So they continued pressing him. Without stopping. Without rest.
The minutes dragged on. Kyrian counted in his mind. Five minutes passed.
Dozens of exchanges.
The old man advanced, one thrust, then another, then a third, retreating, attacking again.
The axe-wielder spun his blades in a hypnotic pattern, striking from impossible angles.
The swordsman kept his distance, attacking with long, precise thrusts, retreating before Kyrian could counterattack.
The saber-wielder was the most aggressive, always advancing, forcing Kyrian to retreat, dodge, and expend energy.
Ten minutes.
Hundreds of blows exchanged.
Kyrian felt his muscles warming, his meridians pulsing, and his Qi flowing at an accelerated rhythm.
The other leaders were somewhat tired as well.
Their breathing had grown heavier. Some had burns on their arms or legs. The old man still had not recovered his left sleeve.
But they continued.
Because they knew.
Their realms were higher. Their Qi reserves as well.
