The poisonous miasma in the alley had yet to disperse when blades clashed again on the dockside walkway.
Barlow's white-waxed wooden hilt spun half a turn in his palm, shifting from a reverse grip back to a standard one.
He had made that motion three times tonight. The first had been a probe, the second a feint, and this time was confirmation.
Confirmation that his opponent was worth his full strength.
Dean's sword remained held across his front. A ring of cloth had been sliced from the right sleeve of his old Marine shirt, revealing another shallow cut on his forearm. Beads of blood seeped from its edges, like a line of dark-red stitches beneath the moonlight.
"Your swordsmanship isn't from the East Blue."
Dean spoke. His breathing was heavier than at the start, but the hand gripping his sword was still as steady as a ship's anchor.
"Uchiha Style."
Barlow gave its name. He rarely uttered those four words before outsiders, because there were only a handful in all the East Blue worthy of making him name his swordsmanship.
"Never heard of it."
"You'll remember it soon enough."
Barlow lowered his stance, his blade tracing an arc from below upward.
The strike was not fast, but its angle was vicious, aimed at the fingers holding Dean's sword.
Dean retreated half a step and lowered his blade's spine to catch Barlow's edge. The two weapons shrieked as they scraped together.
Using the recoil from the parry, he pressed forward, trying to ram Barlow's Adam's apple with his hilt—a clean, decisive close-range counter from Marine swordsmanship.
Barlow did not retreat.
There was no time to withdraw his sword, so he simply threw his upper body backward. The blade skimmed past just above his throat, while he drove a raised knee into