I hope Houston’s got a defense against that pulse now. But I can’t rely on him for everything. If it fails... I’ve got to handle it myself.

Then there’s the other problem. The swords. They’re faster. Is it technique? Or is he using EM?

Magnetism. Damn this guy.

I push forward again. No time to hesitate.

Siddharth's swords are coming at me with more speed, more pressure now, but I can still keep up. My reflexes give me the edge—barely.

I swing down hard, another chop aimed at his left side.

He deflects. The angle is perfect, just enough to redirect the blow, but I feel it—his strength’s fading.

I swing again, thrusting low toward his leg.

His footwork shifts, precise as always. He sidesteps, bringing both blades up in a defensive sweep.

Sparks fly as metal clashes, and I feel the impact vibrate up my arms. He’s not letting up, even with the tremor in his grip.

Another chop, this time higher, aiming for his shoulder.

He deflects again, but the strain is there. His arms shake with the effort. He’s weakening.

I keep pressing. My blade whirls in a tight arc, forcing him to block another thrust at his chest. He catches it, but just barely.

I follow with a quick slash, sparks flying again as our swords meet. His timing is still flawless—he’s controlling the space between us with every small shift, every calculated step back. But I see the cracks. His technique’s holding, but only just.

I can’t let my guard down, though. I know it. That big pulse could hit any second. My mind keeps it in the back of every thought—if that EM surge hits again, I’ve got to be ready.

I swing again. A slash aimed at his midsection. His blade intercepts it, but the force pushes him back. His boots scrape through the dirt, leaving trails behind.

I keep pushing. The pressure’s on him now.

My strikes are relentless, my body moving faster than I ever thought possible. His footwork shifts, always precise, always adjusting to the onslaught.

I bring my sword down in a heavy chop—too fast, too hard for him to deflect with just one blade.

He crosses both swords, absorbing the blow, but I pivot, twisting my hips and turning the chop into a sweeping horizontal slash.

Sparks fly as metal grinds against metal. I push harder, driving him back, step by step.

But then I see it—a slight hesitation in his stance, a momentary crack in his defense.

This is it. I take the risk, going for a downward feint, then twisting at the last second into a low sweeping strike aimed at his legs.

It’s risky. If he reads it, I’m wide open. But… I was confident in my speed.

He reacts, but not fast enough. My blade nearly makes contact with his knee. His swords move to block, but it’s too late—the opening is there.

Then, suddenly, it hits me. A massive EM pulse.

A shock slams into my mind, almost like a physical blow. My body stutters for a fraction of a second—just enough for him. My strike slows, the edge of my blade barely missing its target.

Damn!

It wasn’t unexpected, but it’s worse than I thought. Houston didn’t manage to block it, and the pulse hit harder than I anticipated. My muscles scream as I pull back, retreating in time to avoid his counter.

Siddharth doesn’t waste that moment. He steps forward, closing the gap, both swords raised in a perfect follow-up strike. His precision is back—he’s using that split second to regain control, reclaiming the flow of the fight.

This isn’t working.

I grind my teeth, stepping back again. He’s back on the offensive, pressing me now. The big pulse disrupted my rhythm, and I can feel his swords moving with that same unnatural speed—boosted, no doubt, by his EM manipulation.

But I can’t let him keep the advantage. I have to keep him from using that pulse offensively, or worse, find a way to block it myself.

I duck under a fast horizontal slash, bringing my blade up in a tight arc aimed at his arm. He deflects it with a flick of his wrist, then counters with a lightning-fast thrust aimed at my chest.

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Barely blocked it. His technique is insane, like flowing water—every move in perfect, artistic harmony. But… my reflexes are still giving me the edge, even now.

Sparks flare between us as our swords clash again and again. I can feel the ground beneath us shifting, dust rising, each strike kicking up more dirt. His movements are smooth, technical, almost flawless, but I’m faster. Each time he counters, I’m there, just out of reach.

I know that pulse could come any moment. I have to block it. But how?

I’ve left the precise EM manipulation to Houston, but… precise? What if it doesn’t have to be precise? What if I just need to use my instincts, predict the pulse, and attack it with one of my own?

My skill isn’t as refined as his, but if I can disrupt the wave—even a little—then Houston could detect it and overlap it with more. Between the two of us, we might have a chance. Under this heightened perception, I can anticipate it. But will Houston know when to act?

