The third round officially began with the clunk of the hourglass being turned over.
It was a winter morning, yet sweat had already soaked Renato's cotton lining.
The inside of his helmet was damp and stifling, with only a little air slipping through the gaps in his visor. He steadied his breathing as best he could and watched his opponent's stance.
"Red Hair" Bastu-a man so similar to him in height, build, and even swordsmanship-made Renato feel as though he were fighting his own reflection.
In the first two rounds, they had traded attacks almost frantically. Their reinforced, double-layered gambesons had offered little protection as their blunt training swords battered each other's bodies like iron rods.
Renato was certain the flesh beneath his training armor was already covered in bruises, perhaps even torn and bloody. But he could no longer feel the pain. Hormones had suppressed it, triggering the body's most primal fight-or-flight response.
Right now, all he wanted was to fight. To keep fighting.
Renato stepped forward, feinted with a slight turn of his wrist, then raised his longsword overhead and brought it down in a heavy cleave.
But Bastu had clearly anticipated the rhythm of his attack and was not fooled. He raised his sword to block, then delivered a backhanded horizontal cut that struck Renato squarely on the helmet.
Renato did not let the blow throw him off. As he retreated, he swung a spinning slash, cutting off any possible pursuit.
The two opened up the distance again. Warm liquid trickled down from Renato's temple, slightly blurring his vision.
Renato glanced at the scoreboard outside the arena, only then realizing with a start just how many hits he had taken. He was trailing by a considerable margin.
*No. I can't keep falling into his rhythm. Bastu is