With every clash, a new understanding bloomed within him. A golden sword aimed at his throat—he tilted his body and sliced upward, not meeting it head-on but severing its energy thread from the side. Another sword shot for his legs—he stepped forward mid-air and struck its core, causing it to ripple before disintegrating.
Max's breathing was heavy, but his eyes glinted with a maddening clarity. He had clashed with dozens of those golden swords by now—each strike like a test, each impact sending vibrations down to his very soul. His blade, his arm, his core—everything hurt. Yet his gaze never wavered.
"These swords…" he thought, parrying another blade that curved like a comet from the sky, "…they don't just cut."