It’s risky. But even if Houston doesn’t catch on in time, I might still be able to weaken the pulse enough to mitigate its effect on me. And if he does help... maybe we can throw it right back at Siddharth.

I press forward, blade flashing in a tight arc aimed at his side. He deflects it effortlessly, his movement almost a blur. His foot shifts, preparing for the next strike. I sense it.

Then, there it is.

The pulse comes, a shockwave aimed directly at my mind. I try to counter, send my own wave, but it’s not fast enough. Not strong enough. My body seizes up for a fraction of a second—just enough.

Too late.

Siddharth’s sword flashes forward, accelerated.

I twist, trying to evade, but the blade slices across my chest, the sting of cold steel cutting deep. Pain explodes through me. My body reacts on instinct, pulling back before the strike can go deeper, but the damage is done.

I stumble back, the air catching in my throat. Blood runs down my bare chest, but I’m still standing. I have to keep standing.

It didn’t work. Not like I hoped.

Blood drips steadily from the cut across my chest, warm and sticky. The slice was deep, but not deep enough to hit anything vital. It still hurts like hell, though, and I can feel my heart pounding, pushing more blood out with each beat. My body stings with every movement, but I’ve had worse.

I can still fight.

I stare at Siddharth, and he stares back. His eyes are locked on mine—sharp, focused, with a cold, calculating intensity. Sweat beads along his brow, mixing with the dust in the air, and his chest rises and falls with labored breath. He’s feeling the pressure too. I grip my sword tighter, knuckles whitening.

I underestimated him.

I thought nobody, no matter how skilled, could be my equal under a 46% Overdrive. Yet... I was wrong.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll lose.

This is just Phase 1. The longer this fight drags on, the more effective the next Phases will be. I can feel it now. My body’s starting to understand him—his rhythm, his movements. I’m beginning to see through his technique.

But... that pulse is still a problem. A nasty trump card, especially at this level. If I can’t avoid it, I’m going to lose. I have to try again.

My grip tightens further, fingers pressing into the hilt of my sword. I push off my back foot, charging forward.

I slash downward, fast, aiming for his shoulder. He deflects, but I don’t stop. Another quick strike—this time a thrust aimed at his chest. He sidesteps, but I pivot, my feet moving faster, lighter.

I can feel it now, his flow, his style. Phase 2: Analysis.

I adjust. My movements are smoother, more efficient. My footwork tighter, better aligned with my strikes. I twist my blade mid-swing, turning a failed thrust into a sweeping slash aimed at his ribs. He barely blocks it, the force of my blow sending a tremor through his arms.

He tries to counter. A quick chop aimed at my shoulder. I parry, stepping into his space, forcing him back.

I press harder. Each swing comes faster, sharper. My body isn’t just reacting anymore—it’s anticipating. Every movement feels precise, instinctual. The sword feels like an extension of me, more natural than it ever has before. My technique is refining itself in real-time. Every block, every parry, every slash is cleaner, more efficient.

I can feel everything—each shift of my grip, the weight of the blade cutting through air, the subtle resistance of his parries. I can feel it. Phase 3: Absorption.

Siddharth’s eyes widen, just for a moment. He can feel the shift. He knows I’m not the same as I was when the battle started.

The clash between us becomes fiercer. Swords flashing, sparks flying. The ground beneath us is churning with dust, every step kicking up more. The tension is thick in the air. I can feel the pulse building again. I brace myself.

Here it comes.

The pulse is sent—a massive shockwave, perhaps even stronger than the last. But this time, I’m ready.

I sense it—just before it hits. Time seems to stop.

I release my own counterwave, but it’s weaker, hastily thrown together. For a moment, I’m not sure if it’s enough. The pulse slams into me, and I feel it—my mind jolting, like something is pressing down, trying to crush my thoughts.

I hold my breath, teeth clenched, waiting for the surge to overpower me. But… the pressure fades.

YES!

The counterwave worked. What gets through is just a fraction of the full force, barely scratching my mind.

Excitement surges through me, but I can’t dwell on it. This is my chance!

My body surges forward, faster, pushing through the haze of the pulse. My sword slams into his, parrying his downward strike. The force of it rattles through my arms, but I don’t let go. I twist the blade, riposting with a quick thrust.

Contact.

The tip of my blade grazes his thigh. It’s not deep, but it’s enough. Siddharth stumbles back, his balance faltering for the first time.

Siddharth bleeds.