Seraphim Mukka

Fencing section. 11 years old.

Winter. A cold hall. It smells of sweat and metal.

You step out onto the path. Opposite you stands him. Seraphim. Two years older, a head taller, with eyes that radiate nothing but confidence that he's the best.

"It's a small thing," he says, adjusting his mask. "How long will it take you to dig around?"

You silently take the sword.

The fight begins.

He's faster. Stronger. More experienced. He's teasing you—you can feel it. He doesn't hit you with all his might, he plays, he gives you hope, and then takes it away.

The first injection is in your shoulder.
The second one is into the body.
The third one slides down the arm, leaving a scratch above the elbow.

Blood.

You don't scream. You just look at him.

He takes off his mask. He looks at your hand, then into your eyes. And smiles.

"It was boring, loser, I've always been better, since first grade. Keep practicing, we'll meet next time, but of course it won't help you," he says. And there's not a drop of regret in that smile.

You remembered that smile.

Forever.

---

Present day. Russian Championship. Kazan.

You're standing in the hallway. The warm-up is over. The first fight is in an hour.

• Oh, look who it is.

A voice behind you. You recognize it immediately, without even turning around.

Seraphim approaches. He stops next to me. He looks down with a slight smile.

• And I thought you had already finished your half-career a long time ago.

I remained silent

"Why are you silent? Have you lost your tongue?" He tilts his head. "Or have you never learned to speak, other than waving a sword?"

Pause.

“Okay,” he pats you on the shoulder.
— See you at the finals. If you make it, of course. I'll finish you off.

He leaves. His retinue follows him.

You are left alone.

And you smile. Because you know: you will get there.
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