melee
or mê·lée
[ mey-ley, mey-ley, mel-ey ]
noun
1) a confused hand-to-hand fight or struggle among several people.
2) confusion; turmoil; jumble: the melee of Christmas shopping.
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Franz
swung his mace at his opponent’s midsection. For most opponents, that would be enough
to send them sprawling. Franz was large, strong, and faster than he looked. He
had spent twenty years of his life perfecting his craft. He had fought more
people than he could count. He had worked until his hands bled, and his body
could not support itself anymore.
His opponent,
on the other hand, had none of those things. It was a boy who could not have
been more than 16. The kid had come out of nowhere, holding a sword that looked
like it belonged on some noble’s mantle than on a battlefield. He was also
clearly a novice. Oh he put on a good show, but Franz could tell from the way
he held his sword he was still a novice. How he made it to the tournament
finals was anyone’s guess.
It
should have been an easy win. It probably would not even take his full power to
send the skinny boy flying. When the kid dodged the blow, Franz chalked it up
to beginner’s luck. The next one, a coincidence. But every single attack after
that? The was something going on.
Somehow
Franz had yet to hit the kid even once. And the kid looked almost bored. He had
not even swung his sword once. It was maddening. And his cheering squad was no
help either. How this kid got so many beautiful girls to follow him around like
that, Franz could only guess. And the way they jumped and cheered for him was plain
annoying.
But he
could not let himself be distracted by the girls. Franz would not be satisfied
until he slammed his mace into the kid’s head. Show him what his hard work had
produced. That his training and experience were not all wasted.
Franz
pulled back a moment with his mace at the ready. The direct approach was not
working for some reason. It was time to use something different. He slowly
began circling his opponent, probing the boy’s loose stance critically. The boy
simply stood there. His knees were locked, and his feet rested far too close
together. A stiff breeze should have knocked him over. And yet…
Franz
broke into a run. Not directly at the tricky kid, but around him. Circling the
boy. Never giving him any indication of when or where the next strike would be
coming from. He dashed in, swinging with a light, quick jab from the kid’s
blind spot. It hit nothing but air. It also put Franz off balance.
He
stumbled forward, struggling to regain his footing. Once he did, he turned to
face to boy again. The boy sighed and spoke. He actually spoke during a fight.
“Okay, I
think that’s about enough. I thought this would be good training, but I guess I
was wrong.”
The boy raised his sword in a stance that did not look even
slightly practical. He stood too low, his sword was twisted up behind him, and his
shoulder was in front of his face in a way that did not seem comfortable. The
boy rushed in faster that Franz could keep track of. Then there was a flash of
steel and he felt the sword open a long, smooth gash in his chest.
Franz was
no stranger to pain or deep wounds, but this was different. Normally, a blow
like this would barely slow him down. But for some reason, Franz could not
move. He could only stare in shock as the kid sheathed his sword, confident
that the fight was already over. Indeed, Franz felt unsteady. He began tilting
forward. And then the ground reached up to greet him.
He heard
the crowd roaring its approval. And Franz clenched his fists in rage. He had no
idea how he had been beaten by an amateur so easily, but this defeat would not
last. He would find a way to defeat this kid, even if it took the rest of his
life to do.
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This is a big thing now in some circles of fiction. The protagonist who is somehow an overpowered expert in everything despite being a teenager. It's kind of weird, but there it is.
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