Master

The sounds of students practicing echoed through the hall, as Master Vince strode the pathways, watching his apprentices practice the strokes of their blades, dancing back and forth with the least of grace. It was still early on in their training, but the off tempo steps and off key strikes were grating on his ears. This happened every year as the students filed in through the door, ready to learn but unwilling to be taught. They needed discipline, and that was what he was there for. But it grated on him ceaselessly year after year.

Precision. Power. Timing. Everything that they needed to fight, exemplified in the simple act of clapping his hands, shooting a booming explosion of noise throughout the hall, overshadowing the noises of all of the students. They came to an abrupt halt, thrown off by the interruption, and a few who were in the middle of a poorly executed swing lost their balance and fell haphazardly onto the ground. All eyes were on him. It felt good.

Master Vince pointed wordlessly to a nearby student, who shuffled forward and took their stance as they had been instructed. Vince pointed out with one hand, aiming directly between the students eyes, his fingers loose as they traced the boy's face. His back clamped and tightened as his sword arm drew back behind his head, raising his rapier and pointing it directly down his fingers, his arms forming a perfect line from fingertip to elbow, and the tip of his blade pointed at the exact spot his finger directed it to. He took one step back, solidifying his stance an guard, legs tight and clenched to absorb the impact of a bow. His students adopted the stance. He lived it.

With a gesture, the student lunged forward, attempting to strike. Vince danced his fingers back, legs unmoving, and pulled the strike into his own blade, which diverted the power and angle, sending the blow harmlessly to the side. He could feel every eye in the room glued to him, intensely desiring to learn of his skill. Again the student lunged, and again he diverted it, letting the straight stab slide across his blade to bounce off of the pommel, dragging the student toward him and into his own deadly range.

His own blade rushed forward, just dodging to the left of the student's head, allowing his guarded fist to slam into the boy's cranium. He stumbled back as Vince drew forward now, striking again with his hand wrapped around the handle to the other side of the head. Each blow, quickly following in rapid succession, drove the boy over and back, until his feet could no longer support him and he crumpled to the ground.

Without missing a beat, Vince turned toward his captive audience, pose unbroken, and hurdled the rapier like a javelin. It flung through the air, catching a blade that a student was lifting to attempt what he had witnessed unprovoked, ripping it from the student's hand and pinning it to the far wall. Every eye watched the blade fly. They had all witnessed what had happened, and to whom.

"Now that you have all seen what a master can do," Vince shouted, authority running heavy in his voice, "why don't you all try a little bit harder to get there? I want this room to be filled with music! Not the clinkering clattering of a bunch of apes discovering metal for the first time!"