Back at the training ground, the battle remained locked in brutal repetition. Blood traced a thin line from Linh's mouth, but it was the puppets who were beginning to fail. They could no longer endure a frontal confrontation. His strikes were infrequent, yet each successful blow carried ruin. The more effort the puppets put into dodging, the more openings they exposed.
The next strike never materialized. In a blink, both puppets slipped from his vision, their movements precise and economical. Linh's right fist cut through empty air as they split—one to his left, one to his right—each lining up a perfectly calculated, rib-crushing jab.
Linh knew it instantly. With his arm fully committed, his right flank lay wide open. He didn't mind taking hits—but even he doubted these twin strikes would leave him walking away without consequence.
