“ARGH!” I roar.
I launch myself at him, drawing my blade from my jacket and viciously slicing through the air.
He’s as reflexive as I normally am, smoothly sidestepping my strike. Then he follows up with a palm thrust. I manage to block it, but only barely.
He’s fast. Much faster than I expected.
I reset my stance and come at him again.
Slash after slash that only connects with air as he out paces me in his blocking. He finally retaliates with a counter move, striking my sternum and knocking the knife from my grasp all at once. The combo move catches me by surprise and sends me staggering half a step backward. I barely get my guard up in time to block the elbow he throws.
We circle each other in the dusty old office room, debris crunching under our feet. His every move is relaxed. Almost graceful in a way, as though we’re in the middle of a dance and not a fierce confrontation.
This is nothing to him. I’m nothing to him.
The fury rises in my chest, hot and blinding and all-encompassing.
I rush at him for another combination of strikes. I’m soaring at him with a flying knee, driving upward with all the power in my legs. He twists at the last second, letting my knee graze past his shoulder, then he uses my force against me—grabbing my arm and redirecting me into the wall.
I hit hard, plaster crumbling around me, managing to duck as his fist punches through the space where my head was a split second before.
Chunks of drywall explode outward.
I drop low and sweep his legs, a move that’s taken down bigger men than him. But he anticipates it, jumping over my leg and landing with a devastating axe kick I have to roll away from to avoid.
His boot cracks the concrete where my head had been.
We’re back on our feet in the same instant, facing each other across the ruined room.
“You’ve grown strong,” he observes, his voice calm despite the exertion. Not even breathing hard. “But not strong enough.”
We both move to strike at the same time, resulting in a flurry of punches and kicks being traded.
The fight spills out of the room and into the corridor beyond. I press the attack, throwing out more combinations that would have ended most opponents.
Maneuvers like crescent kicks and spinning hook kicks and rapid-fire punches targeting his throat and solar plexus.
It’s only the elbow strike that finally connects with the side of his masked head.
For the first time, he staggers.
But it’s enough of an opening.
I use it to my advantage, driving forward with more hits designed to take him down. My knuckles connect with his ribs and shoulder and chest.
The fight has finally turned in my favor as I harness the rage burning through me and use it as fuel to push myself harder.
Black Shell refuses to give in so easily. Where other opponents would’ve surrendered to fatigue, he only seems to be motivated by it.
His forearm shoots up to block the next series of my hits. Then he’s grabbing hold of me and swinging my body toward a rusted support beam.
I crash into it with pain exploding pain through my cheekbone and nose. Blood spills from my nostrils onto my lips as the industrial scenery spins, and I struggle to regain my footing.
“You fight like your father,” he taunts from behind. “The same techniques. The same tells. I know every move you’re going to make before you make it.”
I slam my head backward, cracking my skull against his mask. The impact sends fresh pain ricocheting through my brain, but it loosens his grip just enough for me to wrench free.
I spin and throw a desperate side kick that catches him in the chest, creating distance between us. We’re both breathing harder now, worked up from the heavy fighting we’ve been engaged in.
