II-112 A Friendly Spar (I)

Direct engagement is strictly prohibited—not recommended against, prohibited. Do not face him head-on. Do not show him your techniques, capabilities, or skills head-on. If you see him, you are to surrender, or you are to, if you have the resolve, finish yourselves. Do not, do not, do not ever show him how you fight. He will learn, he will remember, and he will evolve. We want to keep him within a certain threshold. Know this. Do not forget this. Have this seared into your mind.

Furthermore, all operations that intersect with the Young Master must be approved by John Bishop. Any of you who have worked with Bishop before knows what this means. Covert, silent, strategic. He does not see what we’re doing, ever. He must never learn of what we’re doing, otherwise it might compromise even more things.

As for the results of the duel, they speak for themselves. Review the footage if you want. But I can tell you this very simply: Short of an overwhelming power advantage, or, in my case, something akin to a near-peer in skill, facing Wei An Wei directly will lead to only one outcome.

-John Doe’s After-Action Report Regarding “Strategies to Combat the Young Master”

II-112

A Friendly Spar (I)

“So, are they going to do any actual fighting at any point?” Agnesia commented, a sneer directed at Wei’s back. The young master’s eye twitched. She knew he could sense her, feel everything, and hear everything she said with his omniscience. That was probably why she made the comment to annoy him while he was trying to focus, as if she hadn’t done enough to distract him this day.

“Stop thinking about her,” Wei’s Shell said. “We have time to think about her—no, we don’t have time to think about her at all. Not in that capacity, but later. Focus on the enemy right now. Focus on John Doe.”

Across from him, in the dojo where he once fought his father, Wei faced his latest adversary. This challenge had been a long time coming, and Master John Doe of the Trespassers was an enigma to him—an enigma he was about to solve. 

John Doe was a strange individual. Where others yearned to secure Classes that empowered them by rarity and Essence, John Doe chose something simple, something absolutely common. He was just your standard fighter, and he came equipped as a standard fighter might: armor without any obvious enchantments or enhancements—purely well-made steel, maintained to perfection, polished before battle. His sword and his shield also seemed relatively mundane, aside from being crafted of a metal Wei couldn’t recognize. He couldn’t sense any Essence coming from them, nor any active skills, and that just made him all the more nervous—and all the more excited.

“You will face many enemies out in the world,” Wei’s mother once said to him. “Not all of them will be full of pomp and circumstance. In fact, be wary of the subtle and the quietly confident. If you come upon a wandering cultivator who claims no exceptional techniques, who boasts no title to their name or no sect to flee their shadow, yet approaches you with absolute certitude of their victory, understand you are in the fight for your life. For even someone who has mastered a simple punch, a simple kick, the fundamentals of grappling, can be a danger to a Cultivator that has delved deep into the arts of the spirit. 

For after all, we were born as material creatures, and many die as material creatures. The techniques we use are metaphors of the world. But at our basest, we reach out with our hands, we strike with our fists, our feet, our elbows, our knees, and we feel. That is what tells us what we are doing. That is what guides us. And the one who has mastered their feeling, the one who knows how to use the simplest of their tools to maximum effectiveness, will strike you down if you are not ready.”

And that was just it. John Doe might strike him down. Wei could read the sheer killing intent from the man’s mere existence.

Every second, a new Dilation Echo formed out from the man, showing a different stance, a different cut, a different angle of attack. John Doe’s blade tilted and shifted by the slightest of fraction of an inch in the air. His shield was always covering him—always on one side, masking him from harm. Wei took a step to his left. The man shifted, moving with him. The Dilation Echoes played out a scene, and Wei’s mind filled in the rest. If he attacked directly, John Doe would keep him at bay until he found an opening, and then he’d cut. If Wei tried to flank him, John Doe would follow, would circle, and with only a limited window of attack, Wei would have to get creative to pierce that shield—or so he thought.

Perhaps I could overwhelm him directly, Wei thought. He had an overwhelming amount of power, but he wasn’t going to use his System. No—he refused. If he used his System right now, he would disgrace himself, for he was fighting a warrior, and Wei would match John Doe skill to skill with only his Class.

“They’re just twitching and moving their bodies around,” Agnesia commented again. Now she was no longer taunting Wei; she was genuinely confused and starting to get bored.

“No,” Vendrian said, arms folded. His eyes were narrow, though Vendrian fought with the reckless rage of a berserker and was, in many ways, consumed by madness, and bereft of all technique when he truly got going. Yet, he was, by trade, a warrior, and he knew what was happening right now. “They’re trying to understand each other—probe for weakness before they begin. They’re not doing nothing, they’re not just twitching.” He spoke with more force than Agnesia expected, as if delivering a lesson. “You should understand this. It’ll be something you’ll have to do in the future as well if you want to survive your own battles.”

