The world shifted the moment they stepped through the portal.
Light bent, space folded—and then their feet struck solid stone.
They stood in a circular arena surrounded by towering walls of black jade, inscribed with glowing glyphs that pulsed faintly, as if alive. A clear sky arced overhead, painted in false daylight, the only sound a faint wind that didn't stir the air.
In the center of the arena stood a man.
No armor. No aura flaring wildly. No grand display of qi.
Just a long, curved sword resting loosely in one hand.
He wore simple robes of pale gray, barefoot, his expression unreadable. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed. Yet something about him radiated pressure. Not the kind that crushed down on you.
The kind that waited.
Watching. Measuring.
Like a blade still sheathed… but sharper than anything drawn.
Leo's grip tightened on his spear. "That's the warrior?"
Mira didn't answer immediately. Her eyes were locked on the figure, lips drawn tight. "Yeah. That's him."
Aric took a slow breath, then said, "We go in light. No heroics. Gauge his reactions, get a feel for his rhythm. If it gets bad, we fall back fast."
Leo nodded. "Got it. Test the waters."
They fanned out, stepping toward the edge of the central ring.
The moment their feet crossed into the core of the arena, the man's eyes opened.
No flare of qi. No warning.
Just movement.
A blur of silver flashed toward Mira. She raised her gauntlets just in time to deflect—but the force sent her skidding back with a grunt. Aric unleashed a burst of high-pressure water to force distance, but the warrior spun through it, blade dancing through droplets like they were mist.
Leo tried to intercept, spear sweeping for the man's flank. For a heartbeat, he thought he had an opening—
But the sword curved just so, parrying the thrust with almost casual precision, and then turned to slash.
Leo leapt back, heart pounding.
The warrior didn't chase.
He just waited.
They retreated to the arena's edge, sweat clinging to their backs, lungs burning from the brief but brutal exchange.
"Every path I saw got shut down halfway through," Leo said, still catching his breath.
Aric's eyes narrowed as he turned to Mira. "A master of intent?"
Mira grimaced. "Looks like it."
Leo looked between them. "What does that mean, exactly?"
Aric answered, voice calm but serious. "It means he doesn't need to guess. He doesn't have to think. He sees your move before you do. His body already knows the answer."
Mira stepped closer, shaking out her sore arm. "There's a strategy for dealing with it. Something we were taught back in our pre-Tower training. Never thought we'd need it here though."
She gave a lopsided grin. "This was supposed to be for tenth-floor lunatics, not a warm-up on floor four."
Leo's eyes lit with curiosity. "So what's the strategy?"
"You don't fight alone," Aric explained. "You layer your attacks. Force the master into reacting to multiple things at once. Not wide-spread chaos—that won't work. It has to be perfectly coordinated."
Mira nodded. "If we strike in a perfect sequence—pressuring from different directions, covering each other's gaps—we can close off all his paths. If we do that…"
"There's a moment," Aric finished, "a breath. Just enough to slip one strike through."
Leo nodded slowly. "But if it's not perfect…"
"He carves through the weak point," Mira said. "Which has been us every time so far."
They regrouped, discussed timing, tempo, angles. Aric would open from range, shaping pressure with precision water blasts. Mira would dive from the opposite direction, brute force behind each strike. Leo would flow in the seam—reading the motion, ready to strike when the paths narrowed.
They moved again.
This time, the engagement lasted longer.
They pressed him—Mira hammering forward, Aric weaving strikes that curved at unnatural angles, Leo sliding in from the blind spots.
For a flicker of a moment, the swordsman hesitated—just long enough for Leo to see it.
The opening.
He lunged.
But the angle was a hair too slow.
The swordsman turned his foot, twisted his wrist, and threaded the blade between Mira's strike and Aric's wave—blunting both, and slamming the flat of his sword into Leo's ribs, sending him tumbling out of range.
The three of them fell back, panting.
"Almost," Aric murmured.
"Too shallow on the left flank," Mira muttered. "We didn't pinch tight enough."
They tried again. And again.
Each time they grew closer. The swordsman's perfect responses started to require more movement, more strain. His expression shifted ever so slightly.
But still, he remained untouched.
And each failed attempt drove the point home:
If they wanted to land a blow, not a single mistake was going to be allowed