Control
Searing sunlight glints off the blade as you pivot—whirling steel slashes through air thick with falling citrus. Pulpy shrapnel rains around the fighter’s boots, splattering the cracked earth with sticky nectar. Watermelon husks burst like war drums, mango flesh explodes in golden shrapnel, pineapple rinds spiral like sawblades. The fighter ducks under a plummeting durian, its spiked armor whistling past their ear, then lunges upward to bisect a cluster of grapes midair. Slick pulp chokes the ground, forcing desperate footwork as the fighter carves through the fruital bombardment. Citrus sting floods the nostrils, sugar-water soaks their tunic, but the blade never slows—each swing a calculated strike against the orchard’s wrath. A pomegranate detonates inches from their face, seeds embedding in stone like shrapnel. The fighter springs sideways, heel skidding through raspberry entrails, and thrusts the blade skyward to impale a diving coconut. Breath heaving, muscles burning, they brace for the next wave—the sky darkens with descending shadows, seeds morphing into blackened thorns. Survival hinges on speed now. Blade meets rind in a crescendo of juice and steel.
description
Bill the Archer, renowned as the realm’s finest marksman, had his reputation soar until it captured the attention of the king himself. Eager to witness such skill firsthand, the monarch summoned him to the capital for a public exhibition. Thousands flooded the square, craning necks and holding breaths as the archer nocked his first arrow. But beneath the gaze of nobles and commoners alike, Bill faltered—the cacophony of cheers, the pressure of royal scrutiny, the dizzying sea of faces fraying his steady focus. Sweat slicked his palms; his bow trembled. Without intervention, the shot would stray. For the first time in his storied career, defeat loomed—not from lack of skill, but the crushing weight of a kingdom’s eyes.
