Boom.
The earth cracked beneath their feet, not just from the impact—but from intention.
Earl's form was sheathed in a soft red light, heat spiraling violently as he siphoned energy from the air itself. A single swing of his gunbai carved a furnace-blade through the space between them, warping it—pressing it flat like iron beneath a hammer.
Zephyr barely parried, his scythe screamed in his grip.
The shockwave hit him like a wall. He staggered, his body dragging back across the molten arena tiles, boots skidding for traction.
Because at the end of the day—he was still Elpison Grade 1.
And Earl wasn't, every blow carried the weight of rank. Experience. Supremacy.
Earl didn't have to think—his body remembered how to kill.
Zephyr's didn't. Not yet. But then it began—slow, creeping, unmistakable. A rhythm.
A syncopation.
His breath synced to the beat of the battle. His heart to the tempo of danger.
And then— his eyes pulsed.
Like something exhaling inside him.