Agnesia pouted. She wasn’t used to being judged—being a princess and all—but she didn’t bite back as she often did with Wei. Her relationship with Vendrian was still cold, but there was something there of grudging respect.

Watching as well were William and Bishop. They were talking. Wei could feel strands of essence passing from John Bishop to his best friend—and to Wei’s father. And it was William’s eye that bothered Wei the most. His father had watched him duel before, had watched Wei as he triumphed and failed, had coached Wei, drilled him, made him perfect—perfect alongside Wei’s mother. That pain still gnawed at him. But somewhere, somewhere, there was a shadow of a younger boy—barely a Cultivator—looking to his father, searching for the smile on the man’s face to know he did right, to know he’d done well. To Wei’s shame, that boy was still there, even now, even today, after everything William had done.

Suddenly, John Doe lowered his sword and pulled his shield away. “I can ask them to leave,” John Doe said simply, “if they are distracting you that much.”

Wei narrowed his eyes. John Doe could see. John Doe realized. And already, Wei felt like he had lost the battle.

“No,” Wei said, resolute. He concentrated every bit of his focus and turned his attention away from the others. “I will not get the same luxury on the battlefield. And they might be there as well. We continue. My weakness is not your responsibility.” Wei paused. “But I thank you, as warrior to warrior.” 

John Doe lowered his head ever so slightly. “I want a proper fight. I will not see one deprived because of external factors.”

Once more, they resumed their postures, and this time, Wei cared about nothing but John Doe. There was nothing in the world aside from him, John Doe, and the battle ahead.

The dilation echoes painted a portrait of his warrior. They were skilled—impossibly skilled. Wei felt his breath catch as he studied John Doe’s movements. He slowly realized that each of the echoes formed a perfect defense for another, every single one covering a zone of attack, sealing off a possible entry to engagement. He knows about my dilation echoes, Wei understood, and more than that, everything John Doe did was perfect in preserving efficiency.

But Wei didn’t know anything about how his adversary was going to attack. He did know a few factors, though. John Doe had a sword and a shield, so he didn’t Wei’s reach. However, Wei wasn’t sure how fast John Doe was, nor how strong. If Wei was forced to fight a spearman using a sword and shield, he would try to close—get in closer—and rely on the shield to ward off his foe. Perhaps he’d parry the spear into the ground, or catch it between his limbs and wrench it out of his opponent’s hands. But if John Doe tried to engage Wei up close, Wei would simply shift to his fists and his feet, with perhaps a little more grappling in the mix. Every option presented both challenges and opportunities.

And so, Wei decided to take an unorthodox approach. Maybe I should get in close. Maybe I should surprise him, play to his expectations, let him take my spear, dismiss it, and we will see how good he is with his fists—at least, closer than his sword can allow. With that thought in mind, Wei approached his enemy with a leisurely stroll and resolute focus. Time to see if this will pay off.

Wei’s aggressive approach made John Doe narrow his eyes and take a single step back. He shifted his stance, placing his right leg in front now, his shield behind him. His blade was held high in a stance Wei didn’t recognize.

Interesting, the young master thought.

At the same time, William, Vednrian, and Bishop leaned forward. The Scion of Death had stopped folding his arms and adopted a look of absolute focus of his own. His sister—the living blade Mourning was hovering right beside him. Agnesia, Ellena, and Rafael remained utterly ignorant, but entranced.

The battle began.

Wei drew in a long, deep breath. It would be the longest breath he would take in a while. When this was done, he would see what measure of a man John Doe was.

“I come, John Doe,” Wei said.

“I wait, young master,” John Doe replied.

And Wei’s spear went out. It was an obvious, reckless blow—one that John swatted aside with his sword and directed into his shield, trying to parry Wei’s spear into the ground.

Wei suddenly pulled back on his spear, twisting it so he could swing the butt down, but to his surprise, John Doe pressed in. His own parry, gliding along the shaft of Wei’s spear, was a strike. The young master saw the man’s intent.

A strike that seeks to slice off my fingers, Wei thought. How devious.

Wei shifted, spinning the spear and throwing John Doe off balance. Even so, at the last moment, John Doe’s two cuts both deflected along the half of Wei’s spear. Yet the final strike bounced and skipped, and Wei took a few steps back, as did John Doe. The exchange happened in a blurring instant.

Agnesia blinked. “What just happened? Which one of them attacked?” she asked.

“I… both of them,” Vendrian even finished. He let out a breath. “Both of them.”

Wei studied John Doe, and John Doe studied him. This man was skilled. Not only skilled—he knew the easiest opportunities, and he adapted. There was no hesitation in him. His muscle memory was perfect.

