The first knight reached Chiron with terrifying speed, his gauntleted fists glowing with blistering orange flames. As he launched forward, the heat rippled around his arms like a furnace—this was no ordinary flame.
"Burning Virtue: Wrath of Saint Bel!" he roared, swinging both arms down like molten hammers.
But Chiron didn't move. Not yet.
He smiled.
His fingers twitched, and from the air around his body, something slithered—red silver and alive, like a metallic serpent given life. His blade, Devil's Touch, unraveled in a swirl of liquid steel, curling around him before solidifying into a gleaming, midnight-colored sword.
His feet shifted slightly, weight balanced, blade angled—a stance both elegant and dangerous. It wasn't the form taught in most martial arts. Even his dead clan did not use this stance.
No, this was his bastardized style, forged in blood and perfected in chains. A hybrid of brute instinct, deep observation, and relentless practice.
