The sword came again—
FWIP!
A brutal arc from above, tight and fluid, aiming not to wound, but to finish.
Damien's feet shifted. His knees compressed.
SLIP—CRACK!
He stepped in, not back, sliding beneath the trajectory just as the blade cleaved through empty space. His palm shot up—not to block, but to redirect—riding the underside of the soldier's forearm.
It was close. Too close.
The soldier adjusted instantly, shield rotating—
CLANG!
It scraped past Damien's shoulder as he twisted out again, pivoting on the balls of his feet, body low, spine tight.
No counterstrike.
Not yet.
Just position.
Just rhythm.
'He's not just faster,' Damien thought, breath shallow. 'He's absolute.'
The kind of opponent who didn't hesitate. Who didn't leave mistakes to exploit. The kind where victory wasn't taken, it was bled for.
And without Neural Predator?
He was naked.
Blind.
At least… that's what it felt like.
But Damien gritted his teeth.
And smiled.
