[Entity Analysis - Combat Opponent]

Name: Thomas Greaves

Level: 15

Combat Style: Power-based Swordsmanship

Threat Assessment: CRITICAL

Oh fuck.

One solid hit from that sword and I'm done.

Thomas swung a wide horizontal slash that carried terrifying force.

I dropped low, the blade passing over my head with a whoosh of displaced air.

Came up inside his guard, aiming for his exposed torso.

His armored elbow caught me in the shoulder.

The impact sent me sprawling backward, sand spraying as I hit the ground hard.

Fuck!

I rolled aside just as his sword slammed down where I'd been, the blade burying itself in the sand.

Got to my feet, ribs screaming, shoulder numb.

Can't trade blows. Can't match his strength. Can't even get close without risking getting hit.

What can I do?

Thomas pulled his sword free and advanced again, patient and methodical.

I backpedaled, my mind racing through options.

His strength was overwhelming. His defense was solid. His experience was obvious.

He's level 15.

And me at level 4.

This wasn't a fight. This was an execution.

Thomas closed the distance with measured steps, sword held in a ready position that spoke of years of training.

I raised my own blade.

All the training, all the theory now about to be tested against someone who outclassed me in every physical metric.

Thomas swung, a probing strike, testing my defense.

I executed a Parry, redirecting his blade at an angle.

"Argh!"

The impact nearly tore my arms from their sockets. My whole body shuddered from the force.

But the technique held.

His sword slid past instead of crushing through my guard.

Thomas's eyebrows rose slightly. "Not bad."

He followed immediately with a horizontal slash.

I pivoted, letting it pass inches from my torso, and came in with a counter-thrust aimed at his exposed side.

My blade connected—

And skidded harmlessly off his leather armor, barely scratching the surface.

Not enough strength to pierce through.

Thomas's elbow came around fast, catching me in the shoulder.

The impact sent me staggering backward, my vision blurring for a second.

[HP: 148/200]

He pressed forward, not giving me time to recover.

I tried to parry again—

But the force shattered my guard completely.

My sword went flying from my grip, spinning through the air to land twenty feet away.

I hit the ground hard, landing on my already-injured ribs.

Pain exploded through my torso, white-hot and blinding.

Thomas stood over me, sword raised. "Yield. You fought well."

I stared up at him, tasting blood, my body screaming.

He's right. The gap is too wide. Eleven levels.

I can't win conventionally.

But I had one advantage he didn't.

"Not yet," I gasped.

Thomas's expression shifted to regret. "Your choice."

He raised his sword for the finishing blow.

I rolled toward where my weapon had fallen, desperation overriding pain.

Fifteen feet. Too far.

Thomas's blade came down.

I focused on the sand directly in his path, where his weight was about to shift.

[Target: Sand surface - 0.5 meter radius]

[Change: Packed → Loose/Unstable]

Thomas's leading foot hit the destabilized patch mid-strike.

His balance shifted, just slightly.

The blade trajectory changed, missing my head by a hair's breadth and burying itself in sand beside me instead.

I didn't question the miracle. Just scrambled toward my sword while Thomas recovered.

Fingers closed around the hilt—

Thomas's boot slammed into my back.

The impact drove me face-first into the sand, all air expelled from my lungs.

He grabbed the back of my tunic and hauled me upright with casual strength, then threw me.

I flew through the air, hit the ground rolling, came up gasping.

Thomas picked up my sword and tossed it toward me. It landed at my feet.

"I'm giving you another chance," he said quietly. "Because I respect the courage. But the next exchange ends this. Pick up your sword."

I grabbed it with shaking hands, forced myself upright despite my body's protests.

Thomas advanced again, this time not holding back.

His strikes came faster, harder, each one a potential killing blow.

I defended desperately, the Adaptive Blade Style barely keeping me alive. Every parry sent shockwaves through my arms. Every redirect cost me ground.

I was being systematically broken down.

A horizontal slash got through my guard, the blade cutting across my forearm.

...

Blood soaked through my borrowed clothes, lungs burned.

I'm losing. Badly.

Thomas's next strike came in low, aimed at my legs, trying to cripple.

I jumped back—

But my injured leg gave out.

I went down, landing hard on my back.

Thomas's sword came down toward my chest, a controlled strike meant to force surrender.

