Izikel barely had time to recover before the assault resumed—this time, fiercer and faster than ever.
Blades danced in every direction, a whirlwind of shimmering steel and slashing air. Raynoel moved like a ghost, flickering from one side to the other, never in one place for more than a blink. His strikes came from above, below, the sides, impossible angles—relentless and precise.
Izikel tried to keep up, raising his shield, tracking Raynoel's motion with his eyes, but the attacks were too fast. Every time he aimed and fired, it was at a blur, a flicker of motion, or a fading afterimage. The real Raynoel was already gone, moving to another flank, already preparing his next blow.
