Instantly, Harvey and Lawrence moved in tandem, their Arkamon Flux flaring to life, wrapping their forearms in that distinct reddish-brown glow, crackling with wild black lightning. It was different from the soft hum of my own Flux—this was raw, aggressive, honed for one purpose. To burn. To kill.

  Conrad didn’t wait. He cut the distance himself, stepping into their assault like a man who had already seen the outcome. A blur of motion, a shift in weight—Harvey struck first. A wide haymaker, fast enough that the human eye wouldn’t have even registered it as an attack. Conrad’s response was instantaneous. A pivot, a redirection—not a block, not a parry, but a complete evasion. The strike sailed past him, missing by a breath.

  But Lawrence was already moving. He twisted into a low, vicious kick aimed at Conrad’s groin—a dirty move, but this wasn’t a spar. It was war.

  Conrad reacted before the foot even left the ground.

  A step to the side, a Bartitsu sweep of his own foot, subtle but effective. Not a direct counter, but a feint meant to throw off Lawrence’s balance. It forced him to adjust mid-motion, and in that brief instant, Conrad flowed between them, slipping through the space where their attacks had nearly converged.

  No contact.

  Not yet.

  They moved like phantoms, weaving through the battlefield with impossible precision. Every strike met only empty space.

  Harvey’s elbow snapped toward Conrad’s jaw. Conrad leaned back just enough for it to graze air. Lawrence’s fist drove forward in the same heartbeat, a straight punch to the heart. Conrad shifted, his body tilting at an unnatural angle, and the punch missed by an inch—just an inch—but that was enough.

  Because if even a single hit landed, it was over.

  That was the terrifying thing.

  One blow. One mistake. One fraction of a second too slow. That was all it would take.

  They knew it.

  Conrad knew it.

  And that’s why they weren’t touching.

  I could feel the sheer tension of it in my bones. The pressure, the anticipation. This wasn’t a battle of endurance. It was a battle of absolutes.

  A hit from Harvey or Lawrence would slow Conrad’s regeneration, cripple his ability to heal. A clean strike to the head or heart? That would end him.

  But Conrad wasn’t human. He didn’t need Flux to be deadly. Even if he so much as grazed them, even if his fist barely clipped their Arkamon Shields, his strength alone could send them flying across the penthouse. And if they crashed into anything—

  The marble columns. The custom furniture. The glass windows leading to a fifty-story drop.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  They’d be dead.

  The worst part? Conrad wasn’t even fighting to win.

  He was testing them.

  I could see it through my EchoFlux. He wasn’t going all out. His movements were sharp, but measured. Precise, not overwhelming. He dodged with inches to spare, parried only when necessary—the Arkamon Flux searing his skin on contact, but only for a fleeting moment. He never let it linger, never wasted movement. He never committed to a full strike.

  He was toying with them.

  Harvey lunged, his footwork a blur. Taekwondo—he aimed high, snapping a kick toward Conrad’s temple. Conrad shifted, but the moment his weight changed, Lawrence was there—boxing footwork, cutting off his escape. It was seamless, practiced—two experienced warriors pushing their advantage.

  Conrad responded instantly.

  He didn’t retreat. He stepped into the attack, killing its momentum before it could reach full force. A palm strike, open-handed, Bartitsu-style. Not meant to harm, just to deflect. Harvey’s leg was forced wide, his balance thrown. Lawrence went for the counter, a rapid-fire flurry of punches—jabs, straights, hooks.

  I could barely keep up.

  Conrad did.

  He moved with them. Not against them. Not through them. With them. Like he was reading the fight a second ahead, adjusting his stance before they even fully committed to their attacks.

  I wasn’t the only one who saw it.

  Harvey knew. His expression didn’t change, but I could feel it in his movements. He understood now. Conrad wasn’t fighting to eliminate them. He was matching them.

  A game of reaction.

  A tango of death where the first to touch loses.

  They were all moving at the speed of sound, yet somehow, Conrad still had control.

  Harvey and Lawrence weren’t reckless, but they couldn’t afford to hesitate either. Conrad wasn’t giving them a chance to reset. Every dodge, every sidestep, every flick of his wrist forced them to adjust.

  And still—no impact.

  Because Harvey and Lawrence couldn’t afford to be hit.

  And Conrad refused to let them land a blow.

  The penthouse became a blur of movement.

  Conrad weaved between them, using the environment as fluidly as his own body. He didn’t rely on strength—he didn’t need to. He was redirecting force, leading them into positions where they had to waste energy, where their strikes had to be thrown wide or their balance had to shift awkwardly.

  Lawrence feinted a left hook—a trap. Harvey swept in from behind, his leg cutting high toward Conrad’s head. A perfectly coordinated strike, their positioning flawless.

  Conrad didn’t fall for it.

  Instead of dodging away, he dropped low, below Harvey’s reach, below Lawrence’s guard. They adjusted, but too late—Conrad had already moved past them, repositioning before they could capitalize.

  It was a stalemate, but not the kind that favored them.

  Because Conrad wasn’t breaking a sweat.

  I could feel it through my EchoFlux.

  Harvey and Lawrence? Their breathing was measured, controlled—but their muscles were working, their movements burning energy. The longer this lasted, the worse it was for them.

  Conrad?

  His presence hadn’t flickered once.

  I clenched my fists, my heart hammering against my ribs. I knew what was coming.

  I wasn’t a veteran fighter like Harvey or Lawrence, but I’d been trained. I could read the room.

  This wasn’t just a fight.

  It was a countdown.

  Conrad was evaluating them—Harvey, the head of Argent Sword, and Lawrence, one of the deadliest hunters in Sharman. He wasn’t making the same mistake he had with Elijah. No arrogance. No carelessness. He knew they were human, but he also knew they were dangerous.

  And he wasn’t overcommitting, either. Not with Elijah still in the fight, lingering after that devastating counterstrike. Not with Kadir, the Grandmaster, still watching. Conrad didn’t know what he was capable of yet. That had to make him wary.

  But cautious didn’t mean hesitant. He wasn’t pulling his punches. He was just staying measured, controlled.

  Maybe he expected us to join the fray. He had to. That was why he kept moving, his eyes never settling in one place for too long. He was waiting. Watching.

  And when he decided this was over—that’s when he would strike in earnest.