Ashborn's fist tightened, knuckles creaking like bending stone. Then, without another word, he sprinted forward. His movements were swift, precise, and deliberate, the kind of sprint that carried no wasted energy.
Avin did not retreat. He stood his ground, sword held firm, body strangely calm for someone staring down a storm. Each exchange, each painful lesson from moments earlier had tuned his nerves. The panic of the first strike was gone. In its place sat a flicker of clarity.
Ashborn leapt. His body cut upward, suspended for a heartbeat, one arm cocked high, fist clenched like a meteor threatening descent. The air howled around him.
THWOOOM.
He came down like a hammer.
But Avin was ready.
Ashborn's own words rang in his head: Smaller movements. Use your senses. His right foot slid outward, grounding itself into the floor. The world slowed, his crimson gaze sharpening, tracing every subtle arc of Ashborn's descent.
