Steel clashed against blackened steel.
We were already moving. Already locked in rhythm.
He opened with a cut aimed at my throat. I blocked it, barely, twisting my blade at the last second to redirect it past my shoulder.
It still nicked me. A shallow line. More blood.
He didn't stop.
I tried to step in, get inside his reach, but the moment I did, the cleaver swept horizontally like a wall, forcing me back. Pressure followed each swing, heavy enough to threaten my balance even when they missed.
Another cut grazed my ribs.
He was fast. Not just in motion, but in decisions. Clean. Calculated. And every time he backed up, it got worse. At range, he was dominant. Those slashes of air, those compressed waves of pressure, they kept me on the edge, forced to dodge, unable to counter.
I managed to land a glancing blow across his upper arm. It didn't break skin, but it showed that I could hurt him.
However, that hardly mattered compared to the damage he was giving me.
