I stand, solemnly, before a fellow warrior. I stand, calmly, as he charges me with blade bared. I stand, patiently, as he gets within reach of my own blade, a sword I have not allowed myself to release from its sheath. As the proper moment arrives, I wrap my fingers around my sword’s carved jade hilt and set it free. The slightly curved blade slides effortlessly from its sheath, not making the slightest whisper of metal brushing across metal. It traces a simple yet wondrous line through the air, deftly connecting my waist and his body. Like a lover’s caress, the very tip of my sword slides along my opponent’s ribcage, setting free the faintest spray of blood. Tiny crimson droplets, like a summer night’s rain, arc through the air in mimicry of the beautiful half-circle my sword made. A slight step to the side allows me to avoid the warm spray. With a flick of my wrist, I shake the blood free of my sword’s perfect edge. A slower, gentler motion guides my sword back home, a faint click the only sound I’ve made. Without a backwards glance, I walk away. My noble opponent does not yet know he is dead.