They matched each other, move for move, angle for angle, a brutal dance of mirrored instincts. But Kael saw the difference. His younger self fought like a wounded beast, every strike born of desperation, every movement a reaction to pain. It was effective, yes—but not refined. It sought to kill, not to end.
Kael let his body move, silencing the noise of thought. He stopped seeking openings and began flowing between them.
When Abyssal Fang moved, it didn't slash—it slid, carving through the air with lethal grace. When he turned, he didn't dodge—he melted around the blow, his movements a seamless extension of the dagger's will. And when he struck, the edge found flesh, clean and precise.
The other Kael stumbled back, a slash blooming across its ribs, then another at its thigh. The wildness in its eyes began to fade, replaced by a flicker of hesitation. That was all Kael needed.
