Sylas' body swayed, the natural cadence of his rhythm hitting a new gear as he strung one combo over to the next, and then another, followed by another.
Salivar's blade seemed slow, but it wasn't. Sylas' ability to read, to calculate, to play three moves ahead on a chessboard his opponent couldn't even see, was countless times more potent when he wasn't accounting for a weapon he wasn't familiar with.
He realized then that he didn't need a weapon. Maybe in this one respect, the Scorned Wraps were very much correct.
There was no stronger power than his fists.
A hook shook Salivar's jaw.
Than his legs.
A shin collapsed one of the Entrim's knees in.
Than his elbows, his palms, his feet.
Sylas fluidly pulled [Twilight Dance] into an even deeper depth, his elbow rocking Salivar's jaw toward the other direction, only to slam a palm against his chest to collapse his ribs in, and finish with a roundhouse right across his temple.
