Lifting the Iron Gate

The wrought-iron latch bar on the garden gate was locked down tight across its strike plate, barring my patrol route to the open avenue. A lesser fighter would wait for a handout, but an elite warrior clears his own path. I scaled the timber crossbeam, planted both boots firmly against the weathered cedar, and hooked both hands under the cold iron lever. Digging deep, I drove my weight upward in one fluid heave. With a resounding metallic clack, the heavy bar popped clean out of its catch, swinging the wooden frame open into the sun. I brushed a stray speck of moss from my cuff—effortless power, zero mess.