The clash did not erupt into chaos.
It sharpened.
Every movement on the field carried intent, and every strike was measured, as if both sides were testing not just strength—but understanding.
Dust rose beneath their feet as the first exchange continued, each scuff, each step, each shift of weight a declaration of presence. The sound of impact echoed across the road in a rhythm that was not random, not chaotic—it was deliberate.
Duryodhana had already stepped into the center of the fight, his mace swinging with controlled aggression. Each motion cut through space, each strike forcing distance, each collision leaving a vibrating pulse in the ground that spoke to those sensitive enough to notice.
He wasn't holding back.
But neither were they.
