Javed's style was brutal, born of decades of street combat and shadow-folding. He didn't just swing his blade; he used his shadow to distort his reach, making it impossible to judge the true length of his weapon.
Vikram slipped and rolled, using his boxing footwork to stay alive.
*Jab, slip, roll.*
Every time Javed's blade missed, it struck the stone steps, leaving deep, frozen scars in the basalt. The cold was radiating from the weapon, numbing Vikram's limbs. His breathing was becoming shallow, his lungs burning with the frost.
"Is this all the Rathod blood can do?" Javed mocked, throwing a heavy backhand strike.
Vikram blocked with his left arm. The impact sent a freezing shockwave straight to his shoulder, paralyzing his muscles. He stumbled back, his defense broken.
Javed followed up instantly, driving his heavy boot into Vikram's stomach.
Vikram flew back, crashing onto the cold stone steps. He coughed, his chest burning, his vision blurring. He looked up to see Javed standing over him, the shadow blade raised for the final strike.
"Your father died begging for your life, Vikram," Javed lied, his scarred face twisted in a grin. "Now you can join him."