Clang!
The sound of wood clashing against wood reverberated through the room as Ichor and Grim engaged in another round.
Grim was wearing a set of black, plastic-looking gauntlets that covered his hands and forearms up to his elbows. But although they looked like plastic, they were actually a special kind of wood native to Emburn Island.
With the current technology level, it was no problem manipulating wood like metal, allowing them to craft perfect weapons for sparring.
Ichor, on the other hand, was using a greatsword, one that was identical to Percy's previous weapon.
Both figures moved around the room, one on the attack and the other barely defending each strike. The eyes of the youths were wide in surprise as they watched the spar unfold, amazed at Grim's movements.
He was like a berserker, using his fists to pummel Ichor from every angle. His movements were strange, like a big cat, agile but ferocious, with every move packing a massive amount of force.
They had always looked at Ichor as if he was way ahead of them, and they expected him to have no problem holding on. But they were only now realizing that Grim had barely been using any of his abilities before.
They were even sure that if Ichor went back to using his martial arts, he wouldn't be able to touch Grim, let alone lift him off the ground. And they weren't the only ones who knew this. Ichor knew it too.
This is bad, he's gaining more momentum with each attack he lands. It's piling. I have to find a way to break it.
Ichor grunted as he blocked an attack once more, barely managing to get the sword before him.
Unknown to him, he wasn't the only one surprised by the spar. Grim and Sal were surprised too, the former way more than the latter.
He's resilient. No problem, I'll break you eventually, Grim thought.
He never expected Ichor to last this long, and Ichor's resilience shocked him. Even if it was another person of similar rank sparring with him, they would be feeling numb in both arms due to the attack, but not Ichor. He was like a tank, just without all the extra muscles.
He's doing pretty well. It's been two minutes… let's see how this goes.
Sal smiled mysteriously as he watched the fight, intrigued to see what Ichor would do to get out of the situation. Unlike the rest of the cadets who didn't know what was going on, he knew that Ichor could tell, or at least he hoped Ichor could tell.
Grim was a cadet with an amazing physique, but his body was always in a relaxed state. While it might seem far-fetched, it was true. The strength he had been showing since earlier was his natural strength, a passive one that his body had when he was at his weakest, and one could only wonder what it would be like when he was fully awake.
It was like the difference between a clenched muscle and a flaccid one. Their output was very different. Over time, Grim had finally found the perfect way to fight with his body condition, and that was by gathering up momentum. He would go on the offensive, forgetting all forms of defense and attacking relentlessly. The more momentum gathered, the more alive he felt and the more awake his body was.
Right now, he wasn't even at fifty percent of his power.
While Ichor couldn't see the underlying intricacies, he knew that Grim was gathering momentum and his attacks were getting heavier. He knew he had to do something.
Grim threw out another punch, aiming at Ichor's head. He had been attacking Ichor at vital points, places that even with special protection, would have a massive effect on one's combat prowess. He was cunning.
But to his shock, unlike other times, Ichor didn't bring the greatsword up to block. Instead, in a fraction of a second, he recoiled his head and sent it towards the incoming fist.
Bam!
Zandov and Marceline grimaced as blood spurted, staining the floor. Grim was stunned, not expecting such a move from Ichor. He had expected to see Ichor on the floor or at least reacting to the hit, but instead, he found a black wooden blade coming for his eyes.
His eyes widened as he brought his hand up, punching the blade away, only for another attack to come at him from an awkward angle, aiming for his neck.
Grim twisted his body, his weird movement showing its prowess as he managed to hit the second attack away, only for a third to head for his groin area.
Grim couldn't retreat or block as it would break his momentum, and each attack was only getting harder. He had to punch away. It was like the blade had a honing ability to lock onto its target from weird angles, and it made Grim extremely frustrated.
On the sidelines, Percy was staring at the combat with a serious look, his expression grave. He recognized what Ichor was doing. How couldn't he?
No one else in that room was more familiar with that fighting style using that weapon more than him.
He's using the Warburn swordsmanship?! No… he's copying it and tampering with it at the same time, adjusting it to better fit him.
Ichor pressed forward, his attacks relentless. He attacked from every angle, his every move chained, and his every strike aimed to connect to its target.
His movements were fluid, his sword changing directions mid-swing. It was like he was wielding a snake instead of a sword, cunning and treacherous, aiming to maim his enemy.
Bam!
Grim staggered backward, his arms crossed. His momentum had finally been broken; he had been unable to block the previous attack. He had thoughts of tanking it and attacking back, but the attack suddenly changed direction, aiming for his eyes.
Grim was shocked. His gaze locked with Ichor's own. The latter's head was stained, blood streaming down his face, but his eyes remained emotionless. No, there was a hint of emotion, one that reflected not just in his eyes but in the small curve at the end of his lips.
It was excitement!