"Mujeok."
The word left him quiet, almost a breath more than a shout, and the shadow across the street shifted its stance a fraction, some faint, unfamiliar uncertainty finally cracking through its otherwise perfect composure. Whatever it had learned from him across the entire fight, whatever library of forms and instincts it had built exchange by exchange, this word clearly meant nothing to it at all.
Jin moved.
There was no named form behind the motion, no careful echo of anything Muramasa had ever drilled into him across a month of bruising nights. This was something he'd been quietly turning over in his own head for longer than that, an idea he'd never actually finished, never actually trusted enough to attempt in a real fight. A strike that didn't rely on angle or edge or timing to land. A strike built to simply ignore whatever stood in its way entirely.
