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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Determination7 on 2024-10-01 20:39:26+00:00.

Nayt stood back, intending to continue his plan of slowing down the pace of their duel and forcing Ferrero into a more difficult guessing game. 'Sword fighting is a matter of statistics – not legendary techniques,’ he confidently thought. 'If I can force the Puppet into repeated exchanges where his odds are poor, then in the end, I’ll win. I still know not what his sorcery is that allows him to wound me, but it won’t matter if–’

Ferrero leaped forward at him.

'You’re the one attacking?’ Nayt pondered. That didn’t make sense. The only way Ferrero had kept up despite his lacking speed was with counterattacks. Initiating a frontal assault was tantamount to suicide!

Which was exactly what the Duelist had wanted him to think.

'You think you have an overwhelming advantage,’ Ferrero thought. 'Because of that, you’ll instinctively go for the kill again. A Countersixte-Parry and riposte, aimed right at my chest. It’ll give me the chance to disengage and win the exchange.’

When they fought next, everything played out precisely as he’d thought it would.

Even moreso than seeing a weaker swordsman prevail, it was the sheer accuracy of Ferrero’s prediction that unnerved Ciro. How could the forsaken Puppet be so preternaturally skillful?

“That makes us even, we are tied once more!” the Duelist declared.

And more importantly…how was he able to bypass their Talents’ difference in Rank? That question burned Ciro more than anything else, yet it barely seemed to register in the Elf’s mind.

“A tie? You cannot be serious.” Nayt retorted. “You’ve barely been hanging on. I am clearly your better in every way.”

The elf’s voice was deadpan, but not in a manner of dismissal. No – this was a purposeful, targeted slight.

This was trash talk.

'Don’t you dare, Puppet,’ Ciro seethed. 'It took years to mold Nayt’s heart into an empty tool, slaying and killing however I pleased! Don’t you dare corrupt him further!’

“Yet still, I hang; this lifeless Puppet lives!” Ferrero shouted, defiance in his voice and confidence in his smirk. “Kill me and prove me wrong, if you so dare!”

In actuality, he agreed with the Hangman’s take on their duel. Nayt was physically superior. Any prolonged exchange – where they spent time feeling each other out and acquiring information about the other’s intentions – would eventually end in his favor. But by quickly forcing them into repeated clashes, that advantage was lessened.

Just as Nayt had constructed his strategy to pave his path toward victory, so had Ferrero.

'Let me think.’ The Duelist considered his possibilities. 'How often does my opponent have the advantage?’

In his first assessment, he decided on a baseline. The two swordsmen were relatively close in skill and physical ability. Immediately going in for the kill would have odds of…about 5 out of 10 for either of them.

No. That wasn’t quite right.

Truthfully, Ferrero had a higher opinion of himself than that.

'If it comes down to a matter of out-predicting him in the critical moment, I’m confident that I’d win 7-times-out–of-10.’

'The longer an exchange lasts, the more the gap in our physicality widens. At that point, after about ten seconds of testing our ground, I can only win about 5-times-out-of-10.

'Worse still…if he can drag an exchange out to twenty seconds or longer, then my chances of winning plummet to merely 1-time-out-of-ten.’

It wasn’t an exact science, but it was close enough. There were other factors to consider as well – wounds, exhaustion, and the fact that the Hangman was more likely to land a fatal blow if he won an exchange, whereas Ferrero would probably only land a small cut.

Nevertheless, it made the Puppet’s next move quite simple.

He moved his grip on his blade up so that his hand was nearly touching the guard, as far away from the pommel as possible. This lessened his reach, yet also granted the blade a wider range of movement in a close-quarters combat.

‘So that’s your plan,’ Nayt thought, as he witnessed Ferrero advance towards him with explosive speed. 'You’re going to force me into ‘large’ decisions so that I can’t force you into numerous ‘small’ decisions. And by engaging me at close range, where I barely have time to prepare my next move…you’re hoping that my decision-making faculties will be diminished.’

His eyes glistened with excitement. 'Very well, Puppet! I accept your challenge!’

And so they went. The two men continued this uneven, unfair gamble, with their very lives resting at the tip of each other’s blades. Again and again they clashed, exchanging attacks, blood, and pride.

