And every so often, when I spun around to swing the sheath down and strike her with fire, she would block it, she would dodge it, or she would try to knock me off – only in the final endeavor would she fail. But on the third attempt, I felt something cut me deeply.

My gut bled from the penetrating blade, but it didn’t go far. Penetrating my shirt, reinforced with the power of the Rider at the last second had saved me from death and slowed the blade enough not to skewer me. But I knew if she pulled down, I would die. My sheath exploded me away before that, but the force of the blade pulling out of me ripped a scream from my mouth.

I righted myself and sat on the sheath in as comfortable a position as I could manage. It was like the thing was a flying broomstick, but more awesome. My hand, held at my gut, dripped with crimson. I…. I had almost died. I was almost killed by my own sword. How the hell did that work, even? Weren’t Zanpakuto not supposed to do that to their wielders?