The world seemed to halt, as if time itself had taken a sharp breath. Lucian's vision blurred momentarily, his surroundings spinning into a dizzying haze. A wave of disorientation crashed over him, threatening to drag him down like an anchor in turbulent waters. His knees buckled slightly, and his balance wavered precariously, but he dug his heels into the ground with sheer determination.
Gritting his teeth, he fought against the pull of gravity, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. The world around him felt muted, as if submerged underwater, but he clenched his fists, refusing to yield to the vertigo. Slowly, he steadied himself, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Against all odds, he managed to remain on his feet, his resolve like steel. Falling was not an option—not now, not ever.
The Webster's eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger as he spotted his chance, a fleeting moment of vulnerability to Lucian's stance.
His grip on the knife tightened, the warm leather of the handle creaking beneath his calloused fingers. The world seemed to narrow to just this instant.
With a guttural snarl, he surged forward, his movement sharp and unrelenting like a predator closing in on it's prey. The knife glinted coldly in the dim light as he lunged at Lucian, aiming straight for his core . His steps was fast but deliberate, a deadly mixture of precision and force, leaving no room for hesitation.
The Webster wasn't about to let this opportunity slip through it's fingers-not now, not ever.
Lucian reacted on instinct, his body
moving before his mind could fully process the danger. He sidestepped with desperate speed, narrowly avoiding the full thrust of the blade.
But not entirely. A sharp sting shot through his arm as the edge of the knife grazed his flesh, slicing through his sleeve like paper. Warm blood welled up from the shallow wound, dripping in crimson streaks onto the cold, unforgiving ground.
His heart thundered in his chest as he locked eyes with the Webster, who didn't hesitate,for even a moment. The man's expression twisted into something vicious, almost animalistic, as he pressed forward, relentless. He saw the blood and smelled the fear, and it only fueled his aggression.
Lucian stumbled backward, his boots scraping against the rough ground as he tried to put distance between himself and The Webster. Panic surged through him, clouding his thoughts and scattering every fighting tactic he had ever learned. His mind screamed at him to focus, to fight, but all he could think about now was survival—escape. The sharp, burning pain in his arm was a brutal reminder of how close he had come to losing everything in mere moments.
The second strike came with terrifying speed, the blade slicing through the air where he had just been standing. Somehow, through sheer luck or desperation, Lucian managed to twist his body out of the knife's deadly path. His chest heaved as he clutched at his injured arm, his fingers slick with blood. Each breath came ragged and shallow, his lungs fighting to keep up with his racing heart.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to study The Webster. The man's posture was firm, his movements calculated, and his eyes burned with a cruel determination. Lucian's gut churned with regret—he had underestimated him. This wasn't just some reckless thug; this was a predator who thrived in chaos, who knew how to exploit every moment of weakness.
Lucian swallowed hard, his thoughts spinning as he realized his current approach wasn't working. Charging in without a plan had left him vulnerable, and now he was paying the price. He needed to think, to adapt, or he wouldn't survive the next attack. Gritting his teeth, he resolved to reevaluate, to find a way to turn the tide before The Webster's blade found its mark again.
The Webster's lips curled into a cold, mocking smile as he watched Lucian struggle to steady himself. The sight of the boy clutching his bleeding arm, panting like a cornered animal, confirmed what he had suspected all along. This so-called fighter wasn't the seasoned warrior some whispered about—no, Lucian was nothing more than a boy who had gotten lucky.
The Webster's sharp eyes studied him, noting every flinch, every stumble, every ounce of fear radiating from him. Lucian had bested the two brutes before, but now it was painfully clear why. Those men, for all their size and strength, had been fools. They relied on raw physicality, using their bulk as a battering ram without an ounce of strategy. Their approach was simple, predictable, and easily exploited by someone nimble and clever enough.
But The Webster was different, and he knew it. He prided himself on his cunning, on his ability to read his opponent like a book. Lucian may have won against those hulking fools, but The Webster wasn't so easily outmatched. He thrived on precision, on patience, and on his ability to strike when his prey least expected it.
His smile widened, a predator savoring the moment before the kill. The boy had stumbled into a game he wasn't ready to play, and The Webster intended to show him the difference between luck and skill. There was no brute force to exploit here—only a blade, a sharp mind, and the grim certainty that this fight was far from over.
When faced with a calculating man like The Webster, however, Lucian stood no chance—not as he was now. The Webster's every move was precise, deliberate, and far too clever to fall for the reckless tactics that had worked against the brutes before. Lucian had never fought anyone like him, and for a moment, the weight of that realization hung heavy in the air. He was outmatched in every way, and The Webster knew it.
But Lucian wasn't ready to give up. With the brief pause in the fight, he forced himself to think past the pain in his arm and the fear clawing at his chest. He couldn't afford to keep fighting blindly—that much was obvious. If he didn't act smarter, faster, he wouldn't make it out of this alive.