A duel of justice, a knight paying back the crime of his master’s death to He who’d ordered it.

“For my MURDERED teacher!” Justinian sprinted at Him, his sword hungering for vengeance.

As the duel was beginning, all around the arena, the crowd giggled, snacked, chatted, and frowned with amused curiosity. Whatever dramatic impact the knight roleplayer might've intended with his tormented revelation about The Tyrant snuffing some teacher dude had been turned into an unintentional comedy due to the wider context: the two teens were standing semi-nude in their underwear on a children's playground map, surrounded by loopy-doopy slides and toddler toys. It was hard to imagine a sillier setting to drop an accusation of murder. Maybe if they'd thrown on a gang of diaper-bottomed crotchfruit to make use of the ridiculous equipment?

A few astute spectators had a vague sense that this comedy of incongruity might not be completely accidental...

But, Justinian, immersed soul-deep in the world of his knight's grudge, was not yet attuned to such things.

As he raced across the battlefield, he squinted his knight’s gaze to eliminate the distraction of the false glare. He peered beyond the small image of Sir Henry to the larger evil he embodied, to the multi-headed empire whose oppressive appendages He’d controlled as he controlled the myriad of weapons pouring from his Spatial Bracelet.

Out, these wicked instruments flowed, swarming to dismember the Crusader as they had so many previous retribution-seekers, as His troops had so many innocent souls. Within a forming fortress of weapons, He was crouching, assuming a defensive stance - scared, no doubt, after the knight had finally by-passed his minions to attack him flesh to naked flesh.

But Justinian's sword of justice would be slowed by neither those wicked armaments, nor Sir Henry’s cowardice. The knight was but one lone man wielding one lone blade; nevertheless, in this fight against the evil multitude and whoever—brother or foe—held its abominable centre, he had the support of the higher powers of God and goodness.

Justinian, closing in to meet his enemy, flicked his sword into a mixed guard taught by his slain master, who’d shown him the place of the blood-drinking blade in shielding the defenceless meek.

“For Betruger!” the knight cried, leaping upon Him with a burst of leonine speed.

With fearless courage, he launched himself directly at Sir Henry, his zweihander awakening from the slumber of a false brotherly peace. The two collided as enemies, weapon meeting weapons in an anguished orgy of steel. Dismantling the illusion of fraternity, their muscles worked, their souls worked, their swords worked.

"For Betruger!" Justinian swung, smashing a shield away. "For Betruger!" He, ducking a stab, knocking aside a spear shaft, thrust a feint that forced his foe to backflip. "For Betruger!"

He swung, and he swung, and he swung.

The spectators were pleasantly astounded.

"Oh, wow."

"Nice."

"Hey, the kid's not dead!"

"That's...new?"

Throughout the day's series of challenges against The Tyrant, many boneheads had opened with a similar brute force rush to Justinian's. Having no clue how to defeat the bewildering weapon-juggling technique, they'd simply charged him swinging, hoping they might score a miracle hit. Without exception, these noobs had lost within one or two attacks, most dying in less than two seconds. Since The Tyrant could use his extra weapons to cover all openings, he was at liberty to casually pick a tool for himself and return a death blow through their sloppy guards.

But not, for some reason, against this knight LARPer.

The roleplayer was—perhaps indeed blessed by the heavens—miraculously surviving. In the blindingly quick exchange, the knight's maniac zweihander danced through dozens of motions. It deflected attacks, stabbed out feints that almost clipped The Tyrant’s neck and drove him step-by-step into retreat.

What the heck-a-leck was going on? the crowd began to wonder. Had this knight somehow found a way to defeat The Tyrant? Maybe this was why The Tyrant possessed such a strong, irrational loathing for roleplayers: LARPing was, actually, the shadow's secret Achilles' heel...

Justinian—within the bewildering blitz of milliseconds as His weaponry-minions inundated him from every angle, his knight’s vision filled with flashing silver, his knight’s ears ringing with the clashing of his zweihander moved by knightly instinct to defeat his foe’s machinations, blocking a shield-bash, parrying a spear thrust, parrying two rapier cuts—maintained his god-strengthened posture. His lone weapon searched with calm, the creator stabilising it on the path towards heaven’s final judgement.

