Pressure Meets Precision

Amari and Shylo struck in tandem—fast, focused, desperate. She dodged with uncanny precision, shifting her weight just enough to evade Amari's blade as it whistled past her throat, then twisted as Shylo's staff cracked toward her ribs. She caught the weapon mid-motion and spun Shylo off balance before launching a blistering kick into Amari's chest.

He skids back, eyes flaring.

Shylo recovered—barely—and dropped into a low stance, aura beginning to hum around his fingers. His Unco, reactive and rhythm-based, flared brighter the more he synchronized with Amari. And Amari… was moving faster now. Not with brute strength—but clarity. His strikes weren't wild. They were intentional. Calculated chaos.

She blocked a flurry of slashes, parried Shylo's sweeping arc, and pivoted under a double-strike that should've floored anyone else. But she stayed fluid—like the fight hadn't even begun to tire her.