The figure lunged again, sword slicing down in a clean arc. Xavier sidestepped, caught the man's wrist mid-swing, and drove a knee into his ribs. The hit made the figure grunt, but he twisted out, swinging the sword wildly to force distance. Xavier ducked under the blade, slammed his palm into the man's chest, and shoved him back into a crate.
Xavier was only using his hands, no weapons — no tricks. Just pure movement and control. And still, he was pushing the man back.
The figure's calm started to crack. His swings got faster, sloppier. He growled and came at Xavier again, this time with full aggression — both swords drawn now, slicing in quick, deadly patterns. The air whistled with every strike.
Xavier dodged, blocked, slipped between attacks, his eyes following every motion with surgical focus. Then, as the figure raised both blades for a final strike, Xavier's hand snapped up — fingers clenched midair.
He used telekinesis.
