Eloise was the one that introduced Arran to the dueling scene. He was five when she first took him to the Alcove, and he was excited to say the least. But being that it was his first time, he didn’t know what to be excited for. He only saw how gleeful Eloise was walking in the December snow; it was an energy that he couldn’t help but mirror in his own way.


    When they arrived at the Alcove, Arran’s body made three-sixty rotations as he took in details big and small. It was as if each rotation was a timed released action with a ten second interval. Eloise smiled at her child’s wonder. And seeing him perform one of these three-sixty turns, she noticed that it was the same information-gathering-maneuver as when they went to see the nutcracker a few weeks prior. So it came as little surprise to her when his perception of the dueler’s stage forced a playful association with London’s Opera house.


    “It reminds me of the ballet!” Arran said while watching the duelers enter the stage.


    Eloise laughed. “I thought you might say that; there are certainly some similarities. The attires, the stage lighting, the stage…”


    “The people too.”


    Eloise smiled. “Yes, both events also tend to draw a big crowd.” She crouched her knee to the floor to look her son face-to-face. “But I assure you, this will be quite a different kind of dance.”


    After the first duel was over, Arran remembered a lot of quick movements from both sides. There was a constant exchange of kicks and punches, dodges and weaves, trips and sprawls. And this went on for approximately twenty minutes.


    Then there was a sudden smack to the face from one to the other. And after this unexpected wallop, it appeared that the game was over – seeing that both fighters regained their composure, standing very still and silent.


    Everyone was still and silent.


    The fighters then returned to the center of the ring where they had initially squared off; they bowed to each other and then turned to the crowd. After which the whole place erupted in applause. Eloise surprised Arran as one of them. She jumped out of her seat while hollering a great deal.


    “This is just one of the preliminary duels,” she told him. “It only gets better!”


    She was right. Two more duels proceeded with different duelers. The one immediately after was longer and more technical than the first; it lasted for at least thirty minutes. But the last one, the main event, was undoubtedly under the most anticipation. For just when Arran thought it couldn’t get any louder, his ears bore witness to the contrary. The place was downright electric as both duelers walked out. And despite the match being the shortest of the three, lasting only eight minutes, it was definitely the most entertaining. The champion was clearly in a league of her own. She moved with such precision and ease that it seemed otherworldly.


    Later when Arran remarked to Eloise his surprise in the defending champion, that she was in fact a woman and that her opponent was a burly male twice her size, she told him that the size disparity mattered little in respect to their disparity in fluency. And it wasn’t that his was fluency practice was bad, it was actually quite excellent.


    “But hers…” Eloise zoned off to think of how to best describe it, “Simply magic.”


    Being five years old, Arran could appreciate a reference to magic, especially when it meant having witnessed it; but even so, he didn’t fully get what Eloise meant about fluency disparity. And it wouldn’t be until his first day of dueling class (some ten years later) that the concept would only then be illuminated to him – standing across from one of his female peers with a throbbing eye.


    ***


    When Arran arrived at the classroom for Applied fluency, he thought its arrangement peculiar. Mainly because behind the podium was a large expanse of room, and in the middle of which lied a mat – one that resembled the white circular platform of the Alcove. It was no doubt the dueling mat; and looking at it then gave his stomach turns of excitement. Although, they were the ones that weren’t quite distinguishable from nerves.


    Fifteen minutes later, after everyone was seated, a man in roughly his forties walked in apologizing for his tardiness: Forgive me class, I had a brush with one of my colleagues and lost track of time. Arran thought this self-pardoning unnecessary but at least it showed his integrity – a good first impression. The man then introduced himself as professor Buckley. He was tall, had a rigid build and kept a clean appearance – a proper Lumen.


    The professor’s voice was melodious as he proceeded with the introduction to his course. As he rambled on, it became clear that before they began any real dueling, that a brief history lesson was in order.


    In summary: Before Aesthesia became established in 2052, dueling (or then sport fighting) was seen as a brutal and barbaric means of entertainment. Of course, there were small organizations that still promoted fights, and sure, it had its followers. But overall, fighting had lost its appeal around the end of the 2040s. And this was mainly because gore and blood stood outside of aesthetics.


