The strike came without a warning roar, without the hiss of dragged steel, and without a single fluctuation of hostile intent.
It was a strike born of twenty years spent surviving in the lightless belly of the mountain.
Pure, unadulterated pragmatism meant to sever the spinal cord before the target's nervous system could register an attack.
The curved iron sickle was three inches from the flesh of Jack's neck when steel met steel.
CLANG!
The collision did not produce a clean metallic ring; it detonated like a thunderclap inside the cavern. A circular shockwave of displaced air blasted outward, flattening the sulfur vapors and shattering the fragile volcanic glass beneath their boots.
Ren Ryzard stood between Jack and the shadow, his body angled sharply, the flat of his katana locked precisely against the inside curve of the attacker's upper sickle. The swordsman's arm was rigid, his dark blue eyes narrowed into sharp, lethal slits.
