Kubwa Chaka's movements were raw, powerful, and instinctual—like a beast in a frenzy—but instinct was a pattern. And Damien Bloodbane had spent his life breaking patterns.
The moment Mbwa Mwitu stumbled from the disrupted spin, Damien moved.
He didn't retreat. He didn't reposition.
He walked forward.
Slow. Deliberate.
Blade low, shoulders relaxed, like a butcher approaching a half-slaughtered bull.
The crowd buzzed with confusion.
"Wait… what's he doing?" Grumpy Bear barked. "Why isn't he backing off? This is where you disengage, heal, regroup, anything!"
Sleepy Smile's voice dropped into a low hum. "He smells blood."
Mbwa Mwitu reared back on its hind limbs, confusion flickering across its beast-like frame. Its AI momentarily froze—predators weren't used to prey approaching them. And Damien? Damien wasn't prey.
He dashed.
Low.
A blur of black across the battlefield.
