A/N: So... Detective Conan felt so much like fencing to me and I decided to give it a go at poetry. I probably botched up all of the fencing terms. I'm so sorry in advance...

Take up your rapiers, blades of the night.

A skittish bow from darkness to light.

A fleeting smile, a chaste hello,

Let the match begin, en garde.

Black makes a move with a feint so smooth.

White makes takes a step, a passe avant.

Black parrys the attack, not quite, not quite.

A riposte follows with a haunting cry.

It's a match, en garde, let it begin. The two fencers face with a trick up their sleeves.


Black retreats, the blade left behind.

A laughing mask of a match unfinished.

A heist it would have been, to steal the victory.

His grin left the stars feeling quite diminished.

Balestra. Fente. Coulé.

The attacks of White leave no space for error.

And the footprints in the dust,

Seemed to grow even larger.

A final swing and the blade sent flying.

Black has abandoned the Salle d'armes,

A salut of smoke and echoing voice.

White stares and lowers his blade.

The winner undecided, it seems it's a draw.

The name of his opponent is yet still unknown.