We moved like opposites drawn into orbit. Not quite a dance, but something close.
Khon had adapted.
Faster than I expected.
He no longer met my fists like they were mistakes. He deflected them with the flat of his blade, pivoted his strikes to match the rhythm of a fighter who refused to stay in one style. When I moved like a martial artist, he moved like a duelist. When I became a duelist, he turned into a brawler with a blade.
We weren't fighting each other.
We were moving with each other.
I launched a flurry of jabs with my free hand, drawing his guard low, then followed with an upward slice. He caught it with the spine of his cleaver, let it slide off, and twisted his torso to elbow me in the ribs.
I took the hit. Returned with a knee to his hip.
Neither of us flinched. We broke apart, circled again.
He struck next. An overhead cleave, heavy with weight. I sidestepped. Not away, but in, catching his forearm with my hand and jamming my shoulder into his ribs.
