The hallway shook with every flick of her chain-whip, metal slicing through the air with precision and weight. Hanseong leaned back, letting one pass within inches of his nose, the wind from its swing tugging at his collar. Another lash came for his legs—he hopped over it, landed in a crouch, and stepped past a third in one seamless motion.
He didn't counter.
Not yet.
She was testing his rhythm. Looking for tells. One wrong movement, one misread of her angles, and that whip would coil around his ankle or throat. It wasn't just a weapon—it was a trap, a dance of control and pressure. Every swing wasn't meant to kill but to manipulate his space, to keep him reactive.
But Hanseong didn't like reacting.
He stepped in as she pulled back, flicked his katana once—no contact. Just movement. Then shifted his footing again, brushing past another strike.
She frowned.
Not at the dodge, but at what she felt a second later.
A cut along her left arm. Thin. Clean. Blood rose like a thread.
