Kaelith's fists were slower now—not from fatigue, but from intent. He was letting Leon see them, daring him to block, daring him to think.
Leon's pulse raced. Every trained instinct screamed at him to fall back into rhythm, to reset the cycle, to measure and respond—but that was exactly the trap.
Kaelith wanted him thinking.
Leon threw the thought away. No counting. No reading. No echo.
He stepped in.
Kaelith grunted in surprise as Leon caught his wrist mid-swing—not to throw it, not to redirect, but to hold it there and drive his head into the warlord's nose.
Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. Kaelith staggered back a single step—just one—but in this fight, one step was everything.
Leon surged forward, fists hammering into Kaelith's guard, elbows cutting past it, knees driving into the warlord's hip and thigh. It was ugly, graceless, and entirely outside any tempo the Shell Reverb could recognize.
Kaelith laughed through the blows, the sound wet and jagged.
