The world seemed to still.
From opposite sides of the shattered battlefield, Alex and Khepri stood—silent, weapons at the ready, eyes locked in a deadly conversation that no words could capture.
A faint line of blood traced Khepri's cheek, glistening against his hardened skin. His fingers brushed it absently, his expression darkening with something almost foreign to him: bewilderment.
How…?
He hadn't been boosting his body with mana—only strengthening his weapons and subtly reinforcing the surrounding environment to keep the terrain in his favor. Against most foes, it was enough. Against Grandmasters, it was an overwhelming advantage.
Yet this boy—Alex Tyr—had not only kept pace...
He had cut him.
Khepri's brow furrowed, the weight of realization anchoring deep inside his mind.
This was no ordinary battle.
This was no ordinary Grandmaster.
A slow breath left him.
Enough games.
Khepri shifted his stance. Then—without flourish, without fanfare—he released himself.
