They rose as one, grains of sand cascading from their clothes like tiny waterfalls. The cool night air couldn't prevent the first beads of sweat that now traced paths down their temples. Their lungs worked harder now, each breath deeper than the last.
Mirrored across their faces, the same wild smile that spoke of the joy they were having clashed with each other.
They rushed forward together, and the spar intensified. Every exchange became a conversation in violence. Scáth would lead with a complex combination of high jab, low sweep, feint to the body, then a sudden real strike aimed at the face.
But Reinhard never failed to read it halfway through, countering with guard adjustments, redirections, and the occasional parry that deflected the force with almost insulting ease.
Neither held a permanent advantage.
