He presses harder.
So do I.
The fight compresses.
Not wild.
Not chaotic.
Controlled violence, each movement layered over the last, each adjustment building on the one before it. His strength is still there, his precision unchanged, but I’m not meeting him the same way anymore.
I don’t try to overpower.
I redirect.
I let him commit, then shift just enough to make that commitment cost him.
His next strike comes high.
I drop low.
Not retreating—changing angle, forcing him to adjust his center instead of mine.
He does.
But it’s slower.
A fraction.
Enough.
I step inside that fraction, my blade turning tight, controlled, forcing contact at a point he didn’t choose.
The impact shifts his balance.
Not much.
But enough.
“You’re adapting,”he says.
“Yes.”
“That won’t be enough.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I reply.
It just has to work.
He changes tactics.
Of course he does.
The next sequence comes faster, less testing, more direct, forcing me to respond instead of initiate.
I don’t.
Not fully.
