Cain had expected Maris to tire quickly, to slow after a few minutes of sparring. After all, she had already pushed herself to her limits yesterday, and today she had shown off moves sharper than he had ever anticipated. Still, each passing strike, each spin of her spear, revealed that she was growing stronger with every second. He could feel it in the weight of her thrusts, the rhythm of her footwork, the subtle shift in her posture with each lunge.
He did not speak. He did not need to. The wooden swords in his hands and the skill flowing through him communicated everything. The Demonic Swordsmanship was performing beautifully. Every parry, every counter, every movement felt natural, almost instinctive. Yet Cain could not hide the quiet shock building in his chest. She was improving in real time, learning from each block and strike, adjusting, anticipating.
