The boy stirred.
One moment he was a crumpled heap on the sand, still groaning, still blinking sluggishly at the sky, and the next, he was upright, pushing himself to his feet with a sharp breath and a wild glint in his eye.
Blood stained the front of his tunic where the Crimson Pulse had struck, but it didn't slow him. If anything, it made him more reckless.
He snarled and bolted forward again, sand exploding beneath his feet as he launched himself at Gon with renewed fury, the pain seemingly forgotten or suppressed beneath sheer rage.
Gon didn't flinch.
His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his blade, knuckles whitening as the leather, bound grip bit into his palm.
A slow breath slipped past his lips, quiet as falling snow, measured, deliberate, and utterly controlled.
The world seemed to narrow around him, the thrum of battle fading to a distant echo as his focus honed to a single, razor-sharp edge.
