The shout had barely left the ringmaster's mouth before Commander Alec moved.
No build-up. No drawn-out stance. No slow circling. Just motion.
A blur of steel and muscle and armour, hurtling forward like a catapult loosed with murderous intent. The ground cracked beneath his boots as he surged, and then—without a hint of hesitation—he brought that monstrous greatsword down like a falling star.
It came from above, cleaving through the air with such force that it howled.
Luke's body reacted before his mind could process what was happening.
He threw himself backwards.
Barely.
The tip of Commander Alec's blade smashed into the ground with an explosive crunch, sending a shockwave of dust and crushed stone billowing outward. A few more centimetres and Luke would've been split clean in half. The impact was deafening—ears rang, eyes watered, and the knights watching from the edge of the circle leaned back in their seats with wide eyes and muttered curses.
