Adyr and the priest continued to trade moves, with Adyr using basic workman's tools that had no place in an arena and the priest wielding twin short blades designed for bloodshed.
The priest was constantly active and aggressive, moving his arms, legs, and entire body in a wild, fluid dance that left no opening at all. Each step led to the next, each feint became a strike, and every shift of his shoulders threatened a cut. Adyr, meanwhile, remained on the defensive, absorbing blows on steel or slipping aside at the last second, always surviving by a hair's breadth.
"Isn't he really good?" A woman stood at the edge of the arena and said, "I've never seen anyone last this long against Priest Alvion." She was watching every move with wide eyes.
Though Alvion wore a priest's robe, he was no ordinary clergyman. He was a renowned fighter in the kingdom, and the deeds he had done on countless battlefields were the reason people called him the crazy priest.
