Michael stepped forward, the weight of his body pressing firmly into the earth with each movement.
He loosened his shoulders again, feeling the taut pull of strength under his skin.
"Let's keep this simple," he muttered, eyes flicking to Spartan.
The undead mage, clad in tattered robes tilted its head in response—silent, but attentive.
Michael narrowed his gaze. "Attack me."
The moment the words left Michael's lips, Spartan moved.
There was no hesitation—no pause for thought.
Spartan's undead body surged forward with an unnatural fluidity, the tattered remnants of his robes barely moving in contrast to his quick, powerful strides.
Michael's feet dug into the earth as he braced himself.
The ground trembled beneath him when Spartan's fist slammed towards him.
The air itself seemed to crackle with the force behind that strike—strong, but still measured. Neither Spartan nor Michael wanted to injure the other.
