Ash twisted, dodging the sharp scythe with a rush of wind swirling around him. Every strike from the Wretched Dancer flowed like water—graceful but deadly.
Ash's blade flashed in response, blocking, parrying, cutting.
His eyes narrowed, studying the rhythm. The Dancer's moves weren't random—they were a language, a dance of death that repeated patterns, subtle shifts, and openings.
Ash's mind raced, piecing together its technique mid-fight.
He shifted his stance, trying a feint from the old master's scrolls he'd once seen. The Dancer reacted—almost like it expected the move. Ash gritted his teeth.
'This one's different. Faster, sharper. Not just muscle but mind.'
Kaius stood a short distance away, breath catching.
"Is this for real? Ash... smiling while fighting a tier four? Is he enjoying this? Are all Sons of Flames like this?"
Ash's lips curved. The thrill of the fight surged through him. This wasn't just survival—it was art.
