I surged forward, my fingers rigid, driving a high-speed thrust toward Leo’s abdomen. He barely managed to twist out of the way, the air rippling from the sheer force behind my strike. I shot past him, stopping ten feet ahead—a choice that made him hesitate.

Most fighters would want to stay close against a swordsman. Blades carve through the air with ease, their arcs carrying weight and momentum that fists and feet cannot match. But I had no intention of fighting by standard rules.

I pivoted sharply, my stance resetting in an instant, and launched another piercing strike at his midsection—this time even faster. My hand speared forward like a lance, my fingertips a focused point of destruction. Leo reacted late, his body shifting to dodge, but I was already adjusting. Instead of overcommitting, I dashed to the side, forcing him to second-guess. Then, with a burst of speed, I closed the gap again.

This time, my strike landed. My hand tore across his chest, carving a deep, red line into his flesh. He gasped, staggering, but I gave him no time to recover.

I was already moving. Another thrust shot toward him, precise and relentless. He barely managed to deflect it with his sword, steel ringing against my forearm. But unlike a blade, my body sustained no damage. I absorbed the impact and snapped my arm back into position, completely unharmed.

My movements were explosive and relentless. Each strike was like a whip, cutting into his arms, chest—any opening I could find. Over and over, I repeated the motion, my body flowing into a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each time I struck, I dashed to the side or backward, keeping him guessing, throwing off his timing.

The arena echoed with the sharp sounds of my strikes, the tearing of fabric, the faint thuds of impact. Blood began to streak his skin, his movements growing more frantic as he struggled to keep up. But I was relentless, a blur in his eyes.

Then I went in one last time, my eyes locked on his. I could see it—he was starting to adapt. His dodges were becoming sharper, more calculated. He was beginning to read the rhythm of my attacks.

Perfect.

Instead of repeating my usual motion, I opened my palm mid-strike. His eyes widened, but it was too late. My hand clamped onto his shirt collar, the fabric bunching in my grip. With a surge of strength, I hurled him forward. His body twisted as he flew into the air, but he maintained control.

He hung there, suspended for a moment, completely exposed. I leapt after him with an explosive burst of power. My spear hand shot upward, then came down in a savage arc, slicing deeper into his chest. The sound of tearing flesh and his second gasp filled the air.

I stomped down hard on his chest. The force of the impact sent him plummeting toward the ground like a meteor. Dust erupted as his body slammed into the earth, and I landed lightly a moment later, standing over him with my hand still poised to strike again.

But, he began to adapt fully.

I aimed a sharp punch at his face. He intercepted it with his sword, the steel biting into the space between my index and middle fingers. A smirk tugged at his lips as he met my glare.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Piercing Hand was handed down to the right one." he said, dripping with amusement. His blade shifted, slicing into the tender flesh of my interdigit. Pain flared in my hand, and instinct took over. As he pushed the blade upward, I leapt back to avoid further damage, my blood trailing in the air.

He straightened slowly, his eyes calculating as he steadied his footing. "Your technique is subpar compared to Zero," he commented, his tone a mix of mockery and begrudging respect. "but your power is excellent."

He took a deliberate step forward, slightly to my left, poised. The next instant, his sword came slashing toward me. I met it head-on, deflecting the blade with Severed Soul. The impact jolted my hand, and I grimaced as his weapon carved into my skin. Even though his sword wasn’t made of darksteel, whatever alloy it was forged from rivaled its toughness. He switched his sword into a reverse grip, the motion fluid and practiced. The blade came at me in a diagonal slash, but I ducked under it just in time. Seizing the opening, I struck him hard in the liver with a sharp punch. He grunted, and I landed a spinning roundhouse kick square on the cheek.

He stumbled back, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his movements faltering. His expression betrayed his frustration—at fifty percent of his strength, he was no match for me. I could feel it. I was certain of it.

I shifted to my left hand, curling its middle finger. My right hand was still throbbing from the deep slice to my interdigit, so I couldn't use that hand for this technique. I blitzed forward again, driving my middle finger into the pectoral muscle of his right chest. The blade-like motion of my hand tore through skin and tissue, and I retracted it just as quickly, blood spraying from the wound.

This is my chance!

I cocked my fist back, my veins throbbing. I drove an overhand punch into his left cheek. The impact sent him crashing into the ground, the sheer force breaking the earth beneath him and leaving a crater in his wake. Dust rose in a thick cloud, but through the haze, I heard a faint, chilling whisper escape his lips.

“Seventy percent.”

His body vanished. My eyes darted around, searching desperately, but he was faster than my perception could track. I felt his presence behind me. I turned, only to see his blade suspended mere inches from my neck.

“Stop now. You passed.” Leo warned, his voice calm but heavy with authority.

I froze. My instincts screamed to fight, to resist, but I couldn’t deny the truth. At seventy percent, he had completely surpassed me. He bypassed my perception when my speed is my best attribute. I couldn’t begin to imagine the power he would wield at one hundred percent.

Slowly, I raised my hands in surrender. “I surrender.”

Leo smiled faintly, lowering his blade. “Good. You’re quite strong. I expected to overwhelm you from the get go, but you overwhelmed me instead. I knew I’d have to push to seventy percent, as you’re most likely slightly above sixty percent.”

He stepped back, his gaze scanning me with a mixture of respect and amusement. Leo looked as if he had sustained minimal damage. His wounds were already healing, the cuts and bruises fading as if time itself had been accelerated.

I glanced down at my own injuries, noticing that they too were beginning to mend, though at a slower pace. This was far from over for me.

I extended my hand, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions within. “Thank you. That taught me a lot.”

Leo grasped my hand firmly and shook it, his expression softening. “No problem. Welcome to Sun.” He released my hand and turned his attention to Caleb standing in the distance. “Caleb, begin the preparations.”

As Leo let go, I stared at my hand for a moment. My fingers tightened slightly, a faint tremble running through them. I had just shaken the hand of the man who killed my parents.

But none of that mattered—not yet. It was all part of the plan. I will get stronger, and I will overthrow him. There are martial artists out there, warriors who don’t yet realize the potential they hold. I would find them. I would gather them.

Wars aren’t won by the weak masses but by the strong few. And few is more than one.

Right now, I was one. I need at least seven.