The moment grew more intense—like a storm brewing in silence. Their silhouettes flickered in and out of view as they moved, traded, struck, evaded. The clash of fists and feet echoed through the arena, a symphony of skill and will.
Jayden's breathing deepened. Not out of fatigue—but exhilaration. "She's good," he thought. Too good."
Cassandra twisted mid-air, landing on one palm and flipping back onto her feet with a feral grin. "I saw that hesitation," she called out.
Jayden smirked. "That wasn't hesitation. That was mercy."
"Mercy gets you killed," she replied—and lunged again.
Her strikes were different now—less predictable, layered with deceptive faints and brutal angles. Every movement was precise, trained, deadly. Jayden blocked a flurry of palm strikes, barely dodging a heel meant for his temple. He retaliated with a jab to her ribs—she twisted, but he followed with a roundhouse that clipped her shoulder and sent her skidding back.
