CLEAVER OF SIN

'Hand to hand combat,' Asher observed.

Ryaen carried no weapon, her expertise lying solely in martial techniques and close-quarter strikes. It came as no surprise to Asher; after all, her reputation preceded her.

As a Silvershade, she possessed dominion over bone manipulation. Though at first glance it might resemble ordinary hand to-m hand combat, Ryaen's fists struck with the density of steel, empowered by the passive boon of her bloodline.

And when she actively reinforced her strikes, they became nothing short of monstrous.

But, none of this unsettled Asher. Though his craft was the rapier, he had never neglected the other areas of combat. To do so would have been a waste of his Absolute Physique.

'Besides,' he mused, 'defeating her in her own domain would be… interesting.'

Ryaen's brows furrowed when she realized Asher had no intention of drawing his soul-weapon. She chose not to speak. Whether he underestimated her or not was irrelevant, she was here for the points, nothing more.

Their gazes locked. Purple met black.

Two figures, opposite in gender, yet each dangerous in their own right.

As though some unseen arbiter had given the signal, both fighters surged forward in a blur of motion, their fists cleaving through the air with catastrophic force.

When they met, it was as if two heavenly titans had clashed within an unseen coliseum. The impact split the air itself, detonating in a thunderous shockwave that shook the forest.

The ground beneath them groaned, then splintered, unable to endure the monstrous pressure of their physical might.

In a blinding flash, their figures erupted into a storm of afterimages, phantom silhouettes scattering through the trees as they blurred from strike to strike. Each exchange carried enough destructive power to level hills.

Successive explosions roared as tree trunks shattered in their path. One streaked like a violet comet, the other like a blinding phantom of white, two forces colliding again and again like ceaseless battering rams.

But neither yielded. Neither believed themselves inferior. Neither entertained the thought of defeat. Each was confident in their supremacy.

The battlefield fractured beneath them, small ravines tearing open as their clash continued. Their movements possessed an artistry that bordered on the divine, precise, fluid, and lethal, as though they had been training for this duel since the moment of birth. Every motion was calculated, perfect, and merciless.

And still, neither bore a single wound.

Every strike found its equal. Every offensive was countered with elegance. Every killing blow dissolved against a flawless parry.

The sound of two raw fists colliding reverberated through the forest, a brutal symphony that shook the very air. But despite the chaos, no creature dared to linger, no presence dared to intrude, for instinct itself whispered that to exist nearby was to invite death.

Every part of their bodies had become a weapon of mass destruction.

Hands. Knees. Elbows. Palms. Wrists. Fists. Feet. Heads. Thighs. Fingers.

It did not matter. In that moment, flesh became the sheath and bone became the blade, cutting down anything and everything that strayed into their path.

Their feet skimmed the earth with the elegance of masterful dancers, but their movements carried the brutality of war. They shifted with such finesse, such impossible agility, that it bordered on madness, but to them, this lunacy was nothing more than the fundamentals of combat.

They clashed like twin storms in collision, every impact echoing like thunder rolling across the heavens. When they met mid-strike, the shockwave rattled the air itself, but neither moved an inch. They absorbed the momentum with nothing but the brute strength of their bare physiques.

There was no Astra. No bloodline augmentation. No techniques. No abilities.

Nothing.

Only pure, mind-boggling martial arts.

They broke apart, only to close the gap again in a heartbeat, two storms bound within the same sky. Each exchanged blow was a spark struck upon the forge of battle, heat and pressure building with every collision.

Their limbs hammered against one another in relentless cadence, a drumbeat of violence reverberating through the earth itself.

Every movement was a blade, a weaponized arc of motion cutting through distance and defense alike. They moved so swiftly that their strikes blurred into one seamless tempest, flesh and bone condensed into the fury of a storm. Each attack carried weight, not to kill, but to pierce, to shatter, to overwhelm.

They pressed chest to chest, exchanging savage, close-quarters strikes like assassins caught in a cornered struggle. Knees, elbows, fists, and crushing holds turned the forest into a cage of brutality, every impact leaving an echo that demanded remembrance, as though the very fight itself sought to etch its mark upon the world.

There was no thought of stopping. No hesitation. No retreat. Instinct alone carried them, sharpened by talent, tempered by experience, and perfected by training.

They knew there would be no reprieve. No breath stolen. No moment granted.

The rhythm could not be broken. The chain could not be severed. The lock could not be undone.

To falter even once would mean defeat.

They fought in the pocket, their blows landing with the weight of anvils in a cage of close quarters. The rhythm quickened, strike flowing into strike, a seamless chain of violence forged in instinct and efficiency. Short, rapid, vicious blows filled the air, neither yielding ground, neither daring to waver.

They moved as though equals in every measure, strength, speed, technique, and experience. Each mirrored the other with uncanny ease, reading intent and flow as though reflections locked in battle. Every feint found its counter, every strike its equal.

The forest itself seemed to cry out beneath their savagery as though it's internal organs were being torn apart. Trees splintered into shards, the earth split and bled open into ravines, the hills collapsed beneath their steps. The very air was torn asunder, a canvas shredded by their ferocity.

And yet, through all the devastation, their movements remained flawless, never faltering, never breaking rhythm, two calamities bound in flesh.

They saw nothing but each other; in their world, nothing beyond that existed.

Though both would leave this place alive, the cost was inevitable, one would forfeit half their points. There would be no draws. No stalemates. No ties.

Only a victor… and whatever the other was left to become.