Marroo barely felt the anxiety of his first tournament match at the start of his second. By his fifth all sense of excitement had faded, by his seventh he barely saw the opponent standing across from him. He only heard his father’s voice directing him from the sidelines and the moments spent at his breathing exercises between bouts.

“They’re here to humiliate you boy. Hurt them for it.”

He humiliated them instead and, when he thought his father wouldn’t notice, pulled his strikes to avoid hurting the others.

“You slash too much.” His father told him during a break in their schedule for lunch. Other divisions of the tournament took to the rings while they ate, mostly children with full sets of pads and a few adults in a corner surrounded by some of their students. His father snorted as they watched two adults in the colors of rival schools come together in a flashing display of cuts and jabs that made the audience cheer and shout. He turned from the balcony railing from which they were watching and looked at Marroo. “I told you to hurt these fools.” he said, “These children might have opened their cores, if they’re lucky. You should have no trouble hurting them badly enough that they forfeit after the first round, even among their best.”

One of the adults in the exhibition ring at the far end of the gymnasium took a bad step and fell while the other descended with a cut that clearly stopped long before it touched the other person in the ring despite the open shot its wielder had at the fallen man’s chest. Marroo’s father turned to the exhibition as the audience cheered loudly and the winner helped the loser to his feet.

“You’ll be facing their prized students soon.” Darro said grimly. “We’ll see what they think of us then.”

Marroo knocked the next boy out of the ring entirely in their first round. He slammed his sword point into the boy’s midriff with enough force to throw him backwards off of his feet through the glowing perimeter of their ring. If the boy hadn’t opened his core, the blow would probably have shattered his solar plexus and every rib in his chest, instead it rolled him across the floor until he flopped onto his back and gasped for air. The competitors in the ring he’d come to rest in helped him to his feet and the referee led him gasping back to their ring while Marroo stood motionless in its center.

The boy glared at Marroo as his sword was pushed back into his hands. The violet tinge to his eyes brought bloody memories to Marroo’s mind and he closed his eyes as he bowed. He was a sword, he told himself. Just a sword. A weapon in his father’s hand. He wasn’t the one that wanted to do this.

He knocked the sword from the other boy’s hands without opening his eyes, then performed the final cuts from the first three cycles of his father’s style in quick succession. He whacked the boy on the head, then slashed one of his legs at the knee, then slammed the tip of his blade down into the center of his ribcage as the boy fell.

In the third round he didn’t bother with his Kata at all. He just, slammed the sword into the boy’s upraised rubber blade with enough force to bounce the blocking blade off of his opponent’s skull.

“Not so hard!” The referee shouted as Marroo stepped back and opened his eyes. The boy wasn’t glaring anymore. He wasn’t looking at Marroo at all. The referee glared for him, green eyes framed in a black head that seemed naked of all hair, even at the eyebrows. “Not so damn hard!” The referee snapped again. The boy wobbled as he tried to take a step and the referee hurried to steady him as Darro stepped through the ribbon of light into the ring.

“Don’t you discipline my son!” He drew his voice like a sword pointed towards the referee. “Don’t you ever, dare, to raise your voice to my son except to get his hearing.” Darro met the referee’s glare as the bald man held the reeling boy. More eyes turned towards them from other rings and Marroo faded backwards as the referee threatened to have his father barred from the tournament and his father made threatening noises about arrogance and ignorance.

“Bow.” The referee finally snapped at both boys.

Marroo did so. The boy he’d clobbered staggered slightly as he gave an answering bow.

“You.” The referee said. He glared at Marroo. “If I hear about any unsportsmanlike behavior again, any at all, you understand? I’ll have you and your father barred, whatever your father’s standing with the masters might be. Do you understand?”

Marroo nodded, and the man snapped him an answering nod, then led Marroo’s opponent into the crowd. Marroo’s father snorted when the boy was out of sight behind the ring of other contestants clobbering away at one another with their swords. He turned and looked Marroo up and down with a fierce look, then nodded, and led Marroo out of the rings to the edge where they would wait for their next bout.

