The impact echoed longer than it should have.
Not because it was louder—
But because it carried weight.
Not just physical force.
Intent.
Presence.
Understanding.
Duryodhana felt it in his grip before he understood it in his mind.
His mace met resistance again—not through opposition, but through absence. The strike did not collide. It slipped. Redirected at the last possible moment, its path altered just enough to rob it of certainty.
The ground beneath his feet cracked as he adjusted.
Not from the strike—
But from the correction.
His stance widened instinctively. His muscles tightened, recalibrating. His fingers shifted along the haft of the mace, seeking a grip that felt more… precise.
This was not like before.
Not like sparring.
Not like battle drills.
Not even like real combat.
Because this opponent—
Did not resist strength.
He dissolved it.
Duryodhana's grin remained.
But it changed.
