I put on a neat white jacket, an insect mask, and a heavy sword like a pistol—the child in me couldn't be more happy. Avant-garde!

Since I was a child, I have wanted to be trained in swordsmanship. But I have always believed that to do this, one must be born as a musketeer, otherwise he will die for revenge, plus the steps to enter the castle. But here I am at the London Fencing Club in Old Street, which is easier.

With a few weeks before omicron takes off, the government scoffs at any talk about tightening Covid restrictions. I am learning épée, which is a thin and pointed blade, most similar to the classic bluffing sword. My Russian-born coach Anna Anstal likes fencing and epee. The opponent's entire body is the goal, and there is no "right of way" rule to govern who can score at a particular moment. "You have to think about the zombie apocalypse," she said. "Rules are of no use to zombies. The ability to preempt is the most important." This is an unexpected suggestion, and her strong accent makes it more advantageous. I'm scared.

"Have you held a pistol before?" Anstar asked. I think we have different growth experiences, I said. The "pistol grip" is the most common type of fencing: the thumb and index finger clamp the blade, and the other fingers are rolled under, surprisingly delicate. The legs are harder. We started with footwork practice, going up and down on the 14-meter-long ski trail, with the front foot leading forward and the back foot back. "Hurry up!" Anstar shouted. It's difficult to keep my heels consistent, so I really deviated from the piste. I learned straight lunges, lunges, and explosive flèche attacks. I already feel like Arya Stark.

We move to a padded column and practice thrust. I have learned to measure distance, and it will never be closer than I need. Anstal explained that fencing is about intelligence. Something close to chess or conversation. "'I'm going to hit you in the leg!' "If I parry, I won't..." "That's a joke—I'm actually hitting your mask! She gave an example. Her thoughts about conversation were terrible, but I mastered the skills faster than I thought. I remember that I liked swordsmanship when I was a kid. "All kids do this," she confirmed. "Then they came. Here, I realized that this is all footwork practice, and then said:'Mom, I want to go home. '"

Fortunately, this school specializes in beginner courses for adults. The classes around me are doing intense warm-up exercises: shuttle running, jogging, squatting-anything that can hurt your legs. I also sweated and wore a polo collar foolishly to provide extra protection. "Listen--my favorite voice," Anstar commented with a distant gaze. It was a tired voice, a faint, tired gasp that filled the room. Strange.

Fencing has an alien attraction: those insect-like masks, stinging spines, metal scratches and collisions. However, with its elegant all-white jacket and breeches, it is also a lofty traditional sport. The score was originally calculated by the soot on the blade, which marked the white clothes. (Although I think, more primitively, the score is calculated by killing your opponent.) Now facing the mirror, with the sword pointed at my chest, I learned the parry posture. Anstal divided my torso into numbered parts like a butcher. Quartets, sexts, sevenths, octaves-if I knew there would be so much French, I would have thrown away my GCSE Tricolore textbook.

Anstal concealed and taught me to disengage, that is, feint around the opponent's parry in tiny circular motions. She said that my crackdown was not strong enough. Remembering the technicality of arm lines and footwork is difficult enough, and like most beginners, I lack the killer instinct. "Everyone started well," the club manager Tim Gadaski said with a smile. "Then they were beaten a few times and things changed."

"I'm in your country now and I love democracy. So tell me what you want to do," Anstar joked an hour later. Maybe practice more parry? She looks boring. "I think you should fight someone." Huh? I'm not ready yet. But she was inserting a thin cable into the guard of my blade, through the guard. At least I can wear that neat white jacket. The class is setting up parallel ski trails throughout the room. They confronted the wire extending behind them, which was a puppet war theater. My opponent, also called Anna confusingly, salutes. My mask fell off. "In the midfielder!" Gadaski shouted, walking to the referee. Suddenly, I was really fencing.

Anna and I tested each other and nudged the blade. "Too defensive. You did nothing," Gardaski called. Anna slammed. I instinctively deflected, and then again. I can protect myself! Exciting. "You are wasting your parry," Coach Gadaski said. "You need to fight back." I tried, although the technology had disappeared. The winner gets 10 points first, and Anna leads 6-4. She attacked at will, but I also scored in her attack, and the machines on both sides were buzzing. It doesn't hurt to be hit, but I get tired quickly. The whole room sounds like a video game. Anna passed me. 8-7! I didn't realize before that I was in a leading position. how? We all scored. I exercise myself and concentrate. Maybe I am a Zatou City, blind to my own abilities. I circled her blade, trying to keep the target. 9-9. We all sprint, but I lean and are within reach. I won!

My inner child is beaming. Fencing is a different kind of feeling. Anna congratulated me, and Anstar showed a Slavic smile and admitted that I had crushed my inner weakness. There must be something on those blades, because I felt the urge to take risks in my blood and left with a bluff. I can legally claim that I have been trained in swordsmanship. Zombie, you have been warned! Let me consult my tricolor first.

Stabbed with a knife, exhausted to exhaustion? Is Arya Stark crazy? Maybe, because I definitely will.

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