Ian's blade screamed through the air—a flurry of controlled fury: strike, parry, lightning-quick riposte, a deceptive thrust, a subtle feint.
Every movement engineered to kill. Every blow laced with death-born power.
But Fang—his crimson rods a blur—met each one.
Even the impossible ones.
His defense was fluid, precise, almost serene in its inhuman grace.
Then, with a sweeping turn—less a maneuver than a dance—Fang deflected a neck-bound slash and, in the same breath, drove both rods into Ian's chest.
The impact landed like a meteor.
Ian flew—breath ripped from his lungs, body a ragdoll of shadow and steel.
He slammed into the base of a shattered monolith.
Stone cracked and screamed.
Dust exploded around him.
He sagged there, half-buried in rubble, smoke coiling from torn fabric and charred flesh. Violet wisps curled from his wounds.
His breath was broken glass.
And then—he rose.
Slow. Agonizing. But unbroken.
