Leon pushed forward, ignoring the narrowing space the pale-armored man was creating.
If the opponent was predicting every move, then Leon needed to stop giving him moves to predict.
He loosened his stance, cutting all unnecessary tension from his body, letting his weight shift in ways that didn't telegraph intent. His steps became irregular, the rhythm deliberately broken—half a stride here, a sudden stop there, like a flicker in a faulty projection.
The man's eyes narrowed. His blade rose slightly.
Leon feinted left but didn't commit. The moment the man adjusted, Leon dropped low, his palm touching the ground. Mana surged out in a short, sharp burst—not aimed at the man, but at the space under his feet. The floor's surface cracked, just enough to ruin his balance for a fraction of a second.
That was all Leon needed.
