Kaelith's step was not just movement—it was decree.
The arena floor groaned, plates of obsidian grinding as if dragged into alignment by sheer authority. The space between them collapsed; air fled, sound warped, and even the crowd's roar became a muffled echo, pulled under the tidal force of his approach.
Leon's lungs tightened—not from fear, but from the density of will pressing against him.
This wasn't just a strike. It was a statement: There is no pace but mine.
And yet… that was exactly what Leon had come to break.
The Fifth Pulse answered—not as jagged shards this time, but as a spiral.
Fractures folding into one another, stutter-beats looping back, each cycle stealing just a sliver of Kaelith's momentum. The warlord's step still landed—but it was a half-beat late, the force bleeding sideways into the fractured rhythm Leon wove.
Kaelith's heel cracked the stone, but the intended quake staggered, rippling off-balance.
