Chapter 2.1: The Sky and the Mountain

Kalam charges for Wu, the last few feet he slides low a familiar sigil behind him and a trail of fine blue sand trailing his wooden blade. His Janbiya strikes out for Wu's right leg this time. Lightning coursing down Kalam's arm and into the faux blade.

Meng's training in qinggong, or 'flying footwork', enabled him to leap into the air. In a graceful tumble, the points of his feet barely touched the ground as his flitted backwards, away from the singular thrust of Kalam's janbiya. The blade missed; Meng was just slightly out of physical reach from the dagger, but the lighting did not miss, and arced across the blade tip to electrocute Meng's right leg, numbing it entirely.

Without hesitating, Meng landed on the now-numb leg of his, and used its dead weight to leverage the circular arc of his left leg as he swung a kick at Kalam's head. He then used the leverage off that kick to continue to launch him further backwards, putting more distance between himself and the elf. He was now no more within the striking distance of Kalam's swift charges and deadly strikes.

It was an impressive sight: the monk had tucked his left arm behind him, right hand posed in front of him, like a meditating buddha. He balanced on one leg, right leg folded back, eyes closed; the entire effect was as if he was an unyielding tree, rooted to the mountain.

Kalam just got the hachiwari up in time, didn't stop the hit from connecting but softened the blow a hair. It left his ear ringing but no serious injury. As Kalam's leg still stung from the rock earlier.
He didn't know what had happened. He'd missed his attack but the Galvanic still discharged. Yet his opponent still was able to stand on his leg. He straightens to his full height and looks over to his right at Wu.
"Impressive, student of the mountain. A lesser man would have met his end. I am truly grateful for this match. You do me great honor."
At that he switches stance, he reverses his grip on both his blades and holds before him. The hachiwari in front pointing to the sky, the janbiya crossed behind forming a kind of x. He crouches his legs behind him, again, ready to spring.
He draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes, as he exhales his eyes slowly open, a slight blue glow behind them. A slight look of concentration plays across his face.

"Brother of the sky, your mastery of the twin knives is unparalled, as are the multitude of techniques you have at your disposal. I am not your equal in close quarters, superior as you are in one-on-one combat." Meng, eyes closed, could sense Kalam's penetrating gaze in searching for an opening, and more so, attempting to discern what Meng's next move was.

"I have withdrawn beyond your striking range in the hope of engaging you where you cannot reach, as my kungfu strikes have greater range than your blades, and I am able to use ordinary things to attack you from a distance." The monk spoke candidly and without guile. After all, the contest was not one of deception and surprise, nor was it one of victory and defeat, but one of learning and enlightenment. Meng upheld his integrity and honoured his opponent by enabling him to understand what his tactics and next moves were. "If you can counter my strategy, I will humbly concede the match."

Kalam's charge was again flawless. While the duelist could not strike at Wu Meng this round, his sprint left no opening for Meng to exploit. Meng could only resort to the most straightforward of options. This time it was a convenient twig on the sparring ground that the monk used to flick at Kalam from this distance, before once again withdrawing to put some distance between himself and the charging duelist.

Kalam dosen't dodge the attack, knowing that he chose the right path. Even though dodging would have been natural for him, out of all the paths he saw that closed the distance, this one path was head on.
He spun at the last second, blue sand trailing behind. It took less than a fraction of a second to etch the symbol in the air. Decades of training and memory have made it as easy as thought. He felt the cool rush of power flow through him. Felt it build in his hand before flowing into the wooden knife. His awareness of this moment always thrilled him. Time seemed to stand still for him, this split second stretched into several. He knew he'd pay for this latter, that was fine. All magicks have a cost, his was time. Fatigue would hit him hard after this match, and he'd have a few more grey hairs for a bit. It was worth it, all of it, worth it. He never felt more alive than when in a fight.

If it were even possible, Kalam's blade thrust was even more precise than his previous strikes, unerring as the duelist was. There was no counter possible to the attack. With the last of his reserves, Meng held his position and drew strength from the spirit of the mountain, resisting the lightning magic that Kalam drew from the heavens.

It was the last of his energies, and Meng made it count. At that moment, his will was more powerful than the electricity coursing through the meridians of his body. The attack dissipated harmlessly back into the air it came from as Meng's right palm pushed forward, accompanied by a wave of force, both to deflect and to push Kalam backward.