Jorel launched forward like he'd been fired from a cannon, sand exploded beneath his boots, armor catching firelight in a streak of molten gold. His left blade cut high, a whisper of silver meant for the neck, fake. The real danger came low, the right sword stabbing straight for the gut.
The Stranger didn't flinch. His sword dropped in a perfect, downward sweep, catching the thrust and sliding along its edge with the hiss of grinding steel. Sparks kissed the air.
Jorel spun, momentum flowing like water, his left blade slicing horizontally for the chest.
The Stranger simply stepped back. One, clean, fluid motion. The sword missed him by a breath.
Distance reset.
The crowd gasped, realizing that even Jorel's precision couldn't break through the phantom's calm.
The Stranger moved this time. Three quick steps. Then, an overhead slash so fast it cracked the air.
