The elder behind him swallowed unconsciously.
Even the surrounding fighters could feel it now.
Pressure.
Not the kind created by brute strength alone, but something heavier, more refined. The air itself seemed to tighten around Fuing as he slowly adjusted his stance.
His breathing steadied completely.
One hand lowered to his side.
The other curled lightly into a fist.
Across from him, Vayne remained motionless for a brief second, hollow eyes locked forward. Then he stepped in again, sword lifting for another strike.
Fuing watched him calmly.
"…You really don't stop," he murmured.
The sword came down, fast, and sharp.
A clean overhead strike aimed directly at his head.
This time, Fuing didn't move immediately.
He stood there until the blade was only a breath away.
Then, he shifted. A single step, small, and precise.
The sword missed him by inches, slicing through empty air as Fuing moved inside Vayne's reach.
Too close for the blade to properly turn.
