บท 32: Chapter 32: Precision of a Predator
Fendrel came at me, his eyes wild with desperation, his body moving on instinct. He had no idea I was already several steps ahead of him. As his sword sliced through the air, I met it with my own katana, but I didn't block or parry it in the traditional sense. No, I guided it, the blade barely grazing mine, redirecting the force as if I were simply brushing aside a leaf. The shift in momentum caught him off guard, sending him stumbling forward, off balance.
It was a simple maneuver, something I had perfected in countless duels in my previous life. But to Fendrel, Mayer, and the soldiers watching, it might as well have been a trick of magic. The look on Fendrel's face, wide-eyed and disbelieving, told me everything I needed to know. He didn't understand what had just happened.
I didn't press the attack, though I easily could have. Instead, I let him collect himself, watching as confusion bled into frustration. He muttered something under his breath, something about how a mere boy shouldn't possess such refined skills. I almost laughed at that—this body might be young, but I wasn't some untested child. If I had the physical strength to match my technique, this fight would've ended the moment it began.
"Now's not the time for small talk," I said, my tone mocking, "You've got bigger things to worry about—like your family."
The comment struck a nerve, just as I intended. Fendrel's face twisted with rage, and he charged again, his sword raised high. Predictable.
Once more, I moved with that same light, almost effortless grace, my katana gliding against his weapon, turning his wild swing into nothing. Fendrel stumbled, and I didn't even have to try hard. His attacks were clumsy, too full of emotion and too little control. Again, and again, he lunged, swinging with all his might, and again, I redirected each strike with the same smooth, elegant motion.
It was starting to become laughable. The more frustrated he grew, the more he threw his weight into each strike, and the easier it became for me to manipulate. I didn't even need to exert much force—just a slight twist, a flick of my wrist, and his attacks went wide, leaving him scrambling to recover.
"Is that really all you've got?" I taunted, watching as the desperation in his eyes grew more pronounced. His breathing had become erratic, his strikes slower, more erratic. He was tiring himself out, and I hadn't even broken a sweat.
He swung wildly again, and this time, I saw my moment. Without hesitation, I brought my katana down with precision, the blade cutting through the air like a predator swooping in for the kill. Fendrel, caught off guard, barely dodged in time, my blade grazing his cheek. The look of shock on his face as blood trickled down from the shallow cut was satisfying.
But I wasn't done. I pressed the advantage, moving in like a beast scenting blood. My strikes came faster, fiercer, my katana a blur of steel as I slashed with calculated fury. I became relentless, a force of nature he couldn't hope to stop. Each swing was like the crack of thunder, the air humming with the sheer force of my attacks.
Fendrel tried to dodge, but he was too slow. He tried to block, but his blade was always a fraction too late. My katana found its mark, slicing into his torso with a sickening sound. The wound was deep, blood pouring from the gash, soaking his clothes. He gasped, staggering back, clutching at the wound, his face pale from the shock of it all.
I stepped back, studying him, calculating my next move. His fighting style was predictable—relying too heavily on brute strength and instinct. It was something I had recognized early on. Trying to match him in raw power would've been foolish, but that's not how I fight. I fight with my mind, always thinking three moves ahead, always adapting to the flow of battle. That's how I was trained. That's how I survived.
Fendrel's breathing was ragged now, his eyes clouded with pain and fear. He knew he was beaten, even if he didn't want to admit it. He could feel it—the inevitability of his defeat, the futility of his struggle.
"You're too predictable," I said coldly, raising my blade once more. "That's your problem. You rely on strength, but strength alone isn't enough."
I circled him slowly, like a predator toying with its prey. This fight wasn't just about defeating Fendrel—it was about proving a point. He had underestimated me from the beginning, and now he was paying the price.
"You're out of time," I whispered, my voice a low growl. And with that, I lunged again, my blade singing through the air, ready to end it.
The fight itself was not just a clash of steel, but a battle of minds. I had him where I wanted him, and with every strike, I inched closer to victory. Fendrel's fate was sealed; it was only a matter of time before he fell. And when he did, the world would know that Eliot Blackthorn—no, Leon Winter—was a force to be reckoned with, in any body.
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