The air atop the bluestone arena was thick with the heavy scent of iron and sweat. Sol’s feet moved in a complex, overlapping pattern, his left palm weaving a phantom blur before Liam’s eyes. It was a classic feint, a mask for the true killing blow. In an instant, Sol’s right hand shifted from a piercing strike to a curved, predatory claw. His five fingers, fueled by a sudden burst of internal energy, lunged toward Liam’s shoulder with the intent to tear through muscle and bone.
In any standard combat scenario, the logical response would have been a swift retreat—a tactical backstep to reset the engagement. However, Liam appeared momentarily distracted, his reaction a fraction of a second too slow. Sol seized the opening with a surge of confidence, his fingers clamping down on Liam’s scap