    Then a revival came at the start of the 2060s. It was when Aesthetes began developing an art of dueling that revolutionized the conception of a dueling engagement as sport. They called it the art of space-time lessening (STILE). And instead of the carnage and gore that characterized the fighting sports of the previous centuries, these performances resulted in nothing more than a little drop of blood. But despite having a benign outcome, it wasn’t to say that the execution that led up to it wasn’t insanely aggressive. It was that and more! And the more was in the moments given by anticipation and contrast.


    You see, when you witness one of these Aesthetes make an attempt at striking another person in real time, and when that other person is making an effort to do the same, you expect at any moment that both should succeed, that both, by sheer probability and margin of error, can’t go on without so much as landing a few solid blows, or at least a single punch. But over time, the reality confers the opposite – for by the end of a ten second barrage of speedy combinations, both duelers retract without even a single scratch. And this is the anticipation part – that the question of when it should happen is extended beyond reason. The tension is then intensified by the other ingredient, contrast. And in this context, it’s primarily felt to exist between the absence of a landed punch and the intensity of exchanges in attack and defense. So that the more the intensity rises, the greater the contrast; and the greater the contrast, the greater the anticipation


    But then, voilà, it finally happens: the much-anticipated blow. And it comes with great surprise. Its effect falls on the audience like a magician’s prestige; whereupon, after having taken something ordinary, it is then made into something extraordinary. Thus, it became customary that whoever landed the first blow was deemed the winner.


    The professor took a pause from his monologue to look down at his podium, presumably his notes. “Well, that’s that bit,” he said while rubbing his chin.


    He then looked up to survey his class. “How many of you know STILE?”


    Arran’s hand went up immediately, and he presumed it was the first because professor Buckley’s eyes navigated in his direction before trailing off behind him.


    “Ah fantastic,” he said, “It’s always a help to the class when there’s at least a few who can model the art. Please, you two, step forward onto the mat behind me.”


    In that moment, Arran didn’t know why his hand went up so automatically. He definitely didn’t expect that he would have to make a spectacle of himself; he thought it would just earn him a little ego stroke and perhaps a subtle acknowledgment from the professor. In truth, he didn’t really know how to duel. Eloise had explained it to him in some detail, showing a few maneuvers here and there; but nothing that would make him feel confident displaying before an entire class.


    When he looked back to see the other classmate who raised their hand, he was stunned. It was a petite female, blonde and pretty. And immediately he hoped to god that she was bluffing as much as he was.


    “Just step right up to the mat,” Buckley urged.


    Arran walked slow to let his opponent pass him; and watched her as she approached the mat’s edge. When she started to take off her shoes this prompted him to do the same.


    “Alright…” started the professor, “now I think we’ve all seen a real duel before; that’s not what I want today. What I do want is to have some of the fundamental concepts demonstrated. And for this reason, your peers have been so good as to volunteer.” He indicated to his volunteers with a wave of his hand.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    The professor looked at Arran. “What’s your name?”


    Here we go, Arran thought to himself before answering, but then responded confidently, “My name is Arran.”


    The professor then gave him a familiar look – one that most make when they hear his explicitly Aesthesian name. But then he felt that the professor had saved him from some embarrassment. You see, the worst was when he’d have to repeat his name due to a presumed failure on the hearer’s part: an expression announcing, “Come-again, please.” And Arran would have to peevishly repeat something like, “Yes, you heard correctly [jackass], my name is Arran.” It was something he’d gotten used to.


    The professor then turned to the petite girl, “And you are?”


    Please say Anesthesia, Arran thought to himself – feeling that it would’ve been humorous to have two falsely alleged Aesthetes be the opening act to a shit show.


    “Moira.” She said to his disappointment.


    The professor addressed her first, “Moira, can you please show the class what would be your first move of engagement.”


    “Well, I suppose I would stagger my stance and step forward with a jab.” She performed the maneuver as she spoke out.


    “Very good, but your opponent is much taller than you. This would serve as a disadvantage to you. So How could you better engage him?”


    Moira sized Arran up indifferently. “A kick?”


    The professor turned to address the class. “Note this class: a strategic opening is your first fundamental consideration in every fight.”


