So he tried something else.
Reading and analysing Cassian's form, and then trying to predict the strikes before they came.
It was an ambitious attempt. But when was brilliance ever born in normalcy?
Copying someone's form was clearly unheard of. Even if people studied the technique and style, form was unique; it was exclusive to every individual.
So what Kyle was trying to do here was practically impossible. Even he knew that. But at this point, he was fighting a losing fight, so anything goes.
'It doesn't hurt to try...' He thought.
He had grown what one would describe as a swordsman's pride. Even when outmatched, even when clearly outclassed in every sense of the word.
Meet your opponent head on. Do not give up. Give it your all.
However, that was easier said than done.
Kyle nearly tripped over himself twice. Yet, behind the clumsiness, Cassian's sharp gaze caught something.
'He's completely focused.' He could feel it from Kyle's steely, determined gaze.
Regardless, the next few exchanges were painful to watch. Kyle stumbled with each parry; his movements were reactive and desperate, but not coordinated.
His feet skidded, his strikes came with no timing, no sense of distance.
Cassian noticed, the way he was reading his movements, and trying to copy them, 'must be why he looks so clumsy right now. He's trying to copy me; that is difficult.'
"You can read and analyse my form, but I would advise against trying to copy it. It's a lot more difficult, and everyone ends up developing a form unique to them, even if you study the same style."
"Ungh." Kael nodded, but not like he was going to completely listen to that.
Cassian felt it. The feelings Kyle was exuding were palpable. Raw, unfiltered focus.
Intent.
Potential.
'Good.'
Cassian didn't slow down; that only willed him to push Kyle harder.
He struck again with deadly precision, and each time pausing to correct a flaw.
"Don't chase the blade. Let it come to you."
Tap.
"Don't swing from the arms. Use your hips."
Tap.
"Breathe with your strikes."
Thwack.
"No, not like that. Watch. Watch your opponent closer, read them."
Cassian repeated a simple parry, then slowly again. Kyle watched. And something clicked.
The next time Cassian lunged, Kyle's sword moved more smoothly, clumsily still, but correctly aligned.
His stance adjusted, legs wider. He began to see, just barely, the rhythm in Cassian's steps and movements.
'It's not about moving just the sword, but your whole body, the sword becomes an extension of your body,' He realised.
A dozen more strikes passed. Then a dozen more. Kael began to sweat, panting, but his eyes gleamed like lit coals.
'It's becoming easier to time my strikes.'
He copied Cassian's movements, mimicked his feints. He failed, but only once each time.
Every misstep was followed by a correction, not from the Marquis's lips any longer, but Kyle's own instinct, his own adjustments.
Cassian was stunned watching Kael improve every time they clashed; it was like watching a child grow in real time.
He had expected this little experiment to take time. Clearly, well, Kyle had other plans.
"He's… learning as he moves," He murmured, stunned.
Cassian grunted as Kyle blocked his next blow cleanly. Not by luck, it was all intentional, and well-timed.
'Wow!' The Marquis thought.
Another flurry began from that point on: Cassian pressed forward, a cut, a thrust, feints, all in a breath.
Kyle defended with ragged parries, his sword scraping Cassian's blade, each clash ringing metallic and full-bodied.
He stumbled back, nearly toppled by the force of Cassian's deliberate rhythm.
Cassian touched the point of Kael's blade with his own, halting their clash.
"Your footwork has improved, but it's still predictable. Shift weight before you strike."
He stepped aside, a gust of wind swirling Kyle's hair.
Kyle's next attack was quieter, his foot pivot sharper. He slanted his blade downwards, chin lowered, eyes narrowed. Cassian blocked, but his eyebrow rose at the correctness of form.
They exchanged blows again: this time, Kyle anticipated. He stepped in with a swift thrust, drawing Cassian's guard slightly forward.
Then, with motion like water breaking rock, Kyle pivoted, turned his blade to slash low toward the marquis's hip.
Cassian blocked in surprise, sweat beading at his temple.
"Good!" he exhaled, his tone grudging yet awed. "Again."
The spar escalated. Steel screamed as they crossed blades, Kyle's strokes sharpening, becoming streamlined.
Clang!—clang!—clang!
A chorus of steel on steel, footwork sliding over stone in rapid interplay.
Kyle blocked a thrust, swiveled, hurling a feint-high, then slipped low, a deceptive rhythm Cassian had not taught him.
Cassian hesitated, and then he decided to increase the tempo even more.
Kyle matched it instantly, unlike last time.
His feet shifted with more confidence, his parries tighter. A surprise thrust from Cassian was met with a lean and a counterstrike, not graceful, but dangerously close to landing.
"That adjustment…" The Marquis whispered under his breath, parrying. "He saw the opening."
They continued.
Cassian pressed again, an onslaught of strikes. Kyle absorbed them, parried, stepped, and turned each defense into a counter.
He caught one of Cassian's blades on the flat of his, twisting, trying to rip free. Cassian withdrew his steel with a grunt, nodding in recognition.
Outside, the hours ticked by, past midnight. They all got absorbed in the beauty of swordsmanship. The two engaged in combat.
Over time, Kyle began integrating corrections of his own.
He stopped trying to mirror and began to meld. His movements, though raw, eventually became a blend of learned precision and spontaneous ingenuity. And then, unexpectedly...
A double feint.
Cassian blinked.
Kyle had faked a high swing, drawing Cassian's guard up, only to pivot and strike low, nearly catching his ankle.
"...He's never done that before," Cassian muttered.
Another feint. A misdirection. A rapid turn and reverse slash.
Kyle was dancing now, and though sweat ran freely down his brow, and bruises and cuts littered his body, he now moved like he had known the blade in another life.
Cassian accelerated, launching a rapid succession: high slash, low cut, thrust, three moves in a breathless flurry.
Kyle blocked twice, then feinted left, ducked low, and sent a backhand cut spinning toward Cassian's guard.
Cassian deflected at the last instant, arched an eyebrow, and offered a rare smile. He struck again. Kyle blocked, a fluid, clean block. And then, he countered.
The night was coming to an end. The yard outside was bathed in faint moonlight, fading away to give way to the rising sun.
They fought still.