Blow by tempering blow, what hesitancy may have caused his sword to tremble before was being purged. Sir Henry, with whom Justinian had crossed blades at evening practice in the spirit of mutual growth, was vanishing. All that came to exist before the knight was the conniving monster who’d orchestrated his master’s ignoble death – Him.

That's right...the knight's enemy was Him, and He, who'd MURDERED his master, must die!

So attacked the Gold Crusader, with his vengeance bold, with sword,

Which he swung to sate the phantom of the master he’d adored.

For Betruger’s ghost in heaven, for the howling spirit smudged,

He would slay this loathsome tyrant and appease his knightly grudge.

Will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he, will he right the grudge?

Will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he, won’t he right the grudge?

“Justice!” screamed the knight, his arm thrusting towards the vile truth sensed within this wicked complexity, towards the payback delayed by years of—

"Nope." Henry—side-stepping the baited move—pushed the roleplayer along with its momentum, tripped him, and twirled him off his feet. As the kid flew past him, he seized the handle of a two-handed war-hammer dropping from the air and swung it like a golf club. The weighted head bashed into the back of Justinian’s falling, helmetless skull.

In most circumstances, this would have been a fatal blow, the Crusader’s noggin exploding in a shower of fractured bone and meat.

However, Henry, for the duel against this disgusting roleplayer, was intentionally not any of his strikes, wanting to whack the roleplayer more than once for greater stress relief. This decision represented the natural synthesis of A Thousand Tools’ More-maximising philosophy and Henry's latest adventures into achieving mental health through videogame 1v1 violence – more hits equalled more stress relief.

Thus, as Justinian's head met the head of Henry's hammer, the otherwise lethal blow merely made a funny bonk.

Bonk!🔨🥥

The hit dealt a sixth of its real-life damage against the Vitality-reinforced bone, rattling the LARPer's stupid just a little. The rest of the kid's goofily-tall 7-foot knight’s body continued to fly forward and shoot head-first into the opening of the children’s tunnel-slide that Henry’d been luring him towards.

At once, struck on the head and stuck in a slide, Justinian seemed to undergo a dramatic metamorphosis.

The valiant knight surviving by a miracle against The Tyrant's weapons, shouting for justice for his master unfairly murdered, was transformed into a bum in tighty-whities sticking awkwardly out of a bright-pink glossy tube.

....

............

....................................

🍑🛝🩲😳😳😳😳

Henry, as the kid then flailed to escape, shoved him back in and swung the hammer twice more to spank his unarmoured butt, breaking his tailbone. "Act out this scenario like a knight, you roleplayer scum!” Trading the hammer for a spear, he rammed the point through the lower back, puncturing the meat of this kid’s interior. “You could've avoided this fate by just using a shield, but, no, ‘I wear the armour of God’. Where’s your god now, bitch?! Is he hiding up that slide? Here, I'll push you in deeper to see if you can find him!"

With each hit, he vented some of his misery upon the roleplayer, purging his heart of its pent-up animosity and striving a bit closer to that tough goal of inner peace. Henry’s only regret was that he hadn’t invited more of these LARPing goons on this playground map for a 1v6, for the heightened satisfaction of breaking multiple characters at once.

Justinian, the knight struggling to escape the assault, screamed with moral fury. “BLASPHEMOUS FIEND—"

Henry used a war-axe to bash the scripted reply out of the kid’s skull. “Your god isn't here, BITCH! You have entered My domain, and there will be no roleplaying on My 'shadowy' watch!"

The crowd—watching the unclothed Tyrant wailing on the stuck roleplayer, realising why he’d not finished him immediately—exploded with laughter.

😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆

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Oh🙀, that👉👉👉👉👉 whacky Tyrant!😝 It seemed even he👨 had a sense💰 of humour😂, not all💯 of it belonging to his funnier 😂😭 beaver🦫🦫-headed half .

And, if one ignored the mild gore🩸💀🩸💀🩸, the beating👊 truly was comedic!😆

Justinian, activating a Spell-shield to free himself from the slide and whatever the hell Sir Henry just did there, resumed his showdown with Him with the bolstered rage.

