The phantom moved.
And the duel began.
It was a clash without words.
There was no signal. No roar. No fanfare.
Only motion.
The phantom's first step sliced through the void, its form blurring into arcs of darkness. Lin Mu reacted instantly, parrying with a tight crescent slash.
Clang!
The force echoed—not in volume, but in will.
Sword intent surged around both of them, slashing through the air without energy or light. Every movement was precise. Every step a challenge.
The phantom advanced with seamless grace, each blow honed like glass. Cuts came from impossible angles. Feints followed real strikes that reversed mid-swing.
Lin Mu deflected three.
Parried two.
Dodged one.
The sixth strike grazed his shoulder.
His feet slid back an inch across the silvery ring of light, his boots scraping noiselessly.
"He's fast…" Lin Mu muttered. "And not just fast—disciplined. He doesn't waste a single motion."
He narrowed his eyes. His fingers adjusted. Breath slowed.
