It was the year 2093 in Poland, the city of Radom—a place known for its dysfunctional airport, accidents during airshows, and greedy, poor, aggressive people.
But is that really what defines the place?
Dobroslav worked at a secret facility conducting research on space exploration. The facility was known only to government officials and the soldiers who served as security.
In a way, Dobroslav worked for both groups, since he was the szabla instructor there, teaching young soldiers how to fight with the traditional Polish sable—the szabla—when circumstances forced them into close-quarters combat.
The szabla excelled in the facility's narrow corridors and tight rooms: its curved blade needed little backswing for devastating cuts, required no ammunition or reloading, and allowed completely silent kills—vital when avoiding detection by electronic surveillance or alerting reinforcements in a classified installation.
Dobroslav entered with his szabla—heirloom passed down through generations—attached to his side. He walked with pride, regarding the soldiers with dignity and an air of confidence. His long blonde hair, green eyes, and towering 190 cm posture commanded respect. On his neck hung an amulet shaped like a sword, representing his ancestors who had fought as knights in many wars.
"Attention!" he roared. All soldiers snapped into orderly rows.
"This will be our fifty-second training session this year," he said while pacing. "Does any of you want to show us the results of your training?" he continued with a mischievous smirk. The cadets did not understand the meaning behind that smile, but they could not refuse their instructor. Someone had to step forward, whatever the cost.
One of the cadets stepped forward. "Sir!"
Dobroslav's eyes glinted with amusement. "No need to feel pressured. Come to the center."
The cadet advanced, szabla raised. Dobroslav lifted his own blade lazily.
"Attack me," he said, voice almost bored.
The cadet lunged. Steel rang; Dobroslav parried every strike with minimal motion, occasionally snapping a kick into the cadet's thigh or cracking the hilt against his knuckles. The young man's face darkened with fury. With a shout he charged wildly.
In one fluid motion Dobroslav sheathed his szabla, slipped inside the arc, and pivoted. The cadet's blade sliced empty air. Dobroslav caught the wrist, twisted hard; the szabla clattered to the floor. A sharp yank spun the cadet backward, arm locked high behind his back. Dobroslav's knee slid between the cadet's legs, pinning him in place, helpless and facing away from his instructor.
Dobroslav cranked the arm until the cadet's breath hitched in a choked whimper.
"Pain clears the mind, doesn't it?" he murmured, almost tender.
He let go and the boy dropped to his knees. Dobroslav planted a boot between his shoulder blades and pinned him there, casual as stepping on a bug.
"Stay down a second. I like the view."
He nudged the fallen szabla farther away with his toe.
"Anger is a leash, cadet. You put it on yourself, I just yank."
A soft laugh. "Most men die wearing it. I make sure of that."
He crouched, gripped the cadet's hair, and jerked the head back so their eyes met.
"When the lights go out in these halls and the only sound is some fool breathing too loud, I won't be angry. I'll be smiling exactly like this."
His smile widened, wolfish, eyes flat. "And you'll be the one bleeding on the floor, wishing you'd learned to keep your distance."
He released the hair with a small shove that cracked the cadet's chin against the mat.
"Get up. Crawl for your blade if you have to. Entertain me again."
Dobroslav released the shoulder and stepped back, blade rising.
"Again."
The cadet snatched his szabla, rolled his wrist once, and attacked: tighter, meaner, no roar this time.
Steel flashed. Dobroslav parried, riposted, tested. Thirty seconds of clean work, no taunts, no kicks.
Abruptly he lowered his point and tapped the cadet's blade in salute.
"Better. That's the version that lives."
He turned to the ranks, voice flat.
"See the difference? Same man, half the rage, twice the threat. Copy it."
Then, quieter, to the cadet: "Line."
Dobroslav paced, szabla on his shoulder.
"I will teach you four cuts. Simple. Deadly. Straight from the winged hussars."
He stopped.
"Windmill."
Wrist spins, blade circles fast. "Spinning shield. Nothing touches you. Do it."
Cadets copied.
"Cross cut."
Big X in the air. "One swing, two dead men. Again."
"Half-turn."
Quick half-turn, slash from the back. "Fake retreat, cut them down. Go."
"False edge."
Fake low with back edge, flip sharp edge to throat—stop. "Lie, then kill."
He stepped back.
"Pair up. Clean and fast. Show me."
Dobroslav sheathed his szabla and faced the exhausted line.
"Blades down. Listen.
Three hundred years ago our grandfathers rode with wings on their backs. Polish winged hussars. One squadron weighed more than most armies.
They carried a lance longer than two men, a szabla like yours, and nothing else mattered. When the bugle blew they lowered those lances and hit the enemy like God's hammer. Swedes, Turks, Russians, Tatars; didn't matter. They punched straight through, threw the lance away, drew the szabla and carved the rest.
Kircholm: three thousand of ours against twelve thousand Swedes. We killed nine thousand in two hours.
Kłuszyn: six thousand against forty thousand Russians. We won before breakfast.
Vienna: King Sobieski took seventeen thousand hussars down that hill and broke the Turkish siege in one charge. Biggest cavalry charge the world ever saw.
They never lost a real battle for a hundred and fifty years.
Why? Because they kept formation, kept their heads, and hit harder than anyone thought possible.
You stand in their shadow. This facility is secret, this work is secret, but the blood is the same. When everything fails and the corridor goes dark, remember: a Pole with a szabla in his hand is still the most dangerous thing alive.
Carry that with you.
Training over. Dismissed."
As the last word left his mouth, deafening boom shook the hall. Shockwave slammed everyone flat. Lights flickered red, alarms screamed.
Dobroslav was first on his feet, szabla already drawn.
"Enemy attack! To your posts! Show the results of your training, cadets, now!"