The court was a battlefield not of brute force, but of tempo, rhythm, and control.
The hardwood glistened under the lights, every bead of sweat shimmering like fallen sparks
from a forge.
Lucas Graves dribbled up the left wing.
His eyes? Locked.
His heartbeat? Calm.
Across from him, the predator stood —
Kagetsu Renjiro, arms relaxed, feet light, head low.
But his presence was like lightning before the strike.
Lucas remembered his words:
"You can copy movement…"
"…but can you copy my limits?"
(Limits, huh…?)
Lucas's mind filtered the moment like a machine.
(You're right. I can't copy what you were born with.)
(Not your wingspan. Not your explosive calves. Not that mutant leap.)
But his feet shifted. His center lowered.
(But what I can copy... is how you choose.)
He remembered every move Kagetsu made earlier.
Not just the motion, but the reason behind it.
The rhythm. The pauses. The weight of each decision.
