The first clash between Leon and Commander Veyrix wasn't loud. There was no explosion of power. No dramatic burst of energy.
Just metal.
Clean. Sharp. Final.
Veyrix's sword moved with no wasted motion, as if each strike had already been practiced a thousand times before it was ever swung. His stance didn't shift. His expression didn't change. The blade simply appeared in front of Leon—twisting toward his neck.
Leon ducked.
But he felt the edge pass within a hair of his skin.
He didn't counter.
He didn't retreat.
He studied.
The next strike came from above. Then a sweep. Then a pivot. Veyrix didn't fight like a man. He fought like a concept—precision given form.
Roselia whispered from the sidelines, "He's faster than any of the others…"
Roman grit his teeth. "Not just faster. Smarter."
Milim crossed her arms. "Doesn't matter."
Kael nodded. "Leon can learn anything. Sooner or later."
And that's what he was doing.
Leon didn't match the strikes.
He learned from them.
