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... rry, lightning-quick riposte, a deceptive thrust, a subtle feint.

Every movement engineered to kill. Every blow laced with death-born power.

But Fang—his crimson rods a blur—met each one.

Even the impossible ones.

His defense was fluid, precise, almost serene in its inhuman grace.

Then, with a sweeping turn—less a maneuver than a dance—Fang deflected a neck-bound slash and, in the same breath, drove both rods into Ian’s chest.

The impact landed lik ...

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