Gunnar Hamundarson, the best there ever was, and Farbjorn Farbjornsson, the iron-clad wonder, now stand at the peak of the tournament bracket. Each the veteran of a half-dozen duels before this one, each knows the other's capabilities to the extreme—and neither find the other lacking.
When two men of equal standing find themselves meeting on a road, it is customary to engage in wrestling to discover he who will move and he who will not. Make no mistake, o' lookers-on, for this is a road only one man can travel, a road with space for naught but one man to walk.
Thus do these two warriors step forward, wordlessly walking as weaponless as the day of their births. Neither said a word of this to the other, yet both stride as if rehearsed a dozen times over.
Gunnar and Farbjorn move as if engulfed by the sea, their motions slow and certain as hands clasp and strong fingers intertwine.
Teeth grind, muscles bulge, and knuckles clench white as neither men dare to give ground. Farbjorn stands tall, his iron-skin gleaming in the light of the midday sun as his breath stays locked in his chest. Gunnar stands silent, his eyes softly shut and his breathing as even as the sea at calm.
Farbjorn releases his breath, Gunnar's eyes snap open, and three things happen in rapid succession. Air escapes Farbjorn's lips at such speed that sound itself cracks, Gunnar sharply bends to the side and the bullet of breath bites naught but hair, and Gunnar-
Farbjorn's arm snaps back, his bicep muscles bulging around the crater in his limb.
Hm, that's not quite the right order of events.
Ah, forgive this humble scribe, for it seems that Gunnar moved faster than the words on this page could capture.
Regardless, through the magic of the written word, it is possible to look back in time to see exactly what occurred.
A ghostly arm rises up from that of Gunnar's flesh and blood. Free of the warrior's lock, it lunges forward and impacts against the iron-skin flesh of Farbjorn's arm. A second limb rises the very moment the first sprung into action, lending further strength to the strike and demanding Farbjorn release his hold on Gunnar's arm lest his limb be ripped asunder by the impacting force. Thus does Gunnar's arm, now freed, repeat the motion for a third and final time, leaving a crater in skin of iron.
The unaware observer would be forgiven for confusing what Gunnar did with the technique known as 'folding', wherein after-images are weaponized to attack faster than humanly possible. In fact, it would not be inaccurate to call this technique a variation on folding, however there is one key difference.
These are not after-images.
These are before-images.
How could such a thing be possible? Simple, really, for when one is swift enough to strike thrice at the same time, it is only a little more difficult to land a blow before it was even swung. Thus does Gunnar Hamundarson lay the foundations of the future martial style known as 'Many-Headed Beast.'
Rather than react in shock and awe as a lesser man might, Farbjorn twists with the force of the blow as a long, blunt instrument riddled with iron bumps appears in his hand. His arm continues the motion unhindered by the presence of back or shoulder, wrapping around both to strike at the back of Gunnar.
Gunnar stumbles forward, the back-crossing blow catching him off-guard, only for his hands to spring forth. Planting himself firmly on the ground, his legs swing up and over his body as they lash out with tremendous force, catching Farbjorn across the face and sending him stumbling as well.
Except it does not, for the space between foot and face suddenly became that of the earth and sky, if only for a short while. Here we see Farbjorn's talent for spatial manipulation in action, a talent inherited from his mother, Mary of the Many-Mirrors.
Farbjorn ducks forward, mace in motion, as he aims to crack Gunnar's chin in two, only for a ghostly version of the aimed-for chin to rise to meet the blow, stopping it cold in its tracks as the real head comes rising after with mouth spread wide. Jaws clamp shut around iron-clad wood, chomping through both as easily as if it were dust.
The bitten-off chunk soon emerges, propelled by the force of Gunnar's maw on a path to intersect with Farbjorn's own, only for space to once more stretch and for Gunnar to suddenly be in the path of both spit-laden iron and a fresh blow of the mace.
Gunnar's head snaps to the side as the metal chunk strikes him on the brow, only for the mace to then come up behind and force the back of Gunnar's skull through his front teeth.
However, even with the advantage won by force of will and strength of wit raising his spirits, Farbjorn can't help but frown—with good reason, too.
In the time it took for Farbjorn's mace to impact the back of Gunnar's head, Gunnar had already struck Farbjorn chest a total of twenty-six times. On their own, these blows were so fast and so quick that the world itself could not calculate what force such blows should be given, and so no damage was dealt.
However, damage was never their intent.
Upon Farbjorn's chest stands runes carved in iron-skin, a substance firm enough to hold the power of runes in their entirety, rather than the weakness of flesh.
Evaporate
Thus does Gunnar Hamundarson claim victory on this day.
All of this happened in the space between two individual seconds, as witnessed by the Scribe's Eye of I, I. F. Ister.
