The knuckles flashed across the wind, slamming against the bridge of the young adventurer's nose. A combination of his own forced use of magecraft along with the actual force of the blow caused the young man to recoil as his head shot back, spewing a heaping serving of crimson fluid from his nostrils.
"You're weak, man. How'd you survive this long? Luck? Guess it's run out," Altair said with a sigh deprived of any excitement, shaking the blood from his knuckles.
Like a drunken fool stumbling in the night, the cornered adventurer nearly fell backward, catching himself as he swayed side-to-side, back-and-forth, before stabilizing as blood leaked onto the lavish flooring.
Bastian used his arm to wipe the oozing crimson from his broken nose, locking his emerald eyes onto the confident figure before him, "Luck? Don't start making excuses before you've lost."
