• I was rather surprised when I got the letter, since I had only placed my advertisement a week ago. I was in dire need of a fencing instructor, though I required one that would respect my anonymity, for few men are willing to teach a woman swordplay. My hope for a teacher, let alone a master, had dwindled until I recieved the letter. Written in elegant script, the succinct message said:

    Your first lesson will be at midnight tomorrow, behind the Opera House. Bring your own sword. If you are ready to be taught, I will teach you.

    I had never met this man before, yet I already liked him. His writing style only hinted at his pride, which led me to believe in his implied mastery. Perhaps my luck had come through after all.

    With only five minutes to midnight, I tied on a thin, white mask and speculated on my new teacher's place of meeting. I had just begun my career as a lead dancer at the Paris Opera House. I found it a little ironic that my serect obsession and my public passion would meet so close together. Not that I mind, I thought to myself as I crept out of my dressing room and to the Opera's back stairwell, but it seems a little too conincidental for my liking. I gingerly stepped outside, hoping that no one saw me sneak outside. Oh, how the rumors and scandals would fly!

    And then he stepped out of the shadows.

    My new teacher was dressed in all black, contrasting with my entirely white ensemble. His dark hair was slicked back in a small, masculine ponlytail. His eyes, though, held me captivated. They reminded me of dark tunnels with only a small light at the end of them.

    "Welcome," he said, with a voice that sounded like silk on tile. "I see that you wear a mask. Wonderful! If I teach you in the future, you should always cover your face."

    I was liking this man even more as he drew his sword. It was simply crafted, yet I was enthralled by the hilt of the sword: it was shaped like a human skull. I drew my own sword, and we circled around each other in an advance-lunge formation.

    Our swords clashed; how I love that sound of metal on metal. It was soon apparant in our battle that we were equals, yet my teacher kept striking. His dominant style was Prise de Fer, or to take control of my weapon, as my father once put it. I was forced to rely on almost solely defensive moves; however, I scored a few slashes courtesy of a moulinet and a feint.

    "You are wonderful," he said, hardly concealing the smile in his voice, "yet you still choose to learn. Why is that?"

    I parried his blow and answered in a low voice, "I have a secret. Yes, it involves the mask, and no, you shall never learn it. Unless, of course, you defeat me in battle."

    "Is that a bargain?" he asked, very nearly slicing off my hand.

    "Of course," I replied and added, as an afterthought, "and I intend to win."

    My teacher nodded, and we continued our assults, searching for any weaknesses and finding none. After what seemed like hours, he broke off, saying, "I will teach you. Yes, your skill is matched to mine. Meet me here again tomorrow night. Midnight."

    As he turned to leave, I yelled after him, "Wait!" My teacher turned, a look of bemusement on his face. "What shall I call you?" I asked, rather curious.

    He looked straight at me, his black eyes seemed to see right through me as he said, "The Phantom." Despite my sweat, I found myself shivering.

    "The Phantom?" I whispered. I knew what that name meant.

    My teacher nodded, "The Phantom." Then he turned on his heel, and the darkness swallowed him, leaving me alone in the night.

    Part Two
    Part Three
    Part Four
    Part Five
    Part Six