Page 75 of Brutal Union
My first sword was handmade by my grandfather, a legendary sword-smith in his own right, years ago, but once I held an Okabe sword I couldn’t imagine wielding anything else. It hums in my hand, alive and listening. I pull it closer to my face, angling it toward the dim light to check the edge.
“You think the sword is what matters,” Bhon replies, his voice calm but edged, the weight of his Korean accent sharpening each word. “A sword-maker would not give a blade to an inadequate swordsman.”
I glance down at my bare torso, the sweat clinging to my skin like a second layer. Cold air bites at my cuts—long, shallow slashes dried at the edge, evidence of our earlier rounds. My body aches, but I don’t show it.
“Are you calling me inadequate?” I ask, resetting my grip as I step into my stance. “You know nothing about the true worth of the sword, outsider.”
“I may be an outsider,” Bhon replies, raising his blade until the tip hovers near my throat, “but you are a spoiled pretty boy with fast hands and no patience. I wonder which is worse.”
I smirk, twisting my wrist slightly, the sword settling heavier in my grip. “Pretty boy, huh? Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”
He lunges with no warning. I shift my weight to my back foot and sidestep, steel clashing against steel as I parry. The impact sends a jolt through my shoulder. Before I can recover, he’s already stepping in with a second strike—targeting my ribs from the left. I deflect with a fast upward block and pivot off my front foot, slashing back toward his torso. He ducks under the blade and slips behind me, fast and controlled, then taps the flat of his sword between my shoulder blades.
“Dead,” he mutters, voice even.
I pivot and swing low, aiming to knock his legs from under him. He hops clean over the arc and lands steady, knees slightly bent, laughing quietly.
We reset, circling.
“Fast, but no discipline,” he says, watching my footwork closely.
“Old, and out of breath,” I shoot back.
He feints low toward my shin, and I shift to counter—but it’s a trick. His blade darts toward my ribs. I catch it just in time with a quick deflection and step in, forcing the fight close. Our swords lock, steel grinding as we press against each other, searching for the slightest slip.
“You hit like a drunk with a dinner knife,” I hiss, face inches from his.
“At least I don’t grunt like a weightlifter in bed.”
We’re both breathing hard now, sweat beading down our temples. He breaks the lock first and steps back, but I follow, throwing an aggressive combination—two slashes, high and low. He blocks both, the second glancing off his blade with a crack.
We circle again, faster now. My bare feet shift across the dirt, his landing with quiet precision. He lunges again, and I answer with an upward swing meant to knock him off balance?—
“Enough!” a voice cuts through the air, sharp and fed up.
We both freeze. My sword in the air. Bhon’s sword laid sharply on my shoulder.
Aoi stands at the edge of the training ground, arms crossed over a silk pink robe tied tightly around her waist, hair pinned back tightly, her face the perfect image of restrained irritation.
“Stop being children,” she says, eyes flicking between us. “Two grown men swinging swords to measure dicks in the moonlight. Very noble.”
Bhon lowers his blade first. “We were training.”
“Don’t lie to me baby. You were taunting,” Aoi corrects, turning to me. “And you, Sho, were showing off. Shirtless. In the cold. Again.”
I shrug, breathing heavy. “It’s effective.”
She sighs, already walking away. “So is silence, and conserving your energy for the true battle that is supposed to occur in the next five minutes.”
Bhon sheathes his sword, glancing at me, and I follow suit shrugging in Aoi direction. “You let her talk to you like that?”
“She scares me more than you do.”
“Good instincts,” I mutter, resting the sword over my shoulder.
We jog after her, stepping off the packed dirt and onto the stone walkway that leads back inside. The air shifts as we move through the corridor—no longer cold, no longer clean. It gets heavier. Warmer. The deeper we descend, the more the adrenaline replaces the night chill in my bones. The narrow hall leads to a heavy steel door, where two men in dark uniforms nod once and push it open.
The heat hits immediately—dry and thick, pressing against my skin like a second layer. It doesn’t come from ventilation orsteam. It’s the kind of heat that builds from bodies, from exertion, from blood spilled faster than it can dry. The basement smells of sweat, leather, old steel, and something darker—coppery and stale. Blood. The scent is thick in the back of my throat.
