Rodgers grabbed his sword with his other hand.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt his grip weak, uncertain, untrained. He had not trained using his other hand; as such, it would be much weaker in combat. It would be slower, more awkward, more predictable.
But he did not care.
He raised the sword his body trembling, his blood pouring, his will burning. He looked at his remaining hand the one that had been cut off, now lying on the deck like a piece of meat. He looked at the sword in his other hand the blade that would have to carry him through this battle.
He made a decision.
He used the sword to cut off his other hand.
SHLIK!
The blade cut through his wrist severing tendons, splitting bone, spraying blood across the deck. His other hand flew through the air, landing with a wet thud on the wood. He was now completely handless both arms ending in stumps, blood pouring from the wounds.
She saw it.
Her face was filled with shock. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. Her face went cold. She felt fear fear from someone who was weaker than him.
She said to herself, her inner voice quiet, almost reverent.
Oh, how far did I go? She watched him stand broken, bleeding, but unyielding. All I wanted to do was water the seed.
She paused.
I have done more than just watering the seed. Her pupils increased in size. This is no longer a seed in the garden.
She had a small smile on her face.
Then she could not move because of the momentary shock.
But Rodgers did not hesitate.
After cutting his own arm, he threw it at her. The severed limb spun through the air a gruesome projectile that obstructed her vision, that distracted her, that created an opening.
He went forward at her.
With his blade.
She sliced the arm he threw at her into two her katana cutting through flesh and bone in a single, clean stroke. Then she blocked his attack.
CLANG!
Their blades met the impact shaking her arms, the force rattling her bones. He turned his body, using his missing arm to his advantage the absence of weight allowing him to increase the force of the attack. He pressed forward, pushing her back, refusing to yield.
He kicked her sword.
CLANG!
The blade flew from her grasp, spinning through the air, clattering against the deck. She was weaponless, defenseless, vulnerable.
He continued to attack.
Even though he was getting sword cuts all over his body his flesh opening, his blood pouring, his life fading he did not stop. He did not slow. He did not yield.
Finally, that seed that had been planted into him had sprouted into a full plant.
Rodgers stood, his sword raised, his body broken, his conviction absolute.
Mutaro stood, her blade gone, her fear real, her respect growing.
And the sea roared.