Buhrama wasn’t aiming to hit him with the lightning.
It was a smokescreen, a flickering storm ant to blind and mislead.
The real attack was hidden within it, buried beneath the flashing arcs of energy.
Milo adjusted in an instant, his mind working faster than his body.
Blocking won’t work. Buhrama was too fast, too unpredictable.
If he braced for impact, he’d be overwheld.
So he didn’t block. Instead he raised his sword, not to stop the strike, but to redirect it.
His stance shifted, weight balanced, his blade angled just right.
The mont Buhrama closed the distance, Milo would use his own montum against him, letting the energy slide past instead of eting it head-on.
Buhrama’s blade swept in low, a fast, cutting strike aid at Milo’s side.
The motion was sharp, precise and almost effortless.
But Milo was ready.
At the last possible mont, he shifted, his sword eting Buhrama’s with a sharp clang.
Instead of stopping the strike outright, he twisted his blade, guiding the attack off-course.
tal scraped against tal as the force of Buhrama’s swing was redirected, the energy behind it slipping past Milo instead of hitting its mark.
Sparks flew as the edge of Buhrama’s blade scraped past Milo’s ribs, missing by the slimst margin.
The redirected strike sent a faint vibration up Buhrama’s arm, the steel humming from the force of the near-hit.
But it was harmless, Milo had slipped free, untouched.
For the first ti, Buhrama’s grin faltered.
It was brief, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual confidence.
He had expected resistance, but not like this. Not so precise. Not so controlled.
With Buhrama slightly off-balance, even for just a fraction of a second, an opening appeared,small, but enough.
Milo didn’t hesitate.
The instant he saw the opening, he stepped in, sharp and fast, closing the space between them before Buhrama could react.
He moved deliberately, forcing himself into Buhrama’s range, where the lightning-wielder’s raw power beca harder to control.
Too close for a wide swing.
Too close for another burst of electricity without risking himself.
His sword flashed upward, a clean, precise arc slicing toward Buhrama’s dominant arm.
The strike was aid well, it was not to maim, but to weaken.
A hit here would slow Buhrama down, disrupt his grip, and tilt the fight in Milo’s favor.
Buhrama barely managed to pull back, twisting his body at the last second. But he wasn’t fast enough.
Milo’s blade sliced across his forearm, a clean, shallow cut blooming red against his skin.
The crowd exploded. Cheers, gasps, shouts of disbelief, all crashing together in a deafening roar.
The energy in the air shifted, electric in a way that had nothing to do with Buhrama’s lightning.
It was obvious they were rooting for Milo to win.
Milo exhaled, steady, his blade still poised. He had drawn first blood.
Buhrama stared at the cut, his grin gone, replaced by sothing unreadable, then he hissed through clenched teeth, his grip tightening around his sword.
A thin trickle of blood ran down his arm, but he barely acknowledged it.
His pride stung more than the wound itself.
"Lucky shot," he muttered, rolling his wrist as if shaking off the pain.
Milo, still calm, shook his head. "No. Just better positioning."
Buhrama’s eyes narrowed. His smirk remained, but there was sothing sharper in his gaze now, less amusent, more intent.
The air around him began to shift, humming with energy, static crackling in invisible threads around his body.
Then he vanished. A burst of lightning, a crackling explosion of energy, and Buhrama was gone.
One mont he stood before Milo, his frustration sparking in the air, the next, he was behind him, moving faster than the eye could follow.
Milo barely had ti to turn.
Electricity surged in the space around him, a warning too late to act on.
Before he could fully pivot, a charged fist slamd into his ribs.
The impact was brutal.
Pain exploded through Milo’s side as the force sent him staggering forward.
The shock of the hit wasn’t just in the strength behind it, it was in the raw electricity that surged through his body, sharp and searing.
His muscles locked up for a heartbeat, his vision flashing white at the edges.
The crowd gasped, the roar of their voices barely registering in Milo’s ears.
Buhrama stood firm, arm still crackling with residual energy. His smirk had returned, sharper than before. "See?" he said, flexing his fingers. "Positioning."
Buhrama wasn’t done.
His fist had landed, but he wasn’t about to let Milo recover.
His sword was already in motion, cutting through the air in a brutal downward arc, aid to end the fight now.
The blade whistled as it fell, crackling with the last traces of his lightning. The crowd barely had ti to react, eyes wide as they saw the decisive strike coming.
Milo’s ribs burned, his muscles still tingling from the shock, but he forced his body to move.
Every nerve in Milo’s body scread in protest, the lingering shock from Buhrama’s strike making his muscles feel sluggish, uncooperative.
His ribs throbbed with each breath, pain pulsing through him like a second heartbeat.
But he pushed through.
At the last second, he twisted, forcing his body to obey.
The blade grazed past his side instead of landing a clean hit, slicing through fabric, leaving behind a thin, stinging line of pain. A shallow wound, better than the alternative.
He staggered back, his boots scraping against the stone floor. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, but his grip on his sword never loosened.
He wasn’t done yet.
Buhrama straightened, rolling his injured arm as if testing the movent. A thin trail of blood still ran down his forearm, but he barely seed to notice.
His frustration was hidden beneath a layer of calm, but the tightness in his grip betrayed him.
"That should’ve put you down," he muttered, more to himself than to Milo.
Milo smirked through the pain, his ribs still aching, his body screaming at him to stop. But he didn’t. He t Buhrama’s gaze, his eyes steady. "You don’t hit as hard as you think."
Buhrama scoffed, a short, sharp sound. "Oh you’re cocky now?"
Milo lifted his sword, the blade gleaming under the arena lights. His stance was strong, unwavering despite everything. "No, just confident."
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