The match begins.
It wasn't just surprising speed; it was terrifying acceleration for his mass. The air itself seemed to tear around the spiked head of his maul as it carved a lethal arc where Aile had stood a heartbeat before.
Dust plumed where it cratered the packed earth, the CRUNCH echoing like breaking bone. But Aile was already gone, a blur of dark leather. Her blades weren't thrusts, but flicks – two crimson lines blooming on Borin's thick forearm as she pirouetted away, the steel singing.
"FIRST BLOOD TO SWIFTBLADE!" The commentator's voice cracked with excitement.
"Just like drawing a thorn from a giant! The Boulder bleeds, folks, but look at him! He barely flinched! This ain't a sprint, it's a GRIND! A war of attrition!"
Borin roared, a sound like grinding boulders.
He didn't retrieve the maul conventionally; he used its embedded weight as a pivot, muscles screaming under leather as he wrenched it free in a brutal, horizontal backswing aimed at Aile's midsection.
