The Angel and the man moved like beings made for the sword. Beings born for the sword. Beings created for the sword. Every motion of their blades screamed perfection, accurate, elegant, deadly.
Sword technique met sword technique in endless succession, each feeding into the other's motion and battle intent. Their eyes never left one another, locked as if they were falling in love, not with each other, but with the dance of blades, the artistry of war.
Slash. Cleave. Parry. Deflect. Dodge. Feint. Cut.
Every basic sword technique was employed without hesitation, without reservation, executed to perfection. While countless others across the expanse of the galaxy fought for home, for belief, for survival, these two were different. They had entered a contest of pure swordsmanship, a duel to discern who truly possessed the greatest knowledge of the blade.
Mana? Useless. Faith energy? Irrelevant.
