Up in the stands, Ckain finally exhaled.
Softly.
"…He's not stronger," the Kaldros murmured.
"He's more efficient."
Below—
Kuracha laughed. It hurt. But he laughed. Low. Thrilled. Terrified. Alive.
Golden light flickered again around his remaining claws. Unstable now. Wild. Not elegant anymore.
Art was over. It had become survival.
He ripped himself free from the wall with brute force, tearing stone down with him, landing heavily in the dust.
The ground cracked on impact. He raised his hands again. But this time no dancing stance. No petals. No grace. Just a fighter. Raw. Ferocious. Grinning through blood.
"Again," he said.
Kunku nodded once. Simple. Respectful.
Then both leaned forward. And the air between them split apart before either even moved. Not from speed. From intent. Pressure collided first.
Two killing instincts crashing together hard enough that dust fled the space between them.
Then.
They stepped. One step each.
