Ryan set down his heavy wooden practice sword. He dropped into a stance, as tense and serious as a miniature gladiator.

  "Show me how it's supposed to be done."

  I chuckled. "Alright. We're playing by the rules of tag."

  He looked at me like I was insane. "Tag? That's a children's game."

  "You know so little," I shook my head. "This is a very old game used to warm up and train for real combat. The main goal here is to read your opponent. To deceive him. It doesn't matter how hard the strike is. The most important thing is to make him believe one thing, and then do another."

  I walked over to him and quickly, but lightly, tapped his shoulders, then his solar plexus, his stomach, and his sides near the kidneys. "These are your targets. Hit them. And the most crucial rule: you are forbidden from looking away from my eyes. You look at the face—you see the whole body."

  I dropped into an orthodox stance. Ryan mirrored me. I began making short, springy hops from side to side. The pendulum step.

  "What are you doing?" Ryan frowned. "Why so many unnecessary movements?"

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  "This is a classic, kid. Sure, you can't bounce around like this wearing heavy armor on muddy ground, but I learned this from someone very talented. Look how mobile I am."

  Ryan decided this was his chance. He lunged forward sharply, trying to tag my stomach. I simply swayed back, letting his hand slip through empty space, and immediately countered with a light slap to his shoulder. Hopped back. Another slap to his other shoulder.

  "Faster, Ryan! Think faster!"

  I started applying pressure. I worked exclusively with one hand, throwing fast, straight jabs. "See? I'm constantly throwing jabs. Most of them are useless; they don't deal any damage. But they don't let you breathe. They don't give you the time to think properly. You are constantly on the defensive."

  Ryan grew angry. He tried to strike back, also throwing a straight punch. "Aha, too late!" I slipped easily off the line of attack. "You telegraphed that strike for far too long. Before you threw the punch, you pulled your fist back. Never pull back. That is a mistake. You strike from where your hand is. Sharply. Like a snake."

  We circled the room for about ten minutes. The kid started gasping for air, his face flushed red. "Greg... how are you... not tired?" he wheezed. "This requires... an enormous amount of stamina."

  I stopped, not even out of breath. "Exactly. I remember a certain man saying once... what was his name, I don't remember. Doesn't matter anyway. He said: you have to fly like a butterfly. Or was it burn like a butterfly?"

  I scratched the back of my head. Memory is a leaky sieve. "Basically, you have to burn, kid. As long as you're burning—you're moving. The second the flame goes out—you're a corpse."