“How DARE you!” the knight bellowed, his sword blocked by a shield🤺🛡️🚫 while Sir Henry stabbed🔪 his belly with a rapier🤰🔪🩸. “HOW—” He missed🚫 another attack🤦, a crafting hammer hitting him in the teeth🔨😬. “STOP! FIRST YOU—” His head flung back👧👈, Sir Henry punching👊 him square🔳 in the mouth😐👊😬. “STOP!”

“Nah, fuck🖕 you🖕, and fuck🖕 your ‘master’🖕,” Henry replied🖕🖕🖕, shoving the kid👧👶👦 over and ramming🐐 a spear🔱 through the soft🍦 triangle◀ of flesh🥩 under his jaw💀. “I’ll stop when you stop 🤡roleplaying🤡 a moron.”

For the next⏭️ round🔁 of mental self-pampering💆🧠, to shouts of encouragement thrown from the cackling🤣🤣 audience, Henry performed💃🏽 a weapon-juggling🔫🤹🔫 tripping routine. He used his tools🛠️ in creative🎨 ways to spoil⚠️⚠️ any attempt by this punk roleplayer to stand🧍‍♂️ upright👼 and forced the kid🧒 to roll around in the dirt💩💩 while getting beat🤕. Any time⌚ Justinian tried👀 to 🤡🤡roleplay🤡🤡 his rising🌡️ anger😠, Henry silenced🤫 him👴 with a kick👞 in the face.

“O poor knight♞!” he shouted mockingly🤡🤡, stomping🦶 the kid’s head🤕. “O betrodden🦶 soldier of 🙏God🙏!”

It was only with great embarrassment that Justinian finally managed to recover back to his feet, the knight forced to roll behind one of the playground map’s toys, a rideable whale mounted on a spring, and cling to it like a rock in a stormy ocean. Now—Sir Henry’s abuse and his mockery of God and the slain master having eradicated the last vestiges of doubt—he attacked with the purest of fury, his zweihander flying fast for holy vengeance.

"Fiend!" Justinian, glaring righteous hatred, hacked through the juggled weapons for the monster taunting him inside. "Foulest blackguard, receive—”

"Nope🚫👮." Henry—slapping the cut🔪 aside and letting it chop🥩🔪 off the sacrificed hand🩸👍🩸—used his remaining hand👇 to double-thrust a rapier into👉 each of the roleplayer’s glaring eyeballs👉👀. “That😳 expression's far too serious😐 for a duel⚔️ in a videogame🎮🤣🤣.”

🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂🤣

“FIEND!” The knight, blinded👉👀👨‍🦯♿, swung again.

And he swung and he swung and he swung, and he flubbed🚫🏆, and he flubbed🤦, and he flubbed🥉.

For his foe😈 was not so ready to allow his blade🪒 to hack🐱‍💻,

To behead the guilty👮⛓️⚖️ noggin on which lay the sensei🥋 whacked🗡️💀🪦🗡️.

👀See👀, The Tyrant shed no teardrops😂😂 for Betruger turned to sludge☣️.

No respect he’d 🤡🤡🤡roleplay🤡🤡🤡 either for this ‘knight’s’ retarded♿ grudge.

Will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he, will he right the grudge?

Will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he, won’t he right➡️➡️ the grudge?

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

The crowd were worked into hysterics by The Tyrant’s extended bullying.

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😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝

😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝

Again❌ and again, the roleplayer's🤤 attempts at retribution👮⛓️ were ruined🤬. The Tyrant👑😈 utilised the Jungle Gym💪 map’s🗾 childish equipment👶🏋️👼🍼 to create a character-breaking comedy😂 that made it impossible to take👊 whatever😒 The Crusader✞🧔🏽 was ranting about seriously💩😒. The wannabe knight🌃🌛 tumbled through🔛 the playground hi👋jinks, smacked in the jaw😬🦈 by a see-saw👀🪚, entangled in👈 a swing-set, wedged into👉 a spinning contraption😵 and given a dizzying ride😵😵😵, gorilla🦍🍌-tossed on top of monkey-bars🐒🎶.

