To outsiders, the two combatants would seem like they, instead of fighting, were engaged in a moonlit dance, like Cinderella and her prince dancing before the clock struck twelve.
It was unimaginably fast, their unnoticeable, fluid movements resembling a waltz of deadly strikes of swiftness.
Chain met blade, holders knowing that one wrong move – an opening – would be an instant ticket to death.
To Kuroro, it seemed fancy, almost fairy-tale like; dancing at midnight outside a rich man's mansion with an effeminate looking would-be the last prince of the fallen Kuruta tribe. He wanted to giggle at the thought, no matter how uncharacteristic of him and untimely as of the moment.
To Kurapika, however, it was utterly ironic, moving around with a man he hated most, and he thought he had defeated, under the milky glow of the midnight moon. It pissed him, too, how a smirk managed to crawl its way on the other's face.
Out of the blue, Kurapika's eyes started to fill with tears. His vision became hazy.
I am so weak, he told himself. And now my friends will suffer.
Images flashed in his mind. Of Bashou, Senritsu, even Neon. Of Gon, Killua, and Leorio.
And in his eyesight, everything turned red.
They were dancing beneath a bleeding moon.