Heart of a Diamond: A Rakta Diamond Story

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"Again."

Rakta suppressed a groan as Masuta's voice rang through the training yard. His aching body complained, screaming at him as he bent to retrieve the sword that had been smashed from his hand mere seconds ago.

There must have been something telling on his face because Masuta frowned and smacked the flat of his own blade into Rakta's arm, the heavy metal making his fingers go numb.

"Problem Ace?" Masuta asked, making Rakta glare.

"None, sir," was his clipped response as he switched the sword to his left hand. "Beyond a lack of understanding."

Masuta raised an eyebrow, his scar stretching weirdly with the motion. "What exactly is it that you are failing to grasp?"

Rakta stared at the sword in his hand with distaste. "Why I am training with this when I could be using firearms."

Rakta loathed swords. They felt unwieldy, even the perfectly balanced ones. They felt out of control. He much preferred guns, even knives. Maybe especially knives with the way they fit snugly in his palms, always ready to do his bidding, inflicting damage with an accuracy that he found breathtaking.

Masuta laughed and said, "You'll be more than happy that we brushed up on swordplay when we move out next month. The Club Ace is notorious for her mastery of any bladed weapon. And if she gets close, which she will, a gun won't be the thing that kills her. A blade is more reliable in close quarters. A bullet, once fired, cannot be guided and at close range, any little movement made by the target increases the chance that the bullet will miss."

Rakta sighed before settling back into his fighting stance, waiting, his body already bemoaning the beating it was about to receive. He was already bleeding from several small cuts Masuta had landed on him.

Snow flurried around them, trying to distract his eyes. His exposed skin felt tight in the chill.

He inhaled deeply, the cold cutting into his chest and caught the slight forward shuffle that indicated an impending attack.

The sound of steel meeting steel rang through the winter morning, the sound beautiful and invigorating. The shrieking in his shoulders, the weariness in his legs and fatigue in his wrists disappeared as the fight took over, washing through him like a healing tide.

Rakta smiled, euphoric in the presence of potential destruction, that thing inside of him that made him an Ace singing with delight.

His steps quickened, matching Masuta's complicated footwork, each blow of his teacher's sword brutal on his already battered body.

He swatted a slashing blow away and thrust forward, surprised when he opened up a cut along Masuta's bicep, startling crimson pouring quickly down bare skin.

Masuta snarled and Rakta tried desperately to match his teacher as strikes were rained upon him furiously. He heard the scuff of a boot behind him and ducked, a blade whistling through the air over his head before he rolled away to find a general whose name he couldn't remember smirking at him, the sword in his hand glinting menacingly at him.

Rakta gritted his teeth, baring them in an answering snarl as he lunged at the Jack, grunting when a cut was opened on his leg, just above the knee, then on his bare shoulder.

He saw Masuta back away from the fight then, eyes narrowed as he observed the engagement, Rakta's blood dripping from the tip of his sword.

He was momentarily grateful that the castle's bladesmith made his weapons so sharp. The edge of the blade was so keen that Rakta couldn't feel the pain of the cuts yet.