literature

Metal Claw

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When fighting a less skilled opponent, the most important thing is to maintain focus. A well-trained fighter battles mostly subconsciously at all times, and almost entirely subconsciously against weaker foes, using their conscious thoughts to process additional factors of the scenario.
My attackers are out of sync. The spacing between their attacks makes it a simple matter to counter each in turn. A chop to the base of the first one's head blade, a spinning kick to the second's core, an elbow to the face of the third behind me. All three lose consciousness immediately.
The second most important thing when battling weaker adversaries is to resist your ego. Although taunts, flourishes, and intimidating poses are tempting, they should never be employed without a good reason, no matter how unskilled the opponent. The momentum of a battle can shift in an instant, given an opportunity to.
I sweep the legs out from two more of them. I can feel that their bodies are light, but not so light that they retain their consciousness through the fall. Turning with my strike's momentum, I raise my leg and strike another of them in the side of the head, sending him skidding along the ground.
Fighting multiple enemies is vastly different from fighting one. Against a group, certain techniques, such as trapping, become dangerous, while others, such as spinning attacks, have their usefulness greatly enhanced. These factors aside, however, it is best to fight as you normally would, with the exception of not focusing on one target long enough to give the others time to prepare themselves.
I move my head out of the path of a lunging stab and quickly grab the arm before it has time to recede. With a flex of my muscles, I fling my captive into the final attacker. A metallic ringing echoes out from them at the moment of impact, then they both fall as still as their comrades.
"I'm fortunate to have my first real fight be against such weak opponents," I goad the final two gang members, locking eyes with the leader, "I've never fought against a group before."
"M-maybe we should go..." the subordinate murmurs to his companion, "...against a fighting type, we can't-"
"I don't care what type he is!" the leader shouts, brandishing the blade on his arm, "He disrespected us! And nobody disrespects Sharp's Pawniards!"
"So attack me," I challenge, arms crossed, "it's either that, running away, or apologizing to the people you've wronged."
It's obvious that the creature wants to attack me, but is too smart to convince himself to. He seems ready to surrender when a coldhearted voice, resonant with the sound of struck metal, speaks from the shadows of the forest surrounding us.
"I leave you in charge of a simple operation, and this is the result?" it growls, instantly terrifying the two remaining Pawniards, "It looks like I have to do everything myself."
Two conjoined silver blades emerge from the darkness, followed by a second pair. They are each joined to bulbous legs, the same colour as his subordinates', which are connected to a much larger black body bearing blades as theirs do. Golden bands mark the beginning of his armor-like, dull red shoulders, and thin black limbs lead from them to hands formed entirely of merciless blades. Atop the commander's head, a golden blade rests, making it clear that he stands above all others.
As he approaches, I come to the realization that his height is over twice my own; four times that of his minions. His attention is focused on what I had mistakenly thought was the gang's leader.
"Sh-Sharp!" the servant stammers, his more nervous companion moving as far away as possible, "I-I...this guy, he...he knows Mach Punch! We can't-"
In the blink of an eye, Sharp brings his arm across his minion's chest, throwing the smaller creature to the ground as chips of his blades fly off. "Idiot," he chastises, holding his pristine hand up to the sunlight, "his kind can't even learn that move. Not that it should matter. There were ten of you, and you have all failed me."
This is the second time I've heard that term. "Mach Punch." I think I'm beginning to understand it. Throughout their life, every creature has four "slots" with which to learn abilities. Sometimes, these slots act as mere surrogates for proficiency; other times, they bestow supernatural techniques that would be otherwise impossible to perform. How we each use these slots is up to us to decide.
It seems that there are names among some circles for techniques learned in this way. Whichever one they had attributed to me, though, they were wrong. Every technique I learned in my youth, I have practiced to complete mastery. All four of my slots were empty.
Sharp turns to me, rousing me from my musing. At this distance, I can almost feel the power resonating from him. This is the might of a Changed being, and perhaps all too often, the heart of one, as well. I take my fighting stance.
A new challenger approaches!
I'm starting to lose motivation to do these, considering their astounding failure to be noticed. Updates may ebb to less than daily.
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