The dull blade

There sits a blade in the far side of the room, dusty and unused. It was one of the sharpest of the master's swords, and was once his favorite. It was used often, and the constant use never chipped it. Nay, each blow it took helped sharpened it, and the master was pleased. It was always talked about when the master meets other masters, and never did it disappoint.

The reason of the master's preference was that the blade was versatile. Whichever way the master used it, be it forward-edge or reverse, held like the sword it was or the assassin's knife it can be, the blade performed superbly. Other masters respected the blade, though some wished the master will not be overconfident of its blade and let his own skills be rusty.

Alas, the day the other masters feared eventually crept on. The master was too haughty of his blade that he became careless of other matters. He truly and fervently believed that his blade will be able to save him. Truly the blade was his saving grace, but it wasn't enough to win all the essential battles. Truth be told, the master's skills were so dependent on that one blade that he became weak.

Eventually, the master slunk out of his battles, choosing instead to boast about laurels that have withered and returned to the earth. He now uses other blades, blades that work differently from his favorite. He might not wield them with the same finesse as his favorite, but his mastery over his preferred blade was enough to win him some battles, though he used that blade less and less.

Over time, the once-preferred blade gathered dust, its sheen slowly vanished, and its oft-feared edge gradually tarnished. No one dares confront the master when he bears that blade, not knowing that nowadays, it's only for show. The master knows it, but his damned pride will not acknowledge the need of training. What I know is more than enough, he bellows.

But one night, he was watching a duel between masters while bearing the dusty, old blade. A long-forgotten feeling rose up in him and he found himself swinging the blade to and fro. The feeling urged him to go and join the battle, yet he held back for the fear that the illusion he perpetuated with his blade be discovered. After a while though, the feeling became unbearable and he hastened to the field, brandishing his blade in the best way he believed possible.

The continuous blows transformed both blade and master. The blade shed off some of the dust it gathered and regained some of his previous splendor, while the master saw his old skills return. Flushed with the battle that ensued (no one won, as it was only for practice), the master started to wonder what happened to him and his trusty blade such that he had to deceive everyone just to save face.

And here the story starts again.