MITSUO's POV:~
The familiar hum of the training room filled my ears, a vast open space that had witnessed countless hours of sweat and steel. Copy robot stood opposite me, dagger in hand, a mirror image of my own stance. Our eyes met, a silent acknowledgment of the impending dance.
We moved in unison, a blur of motion. The first clash was a sharp, metallic tang that vibrated up my arm, a sound that always thrilled and grounded me. We spun, parried, and struck, the rhythmic clang of blades echoing through the expansive room, a percussive soundtrack to our lethal waltz. My focus narrowed to Robot's every twitch, every subtle shift in his weight.
Then, Robot took a long, deceptively casual step forward. My instincts screamed, and I executed a swift backflip, creating a critical pocket of distance between us. He lunged, a sudden burst of speed, and our daggers met again, a spark of friction in the air. But this time, he used the force of the impact, pivoting, and in a flash, he was behind me.
I felt the whisper of air as his dagger arced towards my back. There was no time for thought, only reaction. My blade shot up, a desperate, precise deflection that sent his dagger skittering harmlessly aside. But even as I recovered, his other hand shot out, seizing my wrist in an iron grip. He pulled, yanking me off balance, dragging me in. Before I could even register the shift, a sharp, jarring impact slammed into my gut. His knee. The world blurred for a split second, the air knocked from my lungs.
The world tilted as my dagger clattered to the ground, the metallic ring a stark punctuation mark to the knee strike. The wind was truly gone from my lungs now, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I gasped, doubling over, my hands instinctively going to my aching abdomen.
Robot also threw his dagger sideways, now it has gone to unarmed combat.
Robot didn't wait. He was a whirlwind of motion, a blur of fists and feet. My vision was still slightly swimming, but instincts kicked in. He threw a quick jab to my face, and I barely managed to snap my head back, feeling the wind of his fist brush my ear. Before I could fully straighten, he followed with a powerful hook aimed at my ribs. I grunted, trying to block, but his blow glanced off my forearm, still sending a jolt of pain through me.
He was relentless. He pressed his advantage, a flurry of strikes that I parried, blocked, and dodged with every ounce of my remaining energy. My movements were sluggish, still feeling the lingering effects of the knee, but adrenaline was beginning to surge, sharpening my senses. I could hear his breathing now, a low, steady rhythm. He wasn't just striking; he was observing, looking for an opening, a weakness in my defense.
I saw a brief window as he committed to a low kick. It was a feint, I knew it, but it gave me a fraction of a second. I swayed back, using the momentum to spin, and tried to connect with an elbow strike to his head. He was faster. He ducked, his hand shooting out to grab my extended arm, pulling me off balance once more.
Before I could react, he twisted, using my own momentum against me, and I felt myself being spun. The world blurred again, but this time it was from disorientation. I hit the ground hard, the impact jarring my teeth. He was on me in an instant, his knee pressing into my chest, pinning me. I struggled, but the air was once again being squeezed from my lungs.