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... it mid-swing, adjusted his grip, and finished the motion—but it was wrong. His stance was off, and the edge dragged through the air like a rusted weight.

He growled and lowered it.

The old ironwood was soaked with sweat. His hands were blistered and raw, and where the skin hadn't split, it threatened to. He turned his palm. One deep line ran across the middle, red and wet.

He didn't wipe it.

He stepped back to the center of the ring.

Reset.

Again. ...

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