The signal to begin was given with a wave of the blue-robed woman's hand.
Derek and Ludo hesitated for a split second, then lunged at each other with the clumsiness of desperation.
It was… fast, in the way two frightened animals might clash.
Their weapons collided with a dull clang—metal on metal, but not the refined hum of well-forged blades. It was awkward. Brute strength, poorly directed. Both missed their mark several times before either made a true connection.
Michael leaned back slightly, observing them with a detached expression.
They were older than most others here—likely already brushing the upper limit of the competition's age requirement. In fact, they might already be past it.
He narrowed his eyes as he watched their movements.
They weren't untrained.
Just… unpolished. Their footwork was too grounded. Their flow too stiff. They lacked the clean transitions of a real fighter—of someone who had lived with the blade, not merely learned it.
