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The snowy landscape melted away, receding with great speed to reveal the long, rectangular piste of a fencing arena. No longer did Julien wear the thick, wool clothing of his wintry hunt; no longer did he sit astride his Rapidash and wield a rifle.[break][break]

Instead, he was dressed in a white fencing uniform, a mask tucked under one arm, an épée in his other hand. The metal hilt sat in his palm as if he had been born to hold it.[break][break]

Only then did Julien notice that the seats around the piste were packed with people; the aura of the chamber was so tense with excitement and anticipation that he could slice through it with his sword.[break][break]

At the other end of the platform, his opponent waited, already masked up. In the corner of his eye, Julien spotted his old university coach, speaking with one of the referees.[break][break]

Understanding dawned on him. This was the third and final match of the championship title competition.[break][break]

Julien put on his mask and secured it. The referee turned, nodded at both duelists, and waited until both assumed their stances on each end of the piste.[break][break]

"En garde!"[break][break]

Julien started forward. Épée demanded patience, observation, and swiftness of motion. Just like the hunt. And on this battlefield, he excelled, finding narrow opportunities to strike. The épée made contact again, and again, and again.[break][break]

Time passed in the blink of an eye. The referee called an end to the match—and to the contest. In bright, bold letters, the scoreboard declared Julien the irrefutable winner. He tilted his head back, basking in the deep satisfaction and joy of victory, the audience's cheers thundering around him.

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