The Duelist paused. “Look at this sword.” The boy obeyed. It was a beautiful scabbard, adorned with gold imprints forming a dragon among vipers. “It's gorgeous.” The Duelist nodded before unsheathing the blade in one fluid motion. The boy backs away in slight terror. The sword had a thin curve and a long hilt. “In the old days, where I trained, these blade were called katana,” the Duelist said, “weapons of strength and honor; duty and respect. Now the names and symbols of swords have fallen into history books and lore. Their past is meaningless to the people of today. But the truth lives on. I possess vast knowledge of the old swords, what they represented.” The Hunter turned his gaze from the blade to the boy, whose face had turned from terror to great interest and eagerness. “I know my place among these sands, what I represent. I represent the desire for knowledge and honor above the desire for skill and achievement. I stand as an ambassador for understanding, the gaining of wisdom. Before you ask me again to train you, ask yourself this question, young one: what symbol does your sword fight for?” They hold each other’s gaze. Then the boy looked once more at the extended blade before rising from the chair, and bowed respectfully. “I am not worthy, sir. But thank you for your instruction.” The Duelist nodded as the boy walked away. The Hunter looked back at his papers with renewed spirit. He sat for a moment before scribbling something on the parchment. All who watched ached with curiosity to know what he had written. - - With the morning came a new day, but with a new day came new challenges. At exactly an hour after sunrise the Duelist exited the tavern, clothed in the same robe, hood, and mask as the day before. His sword was buckled to his waist, extending across the back of his legs. He stood on the threshold of the tavern, surveying the brightening land before him. One by one the villagers began to rise and go about the day’s work. “Your day is up, Hunter,” the man who had spoken to him yesterday said gruffly behind him. “Get a move on.” “Are you sure you want me to leave?” “Positive.” “Then who will deal with those bandits coming this way?” “What?” The man brushed past the Hunter and squinted into the distance. Sure enough a cloud of dust was rising from an approaching pack of sparrows, about ten in total. “Do you have fighters?” the Duelist asked. “No, no we don’t. They come every month, hoping to find some glimmer. We never have enough for them. They usually take some of our stock or supplies and leave.” “They’ve taken your wife and child.” The man turned to him. “How could you know that?” “A guess.” The Hunter stepped forward into the sun. “Give me the word and I will end this today.” “Please, do it!” The Duelist nods and moves to the center of the wide street, awaiting the raiders. He unbuckled his scabbard and placed it against the sand, resting his hands on top. To those around him he did not look tense, but he was not relaxed, either. Resolute, perhaps. At last the bandits stopped within forty feet of the man, and the leader dismounted his sparrow with a smirk. “And who might you be?” The Guardian was silent. He shrugged. “Another one to bite the dust, I guess.” He withdrew a pistol and aims at the Hunter’s head. He fired, but the bullet never connected with the Duelist. Just before the shot became fatal he took the handle of his sword and raised it out of the scabbard just enough so that it deflected the bullet. It bounced to the ground, and the Duelist let his sword fall back in its resting place. The leader looked at him, at first dumbfounded, then furious. “Get ‘im!” His men dismount and rush for the Hunter, withdrawing weapons and rusty swords alike. The man did not move an inch as they drew closer. At last, when one of the bandits reached arm’s distance, the Duelist tripped him and began the fight. Man after man came for him and he conquered them all with ease, whether by flipping them, kicking them in the chest, forcing them to collide with one another, or knocking them back with the butt of his sword. But his blade did not touch any one of them. The bullets he deflected easily as well, usually forcing them to return to the shooters in the arm or leg. At last the bandits lie around the Duelist, unconscious or wounded. When only the leader was left, the Hunter resumed his original stance. “I challenge you to a battle.” The leader scoffed. “You think I could beat you?” “No,” the Guardian admits, “but better to try and stand than run and be a coward. I will respect you either way. But these villagers will not.” The man looked sideways at those that watched from the edges of the streets, looking first at the ring of bodies, then at the leader. The man swallows anxiously. “I will not fight.” “Then leave and do not come back. If you do, you will see me again and you will duel me then. Is that clear?” He nodded. “Very.” He motioned for the wounded to carry the unconscious, then rode away in a cloud of dust. The Duelist stood watching until the bandits could be seen no more, then buckled the sword to his waste once more. He turned his head slightly and saw the boy from the night before, watching with admiration. The Hunter nods, and lets slip a piece of paper before walking the opposite direction of where the bandits had come. He strode through the village until he had left the borders, and continued wandering. He walked further and further from the small town until he was but a specific against the desert sun. The boy picked up the piece of paper before it flew away in the dust. He smiled at the words: “Throughout my journey I have pursued knowledge and understanding above accomplishment and success. Now I realize I also must pass on what I have come to know and understand. What little wisdom I have can be shared, and I will do so, to those who ask it of me.” The boy finished reading, then looked up to see if he could find the Duelist just once more; a final glimpse of the legendary swordsman. But he had disappeared yet again. [i]….thoughts?[/i]