Cleo's punch speared through the air—fast and heavy.
Lumian kept his feet rooted on the ground, angled slightly to the side, and then, his palms slid sideways, brushing Cleo's wrist just enough to let the punch slip past his ear.
Cleo followed with a hook, but Lumian caught it with the flat of his hand and redirected the blow downward.
She smiled and pressed forward. Her fists flew forward like a swarm of bees.
Lumian's movements with the help of the Iron Style's defensive stance were small, almost lazy-looking from the outsider's viewpoint.
He turned his wrist, shifted his weight, and tilted his head. All that was to deal with Cleo's relentless barrage.
At that moment, Lumian's hands moved like sails, caught one of Cleo's fists, and bent it a little bit to make her stop.
From a very close range, Cleo's straight punch drove forward, perfect in form, and designed to deliver a devastating blow.
