Excalibur sank into the ground. A golden light spread across the arena, casting long shadows under the high walls. All around them, blades erupted from the dirt—dozens of them, sticking out like gravestones. Sylas's eyes locked onto Kael.
"What is all this?" Kael muttered.
He scanned the arena. Swords were everywhere—jagged, rising from the ground like gravestones. He swung with a thunderous crack, shattering them. But the moment it broke, another rose in its place. Then another. Then another. "They're weak swords," he growled, low and irritated, watching them multiply like weeds.
Sylas smiled.
Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Kael barely had time to react—the blur of movement caught him off guard, and before he knew it, Sylas was in front of him. His hand swinging forward—empty at first. But as it cut through the air, a sword materialized out of nowhere, appearing mid-motion. Kael's eyes widened in shock.
He jumped back, but it was useless.
Sylas vanished again.
