MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Anthony's figure tore through space in a flash of white, his streak matching the color of his hair. Raelith was no different, his figure was a flash of black, mirroring the shade of his own hair as they moved with breathtaking speed.

Millions of attacks had already been exchanged, yet neither had managed to injure the other. Neither had the upper hand. It was a deadlock of precision, intent, and instinct.

They stared into each other's eyes, something unspoken passing between them, an understanding that transcended words.

It was as if both of them realized the truth: everything they had done before this moment was merely a probe, a glimpse into the depths of the other's mastery in the art of the katana.

And then they moved.

With blinding speed, their figures exploded into overlapping frames of motion once again, their attacks wild and ferocious, like untamable, colossal behemoths locked in a war of blades.

Anthony's katana descended from above like a collapsing star, brilliant, scorching, ready to tear through everything and everyone in its path.

But Raelith didn't care.

His body shifted, and his hand blurred in response. His katana hummed with feverish excitement as it streaked upward in a titanic block, meeting Anthony's blade head-on.

Metallic screeches thundered in both their ears as their blades clashed together, sparks igniting at the point of contact. But their expressions didn't even twitch.

The smiles on their faces didn't waver, as if anything beyond their katana dance had become meaningless, rendered obsolete by the moment.

Anthony moved again without hesitation. He didn't pause after a single strike. His body flowed seamlessly into another attack. Retracting his katana, he swung from the side, aiming to tear through Raelith's exposed flank with razor precision.

But Raelith was no pushover. His shoulder followed perfectly in sync with his eyes and hand, and he parried with immaculate ease, his movements honed down to perfection.

Anthony's katana descended again, like a falling meteor, exploding outward in every direction with sheer force.

Raelith's muscles tightened like a coiled spring. Then, in a blink, he sprang forward like a venomous serpent ready to strike. He met every slash with a parry, every cleave with a block, every thrust with ridiculously simple katana techniques that screamed absolute perfection.

His blue eyes shone with raw obsession as his senses and perception reached their peak. It was as if he entered the zone, his mind, his instincts, his body, and his blade converging into a single, flawless machine.

His blue eyes danced in their sockets, tracking each and every one of Anthony's descending attacks with frightening clarity. He responded to each one with no wasted motion, no unnecessary force, no excess speed. Just the perfect amount of strength, the perfect amount of movement, executed with surgical precision.

Left. Right. Above. Above. Below. Feint.

He anticipated. He read. He calculated. His mind, soul, body, and katana merged into one complete being. He became a fortress, an immovable wall.

But,

He hadn't come just to defend.

He hadn't come just to parry.

He hadn't come just to block.

This was a duel. A spar. A war of art. He had received; now it was time to give.

Raelith's entire demeanor shifted without warning. His immovable wall style transitioned seamlessly, without pause, without effort, into something unstoppable. His body didn't hitch. His rhythm didn't stutter. It was a flawless shift from defense to attack.

His katana suddenly seemed to multiply. Countless silver blades, phantoms of steel, collapsed upon Anthony all at once, as though the very heavens had fallen in that one instant. The sheer force, speed, and volume of the attack overwhelmed everything else.

The world in Anthony's eyes was dyed white.

He could see it. He could feel it.

'Beautiful,' Anthony thought. He couldn't help himself.

He sensed the intent behind Raelith's technique. It didn't just slash, it tore. It didn't just cut, it shredded, ripped, erased everything in its path.

Anthony watched as the attack closed in, threatening to bury him beneath a mountain of cuts, each one aimed with unerring precision. This wasn't recklessness. This was control masked by brutality.

He could dodge. He could weave. He could sidestep.

But he didn't.

This was a katanamanship spar. There was no room for evasion. Dodging was not allowed. Every attack must be met with the blade. One could reposition, shift angles, and maneuver, but they must confront the attack directly, either through technique or refined control.

Anthony's katana repositioned in his hands. His stance shifted slightly, weight distributed with perfect balance as he prepared for the onslaught.

He moved with certainty. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

His upper body blurred into overlapping frames of motion. Yet his lower torso remained still. Only from the waist upward did he move, as though carved from stone below and fluid above. His katana welcomed every attack with ridiculous pace.

Raelith saw his strikes being blocked, effortlessly. Yet he didn't pause. He didn't lose rhythm. His blade continued moving, like a choir master orchestrating a divine, deadly symphony.

Anthony met every blow. Not one slipped past.

The wind pressure created from their blades pushed back the trees. Some were shredded into splinters, while others were uprooted entirely and tossed into the air like toys in a hurricane.

The earth beneath them suffered. Ravines cracked open under the weight of their movements. Their muscles tightened, pushing their bodies toward a higher level of ascendance. They fought not just to win, but to evolve.

They moved again. Unstopping. Untiring.

They would continue until one of them fell.

Until one of them lost pace.

Until one of them could no longer keep up with the endless rhythm of steel.

As Anthony's feet kissed the ground, Raelith's katana slashed forward like a thunderbolt aimed directly at his neck. But Anthony was ready. His katana surged upward in an instant and parried the strike with elegance.

Raelith moved again, this time thrusting toward Anthony's eye, as if refusing to share the same eye color with anyone.

Anthony's shoulder dipped slightly. His katana moved fluidly and parried the thrust without any pause in motion.

Raelith saw every lethal gap. And he exploited all of them. He struck at the heart, the eye, the lungs, the neck, anywhere that could end it. Anywhere that spelled death.

He didn't care that the Supreme Monarch was watching.

He didn't care that Anthony was her son.

Only the katana existed now.

Only his opponent mattered.

Anthony's katana hummed, thrilled, satisfied, singing in perfect resonance with its master. He blocked every strike, many of them at the very last possible moment, dancing on the razor's edge of failure.

His eyes gleamed, analyzing Raelith's katanamanship, recording each movement, each rhythm, searching endlessly for a flaw to exploit.

Anthony's heartbeat pounded like a war drum. But Raelith heard it too, felt it, mirrored it.

They watched each other, even as their blades clashed again and again.

Their hands moved as blurs, unreadable.

Lethality wasn't an escalation in this spar. It was the baseline.

Slow down, and you die.

Hesitate, and taste the kiss of the katana.

The space between them erupted as they met once more in the center, flashes of silver and steel exploding outward as if the forest itself recognized the intensity of their clash.

And neither of them showed any signs of stopping.

Not yet.

Not now.

Not until one blade dropped.

Not until one warrior fell.

Not until the song of steel reached its final note.