She felt a bit dazed; she had only seen such dueling scenes in novels and movies, where Western men often fought to the death over political views, justice, honor, or love. But why had they suddenly become so fierce? She was not the beautiful Helen described in the “Iliad,” and neither of them were Greek heroes fighting to prove the sincerity of their love under the witness of the gods.
The sharp blades clashed, producing a crisp, loud sound that rang like an alarm, awakening her to the reality that they were both trained soldiers, not helpless scholars. The outcome of this duel could very well be mutually destructive. Even though she had just been hating and resenting him, she didn’t want to see either of them die because of her.
However, unlike the flashy dueling swordsmanship of medieval knights, his moves were fierce and ruthless, rich in practical skills and experience. After several exchanges, Marcus found it increasingly difficult to fend off his opponent’s blade, and finally, in one clash, his sword tore through the sleeve of the black-gray uniform.
Khanyi gasped at the sight. “Stop!” Taking advantage of the momentary pause in their fight, she darted between them.
The sword he was about to pierce with had to change direction in an instant. This caused his body to lurch forward, instinctively using his right hand to support himself, the tip of the steel sword embedding into a crack in the ground.
Marcus’s sword whizzed past her ear, the sharp blade slicing through a lock of her black hair. Fortunately, he quickly redirected the blade, and the broad sword clattered to the ground. This caused him to lose his balance and fall, a tearing pain forcing him to clutch his shoulder, crimson blood beginning to seep through the gray uniform.
He didn’t take advantage of his opponent’s fall but instead glared at the girl, sizing her up from head to toe, roaring in anger, “Foolish woman! Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Meanwhile, the man behind her asked with concern, “Gianna, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer either of them, still standing between them. “You two must stop fighting!” Khanyi turned her head, intending to persuade him to cease the battle, but saw his chest covered in blood, the gray uniform soaked in crimson. “Marcus, you’re bleeding! Oh my God, so much blood!”
“What?” He touched his right chest, his palm immediately stained with blood. “It’s just a little blood; it’s nothing.” She pulled out her handkerchief and pressed it against his wound, the uniform torn open, but she couldn’t determine the location of the injury, unable to bandage it.
“It’s fine, Gianna, step aside. I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.” Marcus’s forehead glistened with sweat, his lake-blue eyes shifting focus as the slender figure of his opponent stepped closer.
“You’re hurt; don’t fight him anymore.” She pressed against him, the handkerchief already soaked in blood.
The sharp blade pointed again at Marcus’s forehead. “If you’re still a man, don’t hide behind a woman.”
“Despicable, shameless, scheming coward! Must your love and honor be validated with blood?!” Tears streamed down her face as she picked up the sword that Marcus had dropped. The weight of the sword exceeded her expectations; it required both hands to lift.
“What do you think you’re doing, foolish woman?!” He stepped forward quickly, skillfully swinging his sword in a defensive posture, instantly numbing her arm. She lost her grip on the blue sword, falling to the ground, losing her balance, while Marcus’s lake-blue eyes finally showed a hint of relief.
He didn’t advance further; something trembled in his ice-blue eyes, the sword tied with a golden tassel trembling slightly in his hand. The chrome-plated lightning cross reflected the white moonlight, casting a glow on the face of the girl kneeling on the ground; at the same time, the handsome man lying on the ground, his deep lake-blue eyes fixed on the sword within reach, the blue hilt shaped like an eagle in flight, its straight, stiff wings and razor-sharp edge seemed to invite its master eagerly.
Yet neither of them moved, as if considering something or waiting for something.
“I won’t fight a coward who needs a woman to protect him,” he said, stepping back a few paces, lowering his head to pick up the black uniform from the rubble and the gun strapped to his belt, casting her one last deep look before turning away with a hint of nonchalance.
Watching the slender figure disappear at the end of the church, among the rows of disordered, dilapidated black benches, Khanyi knelt rigidly on the ground, her head bowed, the tears at the corners of her eyes frozen, her heart feeling as if it had been emptied. In those ice-blue eyes, there was an indescribable mix of resentment and sorrow, pain and tenderness; those eyes could be as cold as ice, yet in an instant, they could convey all emotions to her without reservation.
“Sorry, Gianna, I still disappointed you. I lost this duel.” His lake-blue eyes looked at her, still in that gentle tone.
“No, don’t move; you need to be bandaged.” She pressed against him but didn’t look into his gentle, watery eyes.
After treating the wound on his chest, Khanyi gently pressed a cotton ball soaked in medicine against his cheek. “It’s just a scratch on the surface, a little bleeding. I’ve already stopped the bleeding for you, and with this medicine, it shouldn’t leave a scar.”
