He planted his feet. Raised his blade. And t the blow head-on. The impact was loud, sharp enough to echo between the trees, but Ethan didn’t move.
The force hit his arms like a wave, but his stance held. His boots slid back a few inches. Nothing more.
And in that mont of connection, when beast and man were locked together in one raw line of strength, Ethan twisted.
Not wildly. But with a precision that would make any trained swordsman freeze for a second. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t fast.
But it cut deep where it needed to. He guided the strike behind the collarbone again, shifting the beast’s weight off-center and forcing it to plant awkwardly with its left foreleg.
The creature stumbled. Not hard, but enough for Ethan to see it. That slight pause. That half-second where it didn’t know how to recover cleanly.
That was all the signal he needed. The sword didn’t go back into its guard. It moved again, just as the beast swung its tail wide in frustration.
Ethan ducked low and smoothly, slicing across its exposed side before stepping away again.
The cuts were piling up now. So shallow, so sharp, and deep enough to see the bones, causing the beast to lose a lot of its blood, as all of them were in the right places.
They weren’t random. They were part of a pattern he’d been building since the fight began. And now, the rhythm was shifting.
The beast had power. It had size. But it didn’t adapt. It didn’t learn. Ethan did. Every move, every lunge, every roar just added more to what he was already feeling out.
And this is sothing that the beast cannot figure out, as for it, killing is all that matters and nothing else.
And that difference was starting to show. Ethan wasn’t stronger. But he was smarter and sharper in the way he made sure to take as little damage as he could while inflicting the highest.
He studied it with every breath, adjusted with every step. The fight was starting to feel less like survival and more like a lesson—one that the beast couldn’t keep up with.
The beast turned again, faster this ti, mouth open, breath hot and angry. It lunged, hoping to throw its weight around again.
But Ethan was no longer where it expected. He moved first, stepping inward at the last second, blade raised not to block but to redirect.
The edge t the beast’s shoulder at a slant, sliding down instead of clashing, drawing blood but also guiding the creature to the side.
Then he struck the back of the leg—quick, shallow—but placed perfectly. The bronze beast skidded, hit the dirt with one paw, and roared.
Ethan didn’t flinch. He hadn’t pressed yet. He waited. Just enough to keep his breathing even. He still hadn’t used everything.
Not yet, but now, with the creature staggered and more blood in the air, he let the edge of his other ability slip forward.
His eyes locked with the beast’s for a full breath. No flash. No sound. Just a stillness in his stare.
His pupils thinned for a second. His body didn’t move. But the pressure changed. It wasn’t power in the usual sense.
It was subtle. Slow. Like a weight pressing into the edge of the beast’s thoughts, brushing just lightly enough to stir discomfort without making it aware.
A thread of Incubus energy flowed through his gaze. It wasn’t seduction. It wasn’t even controlled. It was a suggestion.
The beast’s breathing slowed—not because it was tired, but because a small sliver of confusion had slipped in. Its stance loosened.
Its head tilted the tiniest amount, and that was all Ethan needed.
He moved again. Quick and silent. A step to the side, then back in, his sword flashing up from low to high.
The beast reacted, but too slowly. The blade scraped beneath its chin and along the jaw. Not a deep hit, but one that disrupted its balance again.
Ethan kept moving. He wasn’t rushing now, but he wasn’t waiting anymore either.
His blade danced from side to side. Each strike was part of the plan, hit, retreat, shift angle, cut, turn, and test the left side.
Then the right. Each ti the beast tried to respond, it found Ethan already gone. The pressure in the air deepened.
Not magical. Not spiritual. Just presence. A growing, undeniable pressure that told the beast it had made a mistake.
The hypnosis wasn’t enough to stop it completely. But it was enough to dull the edge of its reactions. Its instincts were being tugged slightly off course.
Its gaze kept flickering where it shouldn’t. Its focus was being drained by sothing it couldn’t see or fight.
And that gave Ethan all the space he needed.
He didn’t grin. But his eyes sharpened again. His breathing never once broke rhythm.
The creature leapt again—this ti in desperation. It tried to throw everything at him in one final slam.
Its muscles bunched. Its body twisted. It roared and launched forward. But Ethan was already there. Waiting.
His stance tightened. His feet pressed into the earth like anchors. His blade drew a quiet breath through the air.
One final step forward.
One last twist of the hips.
One clean, perfect line.
The sword t flesh. No sparks. No resistance. Just impact.
A clean strike across the neck and through the shoulder, deeper than any before. The beast’s montum carried it forward another few feet, but its legs were already folding. Its breath caught in its throat, and then it crumpled.
It didn’t thrash.
It didn’t scream.
It just collapsed.
The clearing was still again. The trees didn’t move. The air stayed heavy.
Ethan didn’t follow the body as it fell. He just stood still. Breathing calmly. Shoulders level. Eyes forward. His sword lowered only once the creature stopped twitching.
He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t speak.
He looked to the side.
Toward the path behind him.
And his eyes narrowed—not in relief, but in focus.
Because sothing was watching.
And it wasn’t the beast.
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