I step back, trying to keep my distance from the rusty blade waving menacingly inches away from my nose. A foot intentionally placed behind my ankle sends me to the ground. I land on my backside with a loud thud.

Okay, this is getting a bad turn. I can practically feel fear freezing my bones. I look at my sword, and my fingers tighten their grip around the hilt. It won't do me any good. I can barely swing it. What chance would I have to defend myself against so many thugs?

The thieves’ leader steps forward. With a smug smirk, he looms over me, the rusty blade raised high before lowering slowly until its point reaches my neck.

“You’re not much of a fighter, are you?” To underline his mockery, he lets out a huff of scorn. “Your bulky frame isn’t of any help if you have no skill. So, are you going to die for a sword or hand it over to us?”

Not giving them the obsidian sword may be a one-way ticket to a painful death. My hunch is that having my flesh ripped apart by a rusty blade would