Cassian's strike blurred through the hall, steel slicing in arcs that whispered through the air. Sparks flew with every clash against Oliver's longsword, the sound sharp, alive. The space between them hummed with tension, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Oliver didn't flinch at Cassian's crimson aura or the sudden gusts of speed. Instead, he moved with precise elegance, his blade tracing arcs that intercepted the boy's feints with uncanny ease. Cassian's strikes weren't random—sometimes a gale, rushing forward; then soft, a breeze slipping through defenses. And then the pace returned, seamless, unpredictable.
As Oliver parried another swipe, a faint smirk tugged at his lips. "That footwork… wind-based sword style, is it?"
Cassian's eyes gleamed, excitement thrumming through him. "Gale Whisper Sword Style," he said mid-lunge. Then, with a quick grin, he added, "So that's what you call footwork, huh?"
