A cut above a pulse

Dust drifted between them. A dry wind. The scent of blood and friction hung in the air—burnt leather, exposed steel.

Johnny stood motionless.

His opponent paced opposite him: taller, wild-eyed, muscles corded beneath sweat-slicked armor. He was fast. Fast enough to catch most fighters flat-footed. His Unco left kinetic shimmer trails behind each strike, as if his limbs outran their own intentions.

And for the first few minutes—he had pressed that advantage hard.

But now, his footwork was slowing. The last few bursts came late. The shimmer dragged, dulled at the edges.

He was leaking rhythm.

Johnny saw it.

He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just moved.

The first exchange was clean—two slashes, one deflected, one caught on the shoulder, neither decisive. Johnny rolled his shoulder, stepped off the line, and tapped the edge of his blade against the man's ribs as they broke apart.

A warning, not a wound.