Sir 8's knee dug into the dirt, breath hitching in his chest. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. His ribs throbbed. Bones screamed.
And Chandler… kept walking.
Each step was deliberate, heavy with intent. Not rage. Not excitement. Duty.
"I didn't think you'd fall that easily," Chandler said without even a hint of gloating. "But I suppose age does corrode even the sharpest steel."
Sir 8 wiped his mouth, gritting his teeth. "You talk like you've won."
Chandler didn't stop. "You're not dead yet. But you will be soon."
Sir 8's fingers began to twitch with subtle precision.
The ground trembled lightly.
Wind curled at his feet.
"Level Four Wind Art: Gale Spiral!"
A violent column of air erupted beneath Sir 8, launching him high into the canopy. Leaves scattered, branches cracked. The force created a temporary cyclone that separated the two fighters.
Chandler tilted his head upward, watching the trail of disturbed foliage.
A faint smirk appeared on his lips.
"So you're trying to run now?" he muttered.
Sir 8 landed on a thick branch, already moving—leaping from trunk to trunk, gathering more energy in his palms. The wind swirled around him like blades, cutting into bark and debris as he accelerated.
"Level Four Wind Art: Slipstream Dash!"
A sudden horizontal gust fired beneath his feet, propelling him forward at bullet-speed. He shot through the upper forest like a hawk loosed from a cage.
Below, Chandler remained calm, eyes half-lidded.
He crouched slightly—then vanished.
Boom!
The earth cracked where he'd stood. A second later, he reappeared fifty feet ahead, directly in Sir 8's path—waiting.
Sir 8's eyes widened. "Already—?!"
Chandler's hand snapped forward like a lightning whip.
Sir 8 barely blocked with a shield of wind—but the impact shattered it, sending him spiraling off-course into the trees.
Crack!
He hit bark. Hard.
Rolled. Groaned.
"Still stalling?" Chandler asked as he walked calmly toward the downed knight again.
Sir 8 stood slowly, panting. "Not stalling. Tiring you out."
Chandler raised an eyebrow. "Cute."
Sir 8 raised both hands and chanted low.
"Level Four Wind Art: Hurricane Reverb!"
A wave of compressed wind launched outward in a wide burst—sending a ripple through the entire forest. Trees bent. Roots tore. The air screamed.
Chandler raised his forearm, sliding slightly back—his kimono fluttering under the sheer pressure. The blast tore past him, shaking the battlefield.
A moment passed.
Then—
He stepped forward again.
Unshaken. Steady.
Sir 8's heart sank.
"…You're a machine."
"No," Chandler replied. "I'm prepared. And you're still slow."
With a blur, Chandler blitzed forward again.
Sir 8 barely managed to evade—skimming past a haymaker that would have crushed his jaw. He flipped backward, panting now, forcing another gust of wind between them.
More distance. More space. It was all he could do.
Every movement now was survival.
Not victory.
He didn't need to win.
He just needed time.