Arcten's sword screamed through the air—clean, deliberate, honed by years of battlefield attrition.
Lucavion barely caught the edge of it—his blade sliding along Arcten's, not perfectly, but just enough to keep from being crushed.
The clash echoed.
The force bit into Lucavion's arms. Even dulled, the strength behind the blow was absolute. Bone-deep.
But instead of retreating—he laughed.
A short, clipped breath—not nervous. Thrilled.
"As expected," he said, voice light, teeth bared in a grin, "instructors here are not to be underestimated."
Arcten's eyes narrowed. That tone—it wasn't mockery this time.
It was respect.
But then Lucavion shifted.
A sharp exhale left his lungs—and his stance melted.
No fanfare. No charge.
Just smooth, seamless reconfiguration.
His knees bent. Shoulders dropped. Weight rolled from heel to toe.
Reflexive.
And then—he moved.
Faster than Arcten anticipated. Still within the limits of 1-star mana—but the way he used it...
