons clashed, and a slight shockwave shook the room.
John Doe slid back, but even as floorboards burst beneath his feet, he refused to fall. Wei kicked off a nearby wall and landed a few meters away from John Doe. This was their interplay: a moving mountain—focused and steady—and the wind and storm, striking constantly, trying to find a gap.
“You are more careful than I expected you to be,” Wei said, smirking at his enemy.
John Doe didn’t reply immediately; instead, he eyed Wei’s footwork. “You make up for what you lack in experience and patience with audacity and capability. And despite your flamboyance, I don’t see any technical mistakes. Yet.”
“Yet,” Wei echoed.“We agreed. But do you think you will be the first one to spot mine? Or if I will be the first one to see a gap in your armor?
“Let’s find out,” John Doe said as he came marching forward.
Once more Wei strode into the fray. He glaiveed his weapon out—thrusting at an angle, trying to knock the shield out of balance so that it might crash into the man’s sword. However, John Doe activated the second skill he had, and Wei suddenly felt every bit of force he projected into his blow revert back on him. The young master, caught by surprise, felt his glaive jolt in his arm, but he adapted quickly. He spun his weapon, bleeding off some momentum as the Fighter came forward, seeking to cut him while he was open.
For a moment, Wei considered using his Essenceshift skill to dodge through the man, but he sensed something about the man’s blade—that coat, that sheathing of Essence—that would likely cut him still. And besides, the young master didn’t want to admit defeat, not even in a small exchange, so he did something audacious: he dismissed his glaive in time to meet John Doe’s cut perfectly. He clapped both hands over the oncoming blade, and though he felt the Essence cleave into the palms of his hands, he twisted, allowing a burst celestial crystals to launch John Doe up into the air. The man turned, but Wei suddenly grabbed him, channeling every bit of celestial power he had—not to Deconstruct or burn his opponent, but just as an added lever in the form of wind—so that he could spike John Doe down against the ground. The fighter grunted as his back met the floor, twisting his blade—but Wei was already retreating. Halfway across the arena, he resummoned his glaive and held out his hand to show John Doe the cut.
“Very reckless,” John Doe said, “but effective.” He rose from the broken floorboards and shrugged off the grains of dust still clinging to his armor. He rolled his neck and frowned at Wei. “You have the Essenceshift skill. Why didn’t you use it?”
“Because your sword is coated in Essence, and you can cut me still—I’m no fool.”
John Doe nodded. “You’re not blind. That is good. But you could have fled backwards, passed into the air, and let my momentum bleed off that way.”
“I could,” Wei said. “But that would be a warrior’s shame. I came here to match you blow for blow, not deny you a proper duel through spiritual techniques or the blessings of an artifact. You ask me why I don’t use my more esoteric skills. I can ask you why you don’t use a more sophisticated class, a more powerful class. We both have our reasons, don’t we?”
“Mine isn’t pride,” John Doe replied.
“No? It could be mastery. It could be merely preference. But whatever it is, it’s definitely not practicality. Whatever you can criticize me with, I too can criticize you—but we are not philosophers.”
“No,” John Doe agreed. “We’re just very, very honest men about what we enjoy.” And for the first time, John Doe smiled, and that gave Wei a better measure of the man.
John Doe might have been here to test Wei—to see his limitations and the manner of his thinking. But John Doe also wanted this. He yearned for this. It was his pleasure more than it was his business. And so Wei intended to give the man every bit of satisfaction he desired.
Many more times they exchanged blows. Many more times they came within inches of cutting and slicing each other, trading small scratches or light cuts for no true advantage. Most of the time they were exploring each other’s methods, adapting and learning from each other’s strategies.
As time dragged on, the battle went from minutes to a full hour. By then, they had a better understanding of who held which strengths, where, and how they protected their own weaknesses. At range, Wei was fast and accurate, and John Doe couldn’t let down his guard for a second. The young master was also willing to twist and move, using his speed to strike from unseen angles. But John Doe rarely offered him an extended opportunity to attack, for the shield he bore—though marred with many divots—was more than capable of turning blows back around. Every opening Wei sensed ended with John Doe coming forward, slashing, striking, and even preparing to grapple as his blade glided through the air—soft and subtle—until it was finally time to strike.
That was the thing about fighting John Doe. It wasn’t dueling a heavyset brute trying to hew you down, but facing someone used to all manners of blades, someone who adapted his methods swing to swing. Sometimes he thrust as if he were holding a rapier; other times he whipped and slashed at an odd angle, the kind that came from years of using a curved saber. Sometimes he treated his blade like what it was—a broadsword—something he could half-sword with as well. And every time he pressed, every time he got into that middle range, Wei fought either to retreat or to press in. The middle ground was where things were most dangerous for the young master, but up close—up close was where the contest got interesting.
Wei was an adept striker. His fists landed and rang against John Doe’s armor on multiple occasions, but John Doe knew how to twist and absorb the impacts, allowing the young master to dent and deform his protection, but not truly deal any lasting harm. John Doe, however, was quite the accomplished grappler. More than once, when Wei overextended, he found his arm seized and himself drawn into a messy scramble, hand-fighting to break out of position. Here, Wei didn’t stay long. The initial entry into close quarters was Wei’s advantage, but as time dragged on, he found himself an inferior adversary in terms of clinching and control.
By this point, Agnesia was leaning in, and there was a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Her eyes were locked ahead, but every now and again, she would look to John Doe. Meanwhile, the two warriors circled each other, both trying to review what they did wrong and right during their last exchange, gauging their enemy for any new weakness.
“You don’t like change very much, do you, Master Doe?” Wei asked.