Their unrelenting skirmish continued until a most curious occurrence. Both had landed superficial wounds upon each other at the same time…yet Ferrero’s injury bled far more profusely.

“Why is your shoulder so wounded?” Nayt asked, narrowing his eyes. “It doesn’t make sense. I’ve seen your body resist fiercer wounds than that, Duelist.”

Ciro’s eyes widened. After minutes of searching through the Puppet’s mind, he had finally seized upon the answer he’d been looking for. His mouth fell open, and it took the Emperor of the World a moment of stuttering before he was able to voice his findings.

Knowing how this powerless Puppet could duel one of the mightiest Hangmen did not ease his mind in the slightest.

For the first time in his life, the same man who had killed his own brother for the sake of learning more about the Painted World, and then laughed at his decaying nightmare of a reality…felt horrified by the truth.

“Nayt!” the Emperor shouted. "That Puppet – that insane Puppet isn’t using his Talent when he attacks!"

Ciro failed to keep a note of furious bafflement from sneaking into his voice. This wasn’t just absurd; it was an affront to the natural order of the universe. “He only activates his Talent to add momentum to his movements! Whenever he lands his actual attacks, he stops using it entirely!”

The elven Hangman’s mind raced through several thoughts in succession. 'That explains the odd interactions between our Talents.’ Dueling was a useful Talent, but it had obvious limitations. Raising one’s physical abilities in single combat was worth little if the user still couldn’t overcome a difference in Rank.

Ferrero’s solution had been to use his Talent as much as possible, then deliver the final blow as a completely normal person, without any magical abilities involved. Rather than a Clash of Talents, their exchanges became clashes of pure physicality.

'Talents fall to raw violence,’ Adam the Painter had often said.

It was a simple, elegant solution…yet there was a reason why no others had ever attempted it.

Using his Talent only at the most critical times meant he was relying on his swordsmanship and nothing else. During that single moment, Ferrero didn’t possess the enhanced strength, speed, and durability that came with his Dueling Talent.

Any injury he received – even a minor one – could be utterly lethal.

'The man is clearly mad…fortunately,’ Ciro thought, grinning with relief. 'I was concerned that he harbored a secret Puppet weapon, but this is nothing to worry over. They can hardly reproduce his particular brand of lunacy. Moreover, with Nayt’s newfound knowledge, he should overwhelm the Puppet in short order.’

That wasn’t all. Before even Nayt himself noticed, Ciro witnessed a change take place inside of his mind. The sheer respect he felt for the duelist had now evolved to the point where he no longer cared whether his opponent was human, elf, puppet or monster – Ferrero was alive.

Which meant the elf’s Talent of Hanging was working again.

During their last exchange, the heat of battle had caused Nayt’s flames to unconsciously jump forth and touch the Puppet’s arms. They were larger and more uncontrolled than the stealthy flame from before, yet this too was a blessing of the Goddess of Luck.

'Changing what you consider to be ‘alive’ is impressive,’ Ciro thought, grinning. 'Even I would have trouble doing something like that so quickly. Your flames of death might be weaker now than usual, but if they are already this large, then it should be more than enough to kill this damned Puppet!’

However…

Nayt was displeased.

His gaze was cast downward, and his fists shook with anger. “Dances such as ours were not meant to end like this, Puppet.” The elf’s voice was filled with melancholy and regret. “But…this is the end. You’ve proven your worth – and thus, as a Hangman, I must bring you death.”

The Talent-conjured flames on Ferrero’s arm shrunk. When they vanished, his life would vanish with them. Bit by bit, they grew smaller, nearly dissipating…

Until suddenly, a strange liquid touched them. The substance had shot out from within his sword hilt. Nayt’s flames immediately ignited, burning wilder than ever before on the Puppet’s arm.

It took a moment for the Hangman to understand what that liquid was. When he did, the realization came as perhaps the greatest shock of the day yet.

“Oil,” Nayt muttered in disbelief. “You…you had oil prepared to keep my flames alight.”

The elf’s dumbstruck eyes were drawn to the roaring flames. “But if you’re turning off your Talent when attacking, that – that has hurt an unbelievable amount!”

“Aye, it did, and it does, and it will still.” Ferrero laughed through the pain nonetheless. "Yet losing this duel would feel far …

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