    The professor looked back at Moira. “Now show me.”


    Moira lightly crouched and swung her right leg in the direction of Arran’s left thigh, but stopping just before making contact with it. It was apparent that she knew what she was doing. The pivot on her left foot was angled perfectly to bear down on its target as much weight as her little body could transfer. This was a nuanced detail that Arran remembered Eloise point out to him, saying that you could observe it in the best of all fighters.


    Satisfied, the professor turned to Arran, “And how would you respond, Arran?”


    There was a dry edginess when he said his name. Arran noticed it too and it slightly threw him off. But he was thankful to know the answer; and like Moira, he spoke as he moved, “I would elevate my knee so that my shin meets hers and nullifies the kick.”


    “Excellent. What else?”


    Arran’s mind drew a blank. He didn’t know another option to deflect a low kick. He made a dicey guess: “Dodge it?”


    “And how do you do that, Arran?” His voice was strangely patronizing now.


    This new tone made Arran feel as if his professor saw him as an arrogant prick. Was he already making an enemy out of his instructor? Fearing as much, he ran a quick self-regulation to sap as much ego as he could before his next response. But to his question, the answer was obvious, though he waited a few seconds to make it seem like he was giving it considerable thought; and then he said it as plainly and unassuming as he could.


    “With a redox.”


    “And when would you’ve set a redox?” Buckley quickly spat back.


    The answer was obvious again. “At the beginning of the match.”


    Professor Buckley took a long step forward in Arran’s direction and peered down at him, abusing a dramatic pause for one second too long.


    “You hear that class?” He turned around to address them directly, “know this as the second and most fundamental part of dueling: From the moment the match starts, always, always, set your redox.”


    A hand went up and the professor motioned for its purpose. “But why at the beginning?”


    “Moira,” the professor turned to the petite girl, “can you answer that?”


    Moira swallowed before she spoke up. “Well, I guess so that you can know your opponent’s next move as soon as possible.”


    “Seems logical doesn’t it?” the professor asked rhetorically to the questioner. Which then prompted him to ask if there were any more questions.


    A hand was raised. “Can you tell us more about what a redox is?"


    “Sure. Essentially, a redox is the process of bringing two points of time together. We’ve learned to call them curve 1 and curve 2, a.k.a., the present and immediate future. The moment these two curves overlap, a perceptual phenomenon occurs. The result is something that everyone has at least experienced once in their life - where it seems like you legitimately know what’s about to happen right before it occurs. This uncanny experience is known to most as a déjà vu…”


    Another student raised her hand and the professor gave her the floor: “Can Innocents set a redox?”


    “No. At least it hasn’t been proven so yet. But it’s hardly conceivable that they ever would.”


    The same student came back with a half-question: “But they can experience déjà vus, right?”


    “Yes, but the fact that déjà vus occur in Innocents is itself a mystery. The psychological conditions have to be set systematically with such intention that to do it by mere accident is perhaps a testament to the evolutionary progress in the species. In other words, this emerging ability of the human unconscious could after all be a function of deep intuition, giving only glimpses of its existence after it’s endured suppression for so long. And this is by no means a new discovery. Men of ancient history were keen upon this impulse of the unconscious and its connection with déjà vu. Writers like Virgil spoke of it in terms of a celestial ardor, as when calling upon the Muse for inspiration. In the other parts of the world these unconscious manifestations were thought to be the cause of a unique spirit. Avicenna and Albertus Magnus were aware of its presence and spoke of it extensively under the subject of magic. In any case, the point here again is to know that the history of human awareness for the peculiarity of déjà vu is not by any means young. However, that being said, there is still much we don’t know about déjà vus; and much less the ability to enforce them through setting a redox. But I think we are finally getting a handle on its overall potential…”


    The professor took another long pause, rubbing his chin again; and this gave space for another question to arise. It was a quieter voice from the back: “How do you set a redox?”


    “Ah!” professor Buckley raised his index finger and shook it vigorously, as if the question answered a riddle he was solving, “For that my lad, you need to count.”