No time to move. No time to parry.

I focused on his sword grip, specifically, the leather wrapping.

[Target: Grip leather moisture/friction]

[Change: Dry → Dampened]

The dampness appeared instantly, invisible but effective.

Thomas's grip shifted, just fractionally, enough that his controlled strike became slightly less controlled.

The blade angled wrong, missing my heart and instead cutting across my ribs.

"URGH!"

Shallow. Not lethal.

But it hurt like hell.

I rolled away, got my feet under me somehow, sword raised.

Thomas adjusted his grip, annoyed at the slip. "Lucky."

He came again, relentless as a machine.

I ducked, felt sword pass over me, came up inside his guard with a desperate thrust.

He sidestepped casually, let my momentum carry me past him, then slammed his pommel into my back.

I pushed myself up on trembling arms, blood dripping from my nose and mouth.

Less than half HP. And he's barely scratched. This is impossible.

Thomas stood over me, sword lowered. "This is your last chance. Yield."

I looked up at him through a haze of pain and exhaustion.

Yield. Go home. Accept that you're not good enough.

That you'll never be good enough.

My fingers tightened around my sword hilt.

"No."

Thomas's expression hardened. "So be it."

He raised his sword for a finishing strike.

This was it. The final exchange.

Win or die.

I had maybe one second before his blade came down.

One second and 56 MP to somehow bridge an eleven-level gap.

One shot. Make it count.

I focused everything, every scrap of concentration, every ounce of desperation, on Thomas's knee joint. The one supporting his weight as he committed to this overhead strike.

[CRITICAL STRING EDIT: INITIATED]

[Target: Knee joint - cartilage/ligament stress response]

[Change: Stable → Acute inflammation trigger]

[WARNING: High-cost edit. Confirm?]

Yes.

The edit hit me like a physical blow. My head throbbed, vision blurring at the edges.

But it worked.

Thomas's knee suddenly sent a sharp pain signal.

His weight-bearing leg buckled mid-strike.

Just for a fraction of a second. Just enough.

His overhead swing went wide, balance destroyed.

I was already moving.

Rolled to the side as his blade slammed into empty sand, came up behind him while he was recovering, and drove my sword toward the gap between his shoulder plates.

The blade bit deep.

Thomas roared in pain, twisting away, his elbow catching me in the face.

My nose broke with a wet crunch.

Blood poured down my face, hot and immediate. Vision went red-tinged.

We separated, both staggering.

Thomas clutched his bleeding shoulder, his sword still in his other hand. His knee was clearly bothering him now, stance favoring the other leg.

I could barely see through the blood and tears, my broken nose making every breath agony.

We stared at each other across ten feet of bloodstained sand.

"What... did you do?" Thomas gasped. "My knee—"

"No idea what you're talking about," I managed through blood and broken cartilage.

Thomas's eyes narrowed. He raised his sword again despite the wounded shoulder and bad knee.

We moved simultaneously.

Thomas with a horizontal slash.

Me with a desperate lunge, no technique, just raw commitment.

His blade came in fast—

I focused on the air resistance against it, just for a fraction of a second.

[Target: Air density in blade path]

[Change: Normal → Increased]

A tiny change.

But enough that his blade slowed by perhaps a second.

I twisted my body, his blade missing my neck by a hair's breadth and instead cutting across my shoulder.

And my sword found its mark, drove into the gap in his armor I'd already wounded, punching through deeper this time.

Thomas's sword fell from his hand.

We stood locked together, my sword buried in his shoulder, his blood mixing with mine on the sand.

For a long moment, neither of us moved.

Then Thomas's legs gave out.

He dropped to his knees, breathing hard, his good hand pressed to the wound.

"I..." He coughed. "I yield."

The words came out quiet, almost disbelieving.

The instructor's voice cut through the sudden silence: "Match concluded. Winner: Jin Raith."

I stood there, swaying on my feet, barely processing the words.

I won.

I actually—

My legs buckled.

I collapsed, hitting the sand hard.

Darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

[HP: 12/200]

[MP: 3/65]

[Status Effects: Broken Nose, Multiple Deep Lacerations, Severe Bruising, Blood Loss (Moderate), Exhaustion (Severe)]

The last thing I heard before consciousness left completely was the roar of the crowd.

Then nothing.

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