With a guttural roar that scraped the inside of his throat, Roy forced his trembling legs to lock. He gripped the lacquered hilt with both hands, channeling the absolute final reserve of his stamina into his shoulders, and drove the silver blade downward.
SWISH.
The katana cleaved through the central axis of the tracking matrix. The trajectory was a flawless, unyielding vertical line. Not a single horizontal rod rattled. Not a single vertical stick clicked. The blade cut cleanly through the exact center of the space, stopping perfectly an inch above the dirt.
The moment the momentum of the swing carried through, Roy's eyes rolled back into his head. His fingers loosened, the katana slipping from his palm as his knees gave out completely. He collapsed sideways into the dust, totally unconscious, but a faint, victorious expression remained locked on his pale face.
