Thirty seconds. That was all it took for the tides to shift.
Kallen's hand shot forward with precise, surgical accuracy, and the kunai sank into flesh. The blade tore through muscle, nerve, and bone, severing the assassin's right shoulder blade in one clean stroke.
A hot spray of blood followed, thick and relentless, drenching them both in its sticky viscosity.
Kallen did not flinch.
He had been watching and observing the assassin's movements. They were erratic, deranged, and unpredictable. Yet beneath that madness, there remained a faint shadow of his original combat style.
And as a master of battle, Kallen did what he did best.
He flowed with him.
He dissected the rhythm, peeled apart the essence of his opponent's technique, and read through it. Even with his own badly sprained ankle worsening by the second, he maneuvered around the assassin's wild lunges with effortless precision.
The assassin staggered, off-balance.
