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As I grazed my fingers over them, I could feel the cool weight of each weapon; their stories etched into the worn grips and battle-scarred surfaces.
I was always particular about my choice of weapons.
Today, more than ever, they needed to be an extension of myself, compensating for my weakened state.
With great care, I selected a lightweight, double-edged sword and a sturdy buckler.
The sword’s hilt felt right in my grip, sending shivers up my arm, reminding me of countless victories in the past.
Testing its weight, I attempted a few practice swings.
An involuntary gasp escaped my lips as a sharp pang shot through my side, causing my grip to waver.
The room seemed to brighten momentarily, blinding me with its white intensity as I struggled to regain my composure.
“Master Ashale!” Kala exclaimed, rushing over with a look of deep concern. “You shouldn’t be fighting. Let one of us take your place.”
Around him, nods of agreement emanated from a cluster of my students who had observed my moment of weakness.
Their combined whispers, soaked in worry, buzzed like a persistent insect. “He’s not ready,” I heard one of them mutter.
With a deep breath, I tightened my grip on the sword, feeling its unyielding resolve.
It was both a comfort and a taunt. “I appreciate your concern,” I said, trying to inject more strength into my voice than I felt. “But this is my fight.”
Jaxon, a tall lad with a rough, chiseled face, stepped forward. “We don’t doubt your skills or your courage, Master. But you’ve been fighting non-stop for days. Why risk defeat?”
His words held truth, a bitter pill that I was reluctant to swallow.
However, my pride, that all-consuming flame, wouldn’t allow me to back down.
The very thought of it felt like hot embers in my mouth, searing and unpalatable.
“I’ve faced worse odds,” I retorted, forcing a smirk, though my insides churned with apprehension.
I could feel the gritty texture of doubt gnawing at the edges of my resolve.
“We just don’t want to see you hurt again,” Ralen whispered, his large, amber eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
The sincerity in his voice tugged at my heart, the soft timbre echoing the genuine care and affection that had grown between us.
It was a tough position to be in.
On one hand, I had a reputation to uphold; on the other, the genuine concern of those who looked up to me.
The weight of their collective gaze felt heavier than any armor, pressing down on me with a mix of respect, hope, and trepidation.
Before I could contemplate further, the deep, resonating voice of the announcer boomed through the antechamber, echoing off the cold, hard walls. “Next up, the undefeated champion, Ashale!”
That was my cue.
Every cell in my body tensed in a mix of anticipation and dread.
The scent of the arena — a combination of blood, dust, and fervor — grew stronger as I approached the entrance.
The distant roars of the spectators grew louder, their excitement palpable, feeding into my own adrenaline.
Drawing a deep breath, I squared my shoulders.
