The world narrowed to just the two of them.
The clash outside—the screams, the echo bursts, the shattering of air—faded into a dull thrum in Leon's perception. His Shell layers compressed inward, folding space so tightly that even stray resonance ripples from nearby battles couldn't reach them.
Tharos rolled his shoulders, the Ashrend Echoblade humming like a living predator. Its edge wasn't sharp in the traditional sense—rather, it seemed to fray the fabric of the moment itself, unraveling it in strips of gray light.
Leon's gaze flicked to the blade only once. He knew staring at it too long was dangerous—it could fracture your sense of self in the current timeline.
"You always hated delay," Tharos said, stepping forward. "Always chasing that clean, decisive strike. You've learned tricks, Flamebreaker, but I wonder—can you fight without momentum?"
Leon's Shell Pulse flared once, then smoothed into stillness.
"Try me."
The first swing wasn't an attack—it was a deletion.
