Flash Fiction - Fantasy + Kenji

Kenji pulled the helm from his head, letting it dangle on his fingertips before falling to the ground. The inside was caked with blood, his own blood, from the fresh gash across his face. Hot fluid seeping down his nose, his rage built higher. He would not be defeated. Not here, not now. 'Too much riding on this,' he thought, removing the flask from his hip. Taking a swig of whiskey, strength returned to his muscles.

He lifted his sword, the blade still heavier than he remembered, a side effect of blood loss and general fatigue. His opponent stood opposite him, trudging through the snow, her own sword shattered near the base, a buckler attached where her left hand should be. “Found your strength, then?” she shouted from across their battlefield. “Even with a broken blade, you don't have a chance in hell.”

A light chuckle escaped Kenji's throat. “That's what you think,” he muttered, though audible enough to be heard over the howling wind. He knew the secrets of his special brew: he had a few moments of absolute power, but that would be more than enough to best her.

She grinned, cocky. “Show me.” Bringing her sword across her chest, she waved her hand over the fragmented metal, fresh iron materializing from thin air. The edge glowed with a faint green, a remnant of the magic used to reforge it. Kenji gazed in awe, trying to discern his plan of attack. His opponent assumed her stance, ready for the next round.

There was no turning back now. The time for talk was over.

He tightened his grip, threw his weapon behind him, and charged. Headstrong, against the old regime, into a fight that he might not win. He had left his doubt behind. There was no other way.