“Son of a bitch!” Armstrong swung. Sam weaved through the strikes. A carve against the leg. A strike on the back. Send in the locusts, take them out. Don’t get hit. Hit only when you’re sure you won’t be hit back. Repeat until it becomes routine.

But routine leads to rigidity. When actions become automatic, there is less thought behind them. It was understandable for Sam. Even when on the edge of life and death, a rhythm lulls one into a false sense of security. And that gave Armstrong just the opening he needed.

He stamped his foot down. Sam had understood that to be sleeking the field with ice. And so, he tried to move as quickly as he could over it. However, it was a feint. Armstrong anticipated where Sam was going to dodge. And he managed to close the gap.

Armstrong gripped Sam's sword.

“This sword’s a bad fit for you, Sam,” he said. “Too long. Here, I’ll trim it DOWN for you!”

Armstrong clenched his fist, and the Masamune shattered. At this point, Sam was more annoyed than anything. He couldn’t go a damn day without losing a sword.

- Ragnarust Round 5