Along with these environmental🌍 exploits🌍📈💲, The Tyrant’s🛞🐜 weapon-juggling also➕ took a comedic😂😂 twist. Between the reduced-damage hits📉🎯, he🤣 slipped😮 in completely💯 harmless🩸🚫 gag😩 manoeuvres. He👨 arranged spears⚠️ into crisscrosses✞ to make the knight♞ stumble, 🪓he dropped🪓 random🪓 axes🪓 from the sky🪓 to 🪓o🪓b🪓s🪓c🪓u🪓re🪓 the knight’s🪓👀 vision and smack🪓 his nose🪓🐽, he disarmed him💪 to replace his zweihander✋✋ with a shield🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️🛡️.

A few🔢 spectators👀👀 were reminded of how Karnon🚗🚫 fought. The trickster God🙏🤡🙏 wove a similarly complex mix🥄 of joke🥵😝 attacks🗡️💀, multi-layered feints, and faked self-kills designed🤔 to 🎈inflate🎈 the opponent’s hope for a more soul-expanding poop💩💩💩💩. A smaller portion of this observant lot, those not distracted by the humorous aesthetic, saw the terrifying reality of these combat gags, each one substituting for a kill, the victim made to endure a thousand deaths before the real one.💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀😂

Still🙄, for the most part, everyone👥 was merely entertained🤤🤤🤤 by The Tyrant’s fusion☢️ of these 🤡clownish🤡 methods with his tool technique🛠️🖥️🧎.

If there was any sympathy for Justinian to be found, it came only from the Virtual Realists in the challenger queue. This group recognised in his abuse the same abuse they'd received daily. So much needless mockery had been dealt to their community, who'd never hurt anybody, who were just embracing the freedoms of identity offered by this digital domain. Few in this loveless world could understand their wish to rise beyond the confines of their born flesh, and that lack of understanding produced fear, disgust, and hatred.

It pained their hearts. In an absurd and tragic way, Justinian, this struggling knight laughed at on stage, was living out the lonely torture of all Virtual Realists, even the acknowledgement of their struggle being denied by this cruel, indifferent universe.

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Those Virtual Realists who roleplayed humans shouted their support for the struggling knight. 🦮Others🐾 barked🐩🌭 theirs🐕, 😺meowed🐈 it😿🦁😿, hissed🐍🐍🐍 it, beeb-booped it🦾🤖🦾🖥️.

The rest of the audience simply laughed.

😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

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Justinian, a clown🤡 spinning😵 within a rodeo🎪🎠 of humiliation😳😳😳, was worked🏢 up🆙 into👉 such a rage😡🤬 that😟 it stopped🚫 being😮 clear😋😉 who⁉️ was trying😼👌💥 to kill🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪💩 this enemy👿👹😡. Was it the 🤡knight🙈 seeking an answer✅ to his master’s😏❤️ death☠️💩? Or🤷‍♂️ was it the other soul🙏 inside😱 infuriated😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡 by the public spanking😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳?

Regardless of who⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️ swung, nothing would reverse his hopeless🙏🚫 predicament, the kid👶 or the knight♞ having challenged⚔️ a monster😈.

👶⚔️😈

♞⚔️😈

🛡️Everywhere🌍🌏🌏🌏🌏 Justinian👶🛡️ floundered🐟🛡️, he🛡️ was🛡️ 🚫blocked🚫 by🛡️ floating🛡️ shields🛡️,

While The Tyrant😈 knocked✊ and pound💷 him with The Thousand Gags🔟✖️💯🤢🤮 he wields.

One strike✊, one slap🤦, the knight might founder☠️, his skull☠️ transformed to fudge🍫🍫🍫🍫,

But the attacks🤦 were not 🚫⚡⚡🚫 just to mock🤡 at length🍆🍆🍆 his grudge.

Will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he, will he right➡️ the grudge?

Will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he, won’t—

No. The answer was no. Henry, growing bored with toying with this kid, finished him off by burying a hatchet in his nose.

🪓

🐽

🩸

☠️

“Justinian eliminated! HF wins! -8, +13!”