My Charity System made me too OP

Leon pushed forward, ignoring the narrowing space the pale-armored man was creating.

If the opponent was predicting every move, then Leon needed to stop giving him moves to predict.

He loosened his stance, cutting all unnecessary tension from his body, letting his weight shift in ways that didn't telegraph intent. His steps became irregular, the rhythm deliberately broken—half a stride here, a sudden stop there, like a flicker in a faulty projection.

The man's eyes narrowed. His blade rose slightly.

Leon feinted left but didn't commit. The moment the man adjusted, Leon dropped low, his palm touching the ground. Mana surged out in a short, sharp burst—not aimed at the man, but at the space under his feet. The floor's surface cracked, just enough to ruin his balance for a fraction of a second.

That was all Leon needed.

He stepped into the opening, his elbow driving into the man's guard, forcing him back two paces. For the first time since the fight started, the pale-armored man had to reset his footing instead of controlling Leon's.

Kael and Naval seized the shift in momentum. Kael's spear shot past Leon's shoulder, forcing one of the other attackers to break off, while Naval darted in low to hook a leg and topple them.

Roselia slammed her shield forward again, this time planting the attacker into a wall hard enough to crack it.

The pale-armored man exhaled slowly, his stance changing—less like a test, more like a real fight now. "Better," he said simply.

Leon didn't reply. He'd already moved, pressing the advantage before the man could start dictating the field again.

The pale-armored man met Leon's charge head-on this time, his sword carving a precise arc meant to intercept Leon's advance without overcommitting.

Leon twisted just enough to let the blade pass, but didn't retreat. He stepped inside the man's reach, forcing close-quarters where that long sword was harder to maneuver.

The man tried to create space with a quick knee, but Leon blocked with his forearm and shoved upward, breaking his opponent's center of gravity.

Kael didn't waste the chance—his spear's shaft smacked the man's exposed side, and Naval's follow-up strike forced him to pivot defensively.

The other attackers moved to cover him, but Roselia intercepted, slamming her shield into their path, locking two of them in a grapple.

Leon focused everything on maintaining pressure. Every time the pale-armored man tried to adjust, Leon was already shifting angles, refusing to give him the clean distance he wanted.

For a few seconds, the man stopped talking entirely. His movements grew sharper, each exchange tighter and more dangerous. He was no longer probing.

When Leon's fist grazed his jaw, the man actually smiled—small, but genuine. "Alright," he said. "Let's see how long you can keep this up."

Then his speed doubled.

Leon's eyes narrowed, but he didn't flinch.

The man's strikes blurred, each swing flowing into the next with almost no recovery time.

Leon stopped trying to block everything—he couldn't.

Instead, he shifted to minimal movements, letting the blade pass close enough to brush his clothes without hitting flesh.

He wasn't matching speed—he was reading intent.

Kael moved in to assist, but Leon barked, "Stay clear!" without breaking focus.

This fight was about rhythm now, and another body could throw it off.

The pale-armored man pressed harder, forcing Leon to step back one pace at a time.

Leon didn't fight the retreat—he used it.

Every step drew the man into a narrower space between two fallen stone pillars.

When the gap was tight enough, Leon suddenly dropped low, sweeping his leg in a short arc.

The man hopped to avoid it—just as Leon had predicted—

and in that moment of mid-air imbalance, Leon's left hand shot forward, palm striking the man's chest.

Aether burst from the contact point, forcing the man back two steps.

Leon stood straight again, breathing steady.

"That's one," he said.

The man steadied himself, smirked faintly, and lowered his sword just a little.

"Not bad," he replied. "But one isn't enough."

Then he came again, even faster.

Leon didn't try to trade blows.He shifted sideways, letting the strikes glance past, always forcing the pale-armored man to overextend.Each overreach left the man slightly off-balance, and Leon took mental notes, stacking those tiny flaws in his head like ammunition.

The man's speed was brutal, but it had a pattern—every fourth strike carried just a bit more force, just a bit more commitment.On the twelfth strike, Leon stepped in instead of away.His forearm intercepted the man's elbow, cutting the motion short, and his right hand slammed into the man's shoulder joint.

The sound was sharp—armor cracking under sudden pressure.The man staggered back half a step, teeth clenched, but didn't falter for long.He reset his stance, but Leon saw it—the left arm was slower now.

"You're bleeding momentum," Leon said evenly.The man chuckled under his breath. "And you're still breathing. Let's see how long that lasts."

They clashed again, but now Leon pressed forward, exploiting every slowdown, cutting into the man's timing until their pace shifted—no longer predator and prey, but equals trading control.

Leon kept the pressure steady.

Every exchange shortened the gap between them.

The man tried to push the pace, relying on raw speed to overwhelm, but Leon kept stepping into his range instead of back—stealing space, forcing him to react.

A sharp feint drew the man's guard high, and Leon's knee drove into his side.

The hit forced a grunt and a stumble, but Leon didn't follow with another strike—he waited, making the man commit first.

Sure enough, the pale-armored fighter lunged, overcompensating.

Leon caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted, and drove him sideways into the floor with a clean takedown.

Armor scraped against the tiles, and the man rolled away, springing back up, but his breathing was rough now.

"You fight like you've been here longer than you have," the man said, scanning Leon with narrowed eyes.

Leon didn't answer.

His focus was locked on the subtle shifts in stance, the weight in the man's feet. The opening was close—one mistake away.