The recruiter found them while they waited.

“Your son shows much promise.” A voice said from behind them.

Marroo turned and found a black man with green eyes that matched the green X of the Martial robes crossed over his chest staring at them. He stood with a relaxed posture as he watched the other children sparring in the rings. He smiled at Marroo, and Marroo spotted a badge that depicted a tree wreathed in flame floating above his familiar’s clip.

“We have not seen a bule in this competition in a very long time.” The man said. “At least, not at this level. It has been… amusing… to listen to the masters argue over his course through the rounds.”

“As long as they don’t deny him a fight.” Marroo’s father grated. “The boy is sloppy. I brought him here to be sharpened.”

“Oh, they won’t.” The man said. “They’re still arguing over whose school will have the honor of teaching an outsider a lesson, but I believe I am the first to realize that you need not be an outsider here.”

Marroo’s father grunted, and the man paced forward until he stood next to Darro to watch the last matches wind down amidst the rings.

“After your son won in the first match of the semi-finals, I wanted to know who my own champions would be facing.” The man said. “I saw that you listed no school in your registration for the event, and paid in silver.”

“I did.” Marroo’s father said.

The green eyed man turned to look at him. “Have you considered enrolling him in a school?”

Marroo’s father gave the man a glance. “You want to snatch him up do you?” His voice grated like rusty steel.

The recruiter gave a small smile, then glanced at his fingers as he rubbed something idly between them. “The Burning Tree school is not as large as, say, the Snapdrake school, or the Four Points, but we come from a district close to the dregs proper, and so lack some of the… prejudices of the larger schools, and we are dedicated specifically to the sword, unlike some of those.”

Marroo’s father grunted. “You don’t have a backer.” He said.

The recruiter’s smile turned tight. “We are unaffiliated, yes.” he said, “That comes with some disadvantages but also some opportunities. We have to look for our own talent, but when we find ones we think will do well when agents from the night plains come sniffing, we tend to spend more of our time and resources on them, particularly at such a young age.”

“My son will not be for sale to any of the agents.” Marroo’s father said. “The shortcut they offer has no appeal to me, and by the time he is old enough for them to consider he will have no use for it either. If he wants to go to the night plains, it will be his decision, not theirs.” He looked at the recruiter in what was clearly a dismissal.

“There are other benefits to being part of a school.” The recruiter said smoothly. “It couldn’t have been cheap, signing up for this event without a sponsor. You said your son was sloppy, we could provide a venue for his training. He’s opened his core, hasn’t he? I’m sure our students could benefit from his example.”

The last of the matches came to a close as one boy knocked the other boy bodily to the floor then snapped his sword down to his opponent’s head.

“I have no use for your school.” Marroo’s father said. “And neither does my son.”

“Surely there is some benefit to be accrued from time spent with other sword trainees of his own age.” The recruiter went on, undeterred. He looked to Marroo. “What do you think Marroo?” he asked, “Would you like to be part of a school with others like yourself? Children training with the sword? Friends?”

Marroo shrank away from the question and looked to his father.

“He needs enemies if he is going to touch the icon. Not friends.” Darro snapped. “I never needed friends to help me wield a sword.”

“There is an end to what one man can teach his son.” The recruiter added. “I have four sons. I know this to be true. It is why we have schools at all. No one can teach another to touch the Icon by themselves. We require others to help us where our knowledge comes to its own end.”

“And you need the prestige to attract the attention of the ruling sects.” Darro said. He gave the recruiter an unsmiling look. When the buzzer in the ceiling rang he looked at the data on his familiar’s clip and turned to Marroo. “We have a match.” He grated. “Come.”

Marroo scurried up to run after his father as they left the man from the Burning Tree school behind. He jogged to keep up with his father’s march and saw his father glare at their, Marroo’s, new opponent before he turned to Marroo.

“I want you to break his arm.” He ordered his son.