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Surge: Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I apologise in advance for any spelling/grammar - this is an entirely unedited Work In Progress and therefore my dyslexia will be on full display. ^_^; If I publish this, I'll get it edited, but for now, enjoy the very, very first rough draft - let's have fun!

Chapter Three

Just take the first step. Begin the journey. Let the path forward make itself.

Otherwise, you may never leave the comfort of today.

And tomorrow will remain forever unknown.

Planet: Ghaliya

Litin Empire

The sword hissed by Tyrin’s ear. With a twist he glided past the swing, allowing his bare foot-paws to carry him back as his twin tails balanced his strides between the weapons’ twirls. He had missed the dance. Being able to read an opponent’s features, the way their eyes betrayed subtle little strains and stresses that he could pounce upon. Perhaps the tensing of muscles just under the hip that pulled on fur around an old injury he could agitate to his advantage.

If an opponent’s behaviour, their outward actions could be read, then his craft need not be activated to its full extent, and therefore, he could weld the blade most empaths loathed to touch.

His blade, an extension of his arm, that he could feel with a vibrating tone in his mind, counteracted his opponent’s strikes. Each collision sent a spark through his craft, cracking his mental walls, making him flinch at the physical manifestation of the pain marring his body. It would require time and mediation to repatch his protective shields. Though he had trained for combat, though he had forced muscles beyond their endurance time over time, nothing could prepare a crafter for the pain of battle. Emotions and thoughts would always bled through even the strongest mental armor, worse than any blade to his skin, and the distraction was devastating when in combat. He knew the dance though, through countless hours of vigorous training, and willingly committed himself to a final strike. He slammed his paw into the side of his opponent, striking at an old war-wound. The elder female reared backwards from the thrust. Taking the moment of imbalance, Tyrin coiled forward his blade, sliding it down his opponents and forcing the full weight of his far slighter body into a vice grip around the pulsing throat muscles. With a shout Tyrin swung them both and they landed roughly on the ground in a plume of dust.

“Yield, kopia!”

“I am not the one who must yield, cub.”