The moment stretched.
Then Chiron moved.
He struck first, and it was not out of desperation, but certainty.
He was going to get rid of this invader once and for all.
Blood surged from his arm, twisting, folding, living. Devil's Touch awakened, its surface rippling like a sentient tide before hardening into a blade—crimson-black, serrated with veins of glowing curse script.
With how extensive Chiron's growth had been, the weapon had not just grown with him.
Yes.
It was far better than that. It had evolved.
Meaning that...
The weapon did not simply exist in his hand; it breathed with him.
Chiron stepped forward—
—and the world exploded.
His sword flashed, not once, but dozens of times in the space of a heartbeat. Each strike carried layered techniques: feints hidden within arcs, pressure condensed into razor-thin lines, blood-curses embedded mid-swing.
He was giving it his years of accumulated training and swirling techniques that he haxperfrctrd from his clan.
