Leroy blinked. Then laughed, his laugh low, amused, and dangerous.
"Really?" he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. "You're going to duel me with a fan?"
The fan snapped open with a flick, catching the moonlight on its lacquered edge. But it was no ordinary fan. Its ribs gleamed like blades, sharpened to a vicious edge.
The figure shifted his weight, silent and graceful. No words. No threats. Just intent.
Leroy's grin widened. "Alright then," he murmured, raising his sword. "Let's dance."
Steel met lacquered steel with a hiss. The fan slashed like a crescent moon, fast and unpredictable, its sharpened edge grazing Leroy's arm as he barely deflected it. The impact sang through his blade. This was no assassin; this was a trained duelist.
Leroy twisted, parried, and struck.
