The sun had already begun its descent when Damien struck.
Whoooosh...
The movement was clean—refined, precise, a single curved sweep of his blade that cut the air with a whisper.
Lyone barely had time to raise his own sword to deflect, and when he did, the sheer weight of Damien's motion knocked him back a full two steps, feet skidding across the dirt.
They had been training for hours.
Sweat clung to Lyone's brow. His tunic, soaked through, clung to his shoulders. His fingers trembled faintly from fatigue, but he held the short blade in both hands like he meant it.
"Again," Damien said, resetting his stance.
Lyone groaned. "I'm… dying."
"You're surviving."
"I was surviving. Now I'm dying."
Damien's eyes were calm. Unrelenting. "Then you haven't trained enough."
The boy let out a breath between gritted teeth and lunged. This time, he led with a feint, circling around Damien's left side.
His movements were sharper now—less sloppy than they had been hours ago.
Paaang!
