The man charged forward, his massive frame cutting through the night like a wrecking ball. His knife slashed through the air, aiming straight for my throat. I ducked beneath the swing, feeling the sharp wind of the blade pass inches above my head.
I could tell right away—he wasn’t some street thug. His movements were precise, measured. Every step, every strike carried the discipline of a trained martial artist. He shifted his weight effortlessly, his stance low and grounded, his footwork tight. All these show how good he was.
But I was better.
He launched a spinning kick toward my ribs—fast. I blocked with my forearm, absorbing the blow, but even through my guard, I felt the impact rattle my bones. I stumbled back, only for him to press forward, stabbing again with ruthless aggression.
