Chapter 3: Naming Swords and Paying the Price

A swordfighter’s life is all about their blade.

After leveling up, the league would have the gear guys forge me a signature sword for free. Years of sweat and scraped knuckles, all leading to this moment.

The long sword in my hand gleamed, cold and sharp, the kind of blade that made you feel like you could carve your name into destiny.

But when it came time to name it, my mind went blank. Total system crash.

After racking my brains, I finally blurted out: "Hold Up a Sec."

In a fight, if I yelled "Hold up a sec!" my opponent would instinctively freeze—just long enough for me to get the drop on them.

But the comments roasted me instantly:

[Don’t you ever go online? "Hold Up a Sec" is so last year.]

I stared at the screen, stunned.

Most swordfighters are all business—could anyone else come up with something this sneaky?

The chat morphed into a meme thread:

[Name it Wi-Fi—so nobody can connect when they need it most.]

[Call it Buffering... so every time you swing, the fight lags.]

[Name your sword Lucky, then get a dog named Blade. Shout "Lucky!"—opponent looks at the dog, but the sword is already swinging. Then shout "Blade!"—while they block the sword, let the dog bite them.]

How are these people even more twisted than the villains?

After picking through the chaos, my sword’s new name became: "After Being Caught Peeping at Coach Showering, I..."

Poor Coach. The more I heard the name, the more it grew on me.

When I shout that phrase, even a dog would freeze for a second. The comments always ask: And then? What did you do?

Who wouldn’t want to know what comes next?

It was a little long, but honestly, it worked better than "Hold Up a Sec." Even my own reflection in the window flinched as I practiced swinging, muttering the name. The idea of yelling something so outrageous mid-fight made my stomach flip with giddy dread. I could already see the memes.

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Coach has been around forever. Besides being stingy, he’s usually calm as a frozen lake.

But the moment he heard my sword’s name, his face went through every color in the crayon box: red, white, green, then black.

He glared, grabbed his own sword, and came after me like he meant business.

Coach’s sneakers slapped the pavement behind me, and I swear I could hear his knees crack with every step. I ran five laps around the training grounds, lungs burning, but Coach wouldn’t let up.

"You little brat! You’ve trashed my reputation for life!"

I pleaded while sprinting: "Coach, please stop! I still have to compete in the National Sword League!"

He wouldn’t listen: "Let you embarrass me at the competition? Not a chance!"

He might be old, but in this line of work, age is just a number—catching and chewing me out was inevitable.

I gritted my teeth and tossed a five-dollar bill toward him. He slowed a bit.

I threw a twenty. His face softened.

Like a hero sacrificing everything, I threw a second twenty. Coach finally stopped, pocketed the cash, straightened his shirt, and said: "Since this is your first offense, I’ll let you off this time."

That was my lunch money for the week. RIP, Taco Tuesday. My heart ached for the lost cash.

The comments chimed in:

[Go find a pharmacist. You pay him ten bucks to bark like a dog, then he throws twenty at you and makes you bark.]

I started wondering if the chat’s bad ideas were ever going to end.

Coach, still grimacing, pulled out a small prescription bottle from his pocket.

My eyes lit up—maybe something good!

Coach hugged the bottle to his chest: "Don’t even think about it. Not for you."

My face fell. The comments roasted me: [Face changes faster than the weather!]

I flopped down on the bench by the chain-link fence, eyeing the vending machine with longing but no quarters to spare. Coach still held that bottle like it was the Hope Diamond.