And before he could settle into thought, Razeal was upon him again.
The boy didn't relent. Strike after strike poured forth, his body flowing with unbroken rhythm. Every slash came from impossible positions an upward slice while leaning backward, a horizontal cut from a pivot that should have been too short, a downward arc that turned mid-swing into a thrust. None of it followed traditional form. None of it should have been possible.
Yet every one landed.
Yograj tried again to dodge, to parry, even to counter but every time, the sword seemed to twist with him, flowing like liquid shadow, chasing his every movement.
His immortal body withstood the blows, but the sensation of steel meeting flesh was real.
One cut. Then another. Dozens.
