The blade went in at a shallow angle, right beneath the lowest rib.
Metal parted skin with a damp hiss—like water flashing off a hot plate—then kept sliding until the guard kissed the fabric of his shirt. The mirrored edge warped red beneath the torch‑glow.
A pulse kicked inside his chest.
His shard flared blue once—too bright, too sudden—then burst in a spray of sparks that scorched the cloth around it. The light collapsed inward, taking the strength out of his knees. Pain tore upward, white and blinding, but he kept his grip steady until the steel stopped moving.
Blood foamed in his throat. He tasted iron, grit, the ash that never left the arena air. A crooked smile cut across his mouth—more reflex than comfort. His outline flickered; the edges of his sleeves began to show torchlight through them, as if the world were forgetting where his body ended.
Kikaru moved on instinct.
