This wasn’t a duel — it was a slow, stubborn dance between two broken machines, programmed to destroy each other. The formations seemed to function, but they were letting everything through. Whether the formations were failing or the fighters were pumped full of stimulants, it was hard to tell. I wasn’t an expert in either.Both sets of armour were holding together by sheer willpower and a whisper of luck. Turgunov’s looked better at first glance, but on closer inspection, it was riddled with holes like Swiss cheese.Dubois lunged again, sharply. And again, Turgunov reacted too late. The rapier pierced the mini-shield, but the broken blade slid weakly across Turgunov’s shoulder, scraping off the paint and leaving a long, shiny scratch.Dubois seemed to be aiming for the elbows. Why not the neck or the gut?Probably because Turgunov had shortened his blade, and it simply couldn’t reach.As before, Turgunov struck Dubois in the chest. The crack was loud enough to make me flinch. I thought he’d finally go down. But he stayed upright. Straightened up as if sheer willpower stitched him back together from the inside.And it wasn’t even like Turgunov had been aiming for the chest. He’d probably meant to caress his opponent’s ribs, but instead of dodging, Dubois took the hit on the sturdiest part of his armour. He even hopped slightly, using the impact’s momentum to avoid toppling. The force carried him backwards, and then — step forward. Another step. And again.Dubois aimed once more for the right elbow. Turgunov didn’t even try to block. He just gritted his teeth and raised the mace again. But this time, Dubois succeeded.The broken rapier pierced the mini-shield, hit precisely between the moving joints, and sank deeper.Dubois twisted the blade. He didn’t expose his chest this time, but the mace veered off course and struck his thigh instead of his ribs.Dubois fell, yanking the shard of blade free (...)