Michael's blade tore forward as he closed the distance between himself and the Angel in a burst of speed so violent and sudden that the very air screamed in protest. His hand, his body, his entire being moved faster than light itself. The Angel responded instantly, his blade surging forward with equal ferocity as he met the incoming attack with a mixture of glee and long-suppressed expectations. Their eyes locked for a brief, electrifying heartbeat, golden irises clashing against obsidian black, and without another word, they both moved in a blur beyond mortal comprehension.
Their blades carved through space, slicing through the void, splitting reality, severing the thin fabric of time and the fragile concept of existence. Nothing survived the wake of their swordplay. Nothing mattered.
If it existed, if it dared take form, their blades cut through it as easily as scissors through fabric.
