Kalem's hands twitched slightly, and the chains that had been scattered across the battlefield quivered in response.
With a sharp motion, they coiled back toward him, snapping into formation. The previously wild, free-flowing attack pattern shifted—instead of striking wildly, the chains tightened into controlled, deliberate arcs, forming defensive loops around his form.
Across from him, Master Rourke cracked his knuckles.
"Show me something else, kid."
His voice was steady, unshaken. He stood there, not advancing, waiting. But his stance spoke volumes—his feet were planted, his hands loose yet ready, his posture a coiled spring.
Kalem narrowed his eyes.
He had expected the chains to at least force some movement, but Rourke wasn't reacting like most opponents would.
That meant—
Kalem yanked his arm back.
The chains immediately retracted, slithering back toward their crate. As they moved, something else shot forward—a sleek, metallic object spinning mid-air.
A four-sectioned staff with bladed ends.
It flew to his waiting grasp, and the moment his fingers closed around the handle, Kalem moved forward.
Fast.
The segmented weapon whipped outward as he struck, and in an instant, the battlefield changed.
Gone were the looping, binding strikes of the chains.
Gone was the defensive, distance-based approach.
Now? Kalem was closing the gap.
The staff blurred in his hands, its four sections shifting unpredictably.
A downward slash—
A sudden shift, converting the strike into a thrust—
A snap of the wrist, sending the rear blade spinning toward Rourke's ribs—
Every motion seamlessly chained into the next.
Rourke's response was just as sharp.
He dodged the first downward slash, stepping back an inch.
He angled his body slightly, letting the thrust pass just beside him.
Then, as the blade whipped toward his ribs, he finally acted—
His hand moved.
Not away from the weapon. Toward it.
With an almost casual grace, Rourke's fingers snapped shut, catching one of the bladed sections between his thumb and index.
Kalem jerked his wrist, trying to break free.
No movement.
Rourke's grip was like iron.
Kalem exhaled sharply. Expected.
Instead of fighting against the hold, he shifted his stance, letting the staff's sections collapse inward—shortening its length as he twisted his entire body, using the weapon's natural momentum.
The force broke Rourke's grip just enough for Kalem to spin into his next attack.
The rear section snapped outward, swinging toward Rourke's leg in a lightning-fast sweep.
A faint grunt. A flicker of amusement.
Then, just as the blade was about to hit, Rourke stepped into the attack.
Not away. Into it.
Kalem barely registered the shift before—
CRACK.
Rourke's knee slammed downward, pinning the weapon to the ground before Kalem could retract it.
His eyes widened. No way.
Then Rourke's hand shot out.
Before Kalem could react, Rourke's palm collided with his chestplate.
Not a full-force punch.
Just a single, precise tap.
Yet—
Kalem staggered.
A deep shockwave reverberated through his armor, not from the impact itself, but from the timing.
Rourke had hit at the exact moment Kalem had been rebalancing his weight.
A perfect, clean disruption.
Kalem's boots skidded backward, and his stance wavered.
Rourke exhaled. "Clever. But not enough."
Kalem gritted his teeth.
"Not yet."
He forced his body to reset—shifting his weight, gripping his weapon tighter. His mind raced.
Rourke was adapting. Fast.
His usual opponents probably relied on sheer strength or precision strikes. Kalem's unpredictable, shifting attack patterns had been meant to throw him off, to create openings through sheer variation.
But Rourke wasn't just reacting—he was rewriting the flow of battle with every exchange.
Kalem had seen this before.
Not in a combat instructor.
In master engineers.
The kind that could watch a mechanism for five seconds and immediately understand its every flaw.
Kalem exhaled. Fine.
If Rourke was treating this fight like an equation—
Then Kalem would give him a problem he couldn't solve.
His fingers twitched, and the staff retracted fully into a short, compact form.
He lunged forward.
The first strike came as a feint—a quick, precise jab meant to bait a response.
Rourke didn't take it.
He remained steady, analyzing, waiting.
Kalem smirked.
The real attack came from below.
A hidden spring-loaded mechanism in the staff activated, causing a secondary blade to shoot out from the bottom section.
It snapped upward at a sharp angle, aimed directly for Rourke's shoulder.
The shift was sudden—faster than anything Kalem had thrown before.
For the first time, Rourke's expression flickered.
A brief second of genuine surprise.
Then—
A laugh.
Not mockery. Amusement.
Even as he moved to dodge, he grinned.
"Now that—"
Kalem felt a heavy impact against his side.
Not from Rourke's fist.
From his elbow.
The strike wasn't meant to deal damage.
It was meant to redirect.
The force sent Kalem spinning off-course, his footing thrown off completely.
He hit the ground, rolling once before flipping back to his feet.
His breathing was heavy. His core hummed with energy.
But so did his mind.
Rourke stood there, hands on his hips, still grinning.
"Good. Very good." He rolled his shoulders, stretching. "But you're not quite there yet."
Kalem wiped the sweat from his forehead, then grinned back.
"Then let's keep going."
Because this fight was not over.