“Why?” John Doe asked.
“Because you don’t block punches that come at weird angles very well, especially when they happen in sequence and then the sequence breaks.” Wei smirked.
John Doe blinked and considered that. “No, no—it’s not attack chains that bother me. It’s just the way you throw it. It also didn’t hurt very much.”
“It was meant to cut,” Wei defended.
“Well, cutting my chin isn’t very useful in a fight.”
“It does make you bleed. I’ve made you bleed. Do you particularly care?”
Wei considered that. “No, but it does make me feel better.”
John Doe wanted to retort—probably to say that feelings don’t matter. But here they were, swinging at each other, doing a little dance. If not for the artistry of this martial practice, they might as well have been children in a sandpit, swinging sticks and making merry.
“And you think constantly, don’t you, Wei?” John Doe asked. “I see how your eyes move, how you’re always, always stressed, how you’re always so tired.”
Wei paused. “Well, this was a new technique. Psychological warfare?”
“I didn’t expect that from you.” John Doe advanced.
Wei greeted him in the center. This time, the young master held his glaive with a new grip. He stabbed quickly, jabbing up close and trying to get over the man’s shield before suddenly ducking low, hooking his leg.
John Doe simply planted his feet firmly and shoved his shield forward. Wei dismissed his fear, climbed onto the man’s shield, rolled over him, and twisted in the air to avoid the upward thrust.
John Doe was already turning, but Wei didn’t land behind him. Instead, the young master manifested his glaive again, kicked off its haft, and then slammed his knee against John Doe’s head. Or he would have, if the man hadn’t twisted to intercept the blow with his shoulder.
A loud, ringing impact sounded through the room, and Wei bounced off John Doe, rubbing his bruised joint. “Ow!” he said, wincing and sourly scowling at John Doe.
However, to Wei’s pride, he saw that John Doe’s right arm—the one holding the sword—was hanging a little awkwardly.
“Is your arm dead?” Wei asked.
John Doe moved the arm a little and winced. “No.”
“Really? Truly? Show me.”
John Doe twisted his arm slightly, and a rattle was heard. “It’s fine.”
“What was that sound?”
“A Skill.”
“A Skill?” Wei sneered. “What kind of Skill is that.”
“Walk over here and I’ll show you.” Wei tried to take a step, and he reflexively felt something pass through his leg. He reached out and casually leaned against his glaive, doing his best to stretch out his sprained knee.
“How’s the leg?” John Doe asked, narrowing his eyes.
Wei simply blinked. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s rather bruised, but I’m going to give you a minute to forfeit.”
“Forfeit?” John Doe said.
“Yes. You fought well, but now that you’ve taken an injury that hinders your performance, it’s a good time to forfeit.”
John Doe took a step forward. “I will forfeit if you let go of your glaive and walk toward me.”
Wei blinked, even quicker this time. “You’re making demands of me so that you can forfeit?”
“Yes.” John Doe said. “This doesn’t make any sense. I just want to see you take a step—swing at me. I don’t need you to step toward me; just swing at me. Let me see your blade cleave through the air, and I will show you how capable I am of taking a step.”
John Doe didn’t come in swinging that way. Instead, he pretended to adjust his posture, peeking at the young master from behind his shield while moving his body so that it seemed like his sword stance was low and ready to whip upward like a viper.
Wei, meanwhile, pretended to hop and stretch out both of his legs over and over again, keeping his blood flowing. Every time he landed on his right, a painful click sounded, and his very bones throbbed with discomfort.
“If you’re tired, you can just say so,” Wei said, swallowing. “It’s not too soon to just give up. There is no shame in this—no shame in losing to me.”
“Ah, yeah, sure,” John Doe replied. “I’ll do that too, if you just walk over to me and ask me to put down my weapons.”
“Again, there you go with demands—requests. How about you come here and stab me?
Agnesia looked between the two and leaned close to Vendrian. “Do you know what’s happening right now?”
The Scion of Death had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Oh, that one,” he said, whipping his head toward John Doe. “He can’t hold up his sword anymore because something’s probably busted or dislocated. He hasn’t had the chance to snap it back into place. And Wei—he’s an idiot, because he used his knee on someone’s armored shoulder. And if I’m to guess, I think he tore his meniscus and broke several bones on the inside.”
The Young Master did his best not to scowl, and John Doe briefly glared at Vendrian.
“Fine—let’s make this more interesting,” John Doe said, chucking his shield aside and switching the hand he used to hold his sword.
Wei began to walk, but this time he used his glaive to brace his wounded knee, bouncing forward as he stabbed into the floor over and over again.
“What do you call this?” John Doe asked.
“It’s a new Skill I’m working on,” Wei lied. “Legstab! What do you call throwing away your shield? Wasn’t that keeping you alive this whole time?”
“No, I don’t think I need it anymore. I think I have your methods down.”
“Oh, sure you do.”
And then they charged each other—extremely skilled warriors, but also partially crippled. One’s arm flopped while the other hopped on a leg.
What happened next was the fate of all warriors who are wounded but skilled: they did their best to crash into each other and drag the other down to the ground so that they could force a small knife into the other’s face and demand surrender. Except neither one had a knife, and they were mostly smashing each other in their wounds and trying to choke the other into submission.
“And what do you call this now?” Agnesia said.
“This—this is usually how most fights end. Between nobility and prideful idiots who don’t have it in them to give up.” Bishop sighed.
“Wow,” Agnesia said. “So eventually, you make a fool of yourself.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Should we… pull them apart?” She asked.
William snorted. “Just give them a few minutes before embarrassment sets in. They’ll probably declare something of a draw to protect their own egos.”
