The two fencers used épées, their movements fluid and graceful, a beautiful dance of calculated strikes and poised stances. They were experts, at least LV 3 in skill.
But the hawk-nosed man, Luca, was unimpressed. "They have strayed from the true path," he said, his voice a derisive sneer. "This kind of swordsmanship is useless, fit only for performance."
William Vanderbilt's face darkened, but Luca continued, his voice ringing across the lawn. "They have lost the spirit of the sword, the warrior's blood. They are not swordsmen. They are clowns."
His words reached the two fencers on the stage. They stopped. One of them, a handsome young man, pulled off his mask. "I am Thomas Smith," he said, his voice tight with anger. "And I demand satisfaction."
Luca just laughed. "I do not play at swordsmanship. I duel. Are you looking to die, boy?"
"Today is my granddaughter's eighteenth birthday," William interrupted, his voice like iron. "I will not have it marred by bloodshed."
"The shooting exhibition is about to begin," Consuelo added, trying to defuse the situation. "Thomas, thank you for the wonderful performance. Please, come and join us."
But Thomas, shamed in front of the woman he admired, would not back down. "I accept," he said, his voice ringing with a foolish, youthful pride. "We will duel. Here and now."
William felt a wave of despair. The boy was too impulsive.
Edith gently tugged on Henry's sleeve. He looked down and saw the worry in her eyes.
"Thomas is my cousin," she whispered.
Henry just nodded. "Don't worry," he whispered back.
Just then, a group of nine men and women walked out from the main house. Among them was Senator Garfield, who immediately spotted Henry and changed course to greet him.
"Mr. Bruce, a pleasure to see you again."
"And you, Senator."
"Are you certain, boy?" Luca called out again. "I will show no mercy in a duel."
"I am certain!" Thomas shot back. "Enough of your boasting! Come up here and prove it!"
Enraged, Luca leaped onto the stage. He followed the dueling code, asking for and receiving permission to use his own 105cm rapier.
The portly man, a man named Gurman, who had been with Luca, offered to fire the starting signal.
"Ready!" he called out, and fired a pistol into the air.
The two men faced each other, their swords held ready. Edith gripped Henry's arm, her knuckles white. A 12-inch, 12-ounce throwing knife appeared in Henry's hand.
Luca's blade flicked out, a feint, a test. Thomas, inexperienced, took the bait. Luca's sword beat his aside, and he lunged, his blade a silver streak aimed at Thomas's right shoulder. He was a true master, at least LV 4 in skill, and he had held back, aiming to wound, not to kill.
Thomas saw the blade coming, a meteor of death, but he was frozen, helpless.
CLANG!
A heavy throwing knife, seemingly from nowhere, struck Luca's blade in mid-air, sending it flying wide.
Henry had seen the opening the moment it appeared. To ensure he didn't miss, he had activated his Super Reflexes.
"Who was that?!" Luca roared, leaping back.
All eyes turned to Henry.
He gently patted Edith's hand, then leaped onto the stage. He used a grey pearl to restore his health.
"It was me," he said, his voice calm and lazy. "And I suggest you don't challenge me. Unless you're looking to die. So, are you?"
"Who are you?" Luca demanded.
"I am Henry. Sheriff Henry, from Denver."
But the name meant nothing to Luca; he had only just arrived in New York.
"My God! It's him!" a voice cried from the crowd. "Sheriff Henry!"
At that same moment, 750 meters away, Jacob and Jim, hidden in the high branches of an oak tree, saw their target, now perfectly exposed on the stage. On the other side of the estate, 1,150 meters away, "The Eye of Balor," Abine, also began to take aim.
"You have insulted my art," Luca snarled, "and profaned a sacred duel. Pick up a sword." He was confident. Swordsmanship was a skill that took a lifetime to master. This boy was barely twenty.
"As you wish," Henry said, and took the épée from his cousin, Thomas.
The two men faced each other. They tested each other's blades, their feet moving in a blur. Luca's style was the aggressive Italian school, a series of feints and lunges. Henry's was the Spanish, a dance of circles and perfect geometry.
Luca saw an opening. Henry was wearing dress shoes, not proper fencing boots, and for a fraction of a second, as he moved, his left side was exposed.
Luca lunged, his blade a silver blur aimed at Henry's chest.
Henry activated his Super Reflexes.
Luca's attack slowed to a crawl. Henry sidestepped the blow, his own blade tracing a perfect circle, and with a flick of his wrist, he thrust, the point of his épée piercing the radial bone in Luca's forearm.
Luca's hand went numb, and his rapier clattered to the stage.
Henry spun, his blade a blur, and plunged it into Luca's left chest—the exact same spot Luca had just been aiming for. He then withdrew the blade and held it to the man's throat, the cold steel raising goosebumps on his skin.
Luca stared at him, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated disbelief, blood pouring from the wound in his chest.
The crowd gasped. The fight had been a whirlwind of motion, a blur of silver steel, over in an instant.
Edith, Consuelo, and the other young women let out a triumphant cheer.
Henry used a grey pearl to restore his health. He was about to speak when the warning flared in his mind.
He looked up. Two bullets were streaking toward him from two oak trees, over seven hundred meters away.
Jacob and Jim had taken their shot, at the exact moment of his victory, when his guard would be at its lowest.
Henry activated his Super Reflexes again. The two seconds it would take the bullets to arrive was an eternity for him.
He dropped the épée. A "One of One Thousand" Winchester appeared in his hands. He raised it to his shoulder, and as he did, five green pearls burst, their energy flowing into the rifle.
BANG! BANG!
Two shots in under a second.
In their rifle scopes, Jacob and Jim saw the impossible. They saw him move, saw him raise his own rifle. They tried to duck, but they were strapped to the trees.
The sound of their own shots finally arrived at the party, followed, an instant later, by two more.
Jacob and Jim, their necks shattered by Henry's .44 caliber rounds, slumped forward, their bodies hanging from the branches like grotesque, drying fish.
On the stage, Luca, who had seen it all, finally collapsed, a look of profound regret on his face. He's not a man, he thought, as the darkness took him. He's a demon. And I, like a fool, provoked him.