    He went on to explain:


    “You have to get the count, or in conventional slang, you have to get a “pulse.” Getting a pulse is really a way to get yourself into a moment, making you one with the contents of your consciousness. This state of mind primes your ability to intend a redox. Or, in other words, counting activates your ability to fix two curves, those curves one and two that I mentioned before. But all of this is done through the power of fluency; without fluency, you can’t really be a good dueler. At least, you can’t be an aesthetic dueler.”


    The professor looked lost in thought for a moment. “I wonder…” he said as he shifted himself to look at Arran again, and this time it seemed like it was with a new-found reason for loathing. “What is your fluency type, Arran?”


    Here we go again, Arran thought to himself before responding, “Q-.”


    The professor hid his sense of awestruck better than his students had. Each of them clamored lightly over Arran’s type, which was something he had expected. He did have the rarest type after all. And besides it being one of stronger types, it was basically what the O+ was for other blood types. That is, his fluency could link up with anyone’s mind due to the nature of its universal compatibility.


    The professor continued nonchalantly, “Very good, and yours Moira?”


    “Well, it’s not a Q-…” she said jokingly.


    Everyone but the professors chuckled at this; and his countenance became palpably sour before finally working a weak smile. “Then what is it?”


    “An R+” she confessed.


    “Good.” He then carried on as he walked back to his podium.


    “Well class, I didn’t think we would have the personnel to show this today, but since we have two capable practitioners in the art of dueling, why not have a simple demonstration of a count to redox.” He turned around and gave a subtle gesture toward his fortunate subjects.


    When Arran heard him say this, he nearly lost it. Redox was something much easier said than done, even if he did have a strong type to channel it. But right as he was about to suggest their dismissal, Moira made herself ready to crack on with it; putting Arran in a terrible bind. For the situation suddenly couldn’t be managed in proposing a dismissal on behalf of both of them: instead, it would only appear that he was stepping down from fighting a girl. And that simply wasn’t an option.


    Arran then turned to Moira, pretending to match her enthusiasm, and tried to bring to memory everything he knew about setting a redox.


    As he was doing so, the professor slowly raised his hand, “At the snap of my fingers you may start counting.”


    As he spoke, Arran kept his eyes on Moira, who was slowly changing her level to ready an attack.


    “One…two…”


    At the sound of the snap, Moira swiftly threw a low kick, executing what she had just demonstrated. Except this time, she put everything into cutting her target’s leg in half. Arran anticipated this opening and had a counter ready, elevating his shin up and out to cushion the blow.


    Gathering her leg back to the ground, Moira wasted no time in transitioning to her next set of moves. Leading with her foot, she gave a jab-cross-hook; and Arran was surprised to find that his instincts displayed a proper defense.


    At this point Arran had drawn enough energy to set a redox and saw the effects unfold in the change of his perception. He was getting the impression that what she was doing in real time then was as much an anticipated move as her initial low kick. And he saw her sequence of attacks progress like this, as if it were an old film he had watched a hundred times. This was the power of déjà vu!


    After deflecting her rounds with humored ease, Arran pushed toward her more aggressively. His following moves were the appropriate mixture that gave him an edge on the duel; and, because of the déjà vu, he saw that his high kick was going to cause her to advance as soon as it passed in front of her face. So instead he swung a spinning backhand that nearly hit her on the chin.


    But right after this near fist-to-face contact, his count stumbled off pace, being slightly jaded by seeing how close (and how hard) he came to hitting her.


    Just so, Arran felt his advantage of deja vu slipping away, the intuition of foresight edging out of his perception as easily as it entered. He faltered and stepped back. He inhaled deeply and reassessed – but by that time, all clarity of dejavu had vanished.


    Moments later, Arran lost his balance during a round of exchanges; Moira had clearly set a redox and he was still trying to establish a count. Then when he felt like he could’ve set a redox again, his lack of energy didn’t seem to permit it. He was already out of gas.


    Smelling blood, Moira abruptly teeped Arran with an extending leg, her foot sinking deep into his stomach and knocking him backwards. He would later recall that he had never felt such pain before in his life – it was as if she had somehow cleared through my body and penetrated my soul.


    While Arran was trying to recover from the blow, nearly collapsing to his knees with both arms holding onto his pierced stomach, Moira took advantage of his forward lean and decked him right in the face.


    Arran fell to the ground. And voilà, the game was over.