A slight wind washed the room, and Wei felt a sting on his right cheek. He pressed it and saw a wisp of source leak out, rising like smoke.

“Yours,” he said.

John Doe shook his head. “No, this is not fighting for points. It’s mine when you yield—or you’re dead. Or it’s yours when I yield—or I’m dead.”

Wei nodded. “Very good, very good. I’m really beginning to enjoy this now. Let the young master dash forward.”

He struck out with his spear, playing for distance, trying to learn more about John Doe. His tip shot out fast, and John Doe kept his distance, trying to find an entry. Every time he parried, he tried to strike—and knocked Wei’s spear tip off course. The young master knew this, and rather than continue his assault blindly, he tried to get around the parry, poking at odd angles before suddenly switching around, swinging his spear’s half like it was a hammer.

When this happened, however, John Doe remembered something that many fighters didn’t: he still had feet, and the man’s footwork was impeccable. He didn’t dodge back like a novice. Rather, he always cut angles and let Wei slip and miss by the barest of margins.

But the young master was no new disciple himself, and he caught his spear, shifting his momentum and bringing it down, forcing John Doe into an increasing series of defensive maneuvers.

So far, neither of them had used a skill. Neither wanted to. The first person to exploit such a thing would be admitting defeat on some level. What was happening right now was an interplay—a dance of momentum transferred perfectly, directed.

Wei remembered a practice he used to do with other younger disciples. They would push each other inside a ring. At first, it was like a shoving match between children, but eventually everyone understood the principles. If you pushed too hard without control, and they pulled and stepped aside, you would tumble. If you weren’t strong enough and couldn’t evade, you would be thrown. And if you lacked the footwork, you would be swept.

The same principle applied right now. Wei was a hurricane—a whirlwind of focus and precision, trying to create an opportunity. John Doe was both the waves—heavy and yawning, always ready to drop down, always ready to strike—and also a mountain—impenetrable, unyielding, defiant against the winds.

A clash between John Doe and Wei dragged on. Neither gave ground. Neither tired. Both learned, adapted—striking out at any opening, reacting and molding themselves to one another, mastering the nature of this duel. Agnesia now stood, her jaw slightly open. The center of the room was a cracked mess of jutting boards, but neither Wei nor John Doe ever slipped. The flat of the fighter’s shield was a webwork of cuts—a testament to Wei’s effort—yet all for naught. There were dents and divots, but nothing truly went through. John Doe’s sword was equally nicked, but even so, it remained a sword still, and when he swung, he always came within inches of fatality.

The slight lick of pain on Wei’s cheek made him appreciate his enemy. This one knew more than him in some ways. This one was a proper warrior, truly attuned.

“We cannot grind him down. We will be stuck in the stalemate forever, until one of us inevitably makes a mistake, and that leaves too much in the hands of circumstance,” the Shell folded his arms behind John Doe and looked away. “Be the first to lure him. Be the first to make this mistake. Extend your arm a little too much. Do it repeatedly. Give him bait.”

And Wei did just that. He started thrusting longer, rougher—kept it just within the range of acceptability so that John Doe knew he wasn’t baiting him. It was surprisingly hard to fool someone in battle, especially someone good. If your enemy suddenly started performing terribly, and they didn’t seem exhausted, then you knew it was a lie. And Wei couldn’t even fake being exhausted anymore—not after all the fights he’d been through.

He repeated the feint once, twice, ten times. Ten times, and he knew he had John Doe when the man’s eyes flicked to the tip of his spear in anticipation. Finally, John Doe bit. He lashed out, parrying Wei’s spear hard—sending it reeling skyward—and struck with his blade in a single step. It was a perfect step, if not for one problem: Wei was anticipating it. The young master already dismissed his spear, and suddenly he switched the conditions of the fight. No longer was he a weapons wielder—no, now he was the weapon.

As John Doe’s blade came, slicing another cut perfectly aligned with the first cut he left on Wei, the young master drove his fist into the man’s chest piece. John Doe slid on the floorboards, the ground beneath him snapping and breaking, but he didn’t fall. A perfect dent lined his chest—an imprint of Wei’s fist, a lesson taught.

John Doe chuckled. “I suppose yours?”

Wei shook his head. “Are you dead?”

“No.”

“Are you even winded?”

John Doe cocked his head slightly and cracked his neck. “I think I’m awake now.”

“Good. Now, show me your offense.”

That made John Doe lift his shield, but this time he raised his blade high and drew upon his Skill for the first time.

“Yes, this is what I wanted,” Wei murmured, summoning his spear again. The Pale Fang materialized in a burst of fire. “Show me who you really are!”