Jane hit the ground hard.

  Peter's eyes went to her for exactly one second — long enough to confirm she was moving — and then back to the thing in front of him.

  Her fight. Mine.

  The Darkness Incarnate didn't give him time to think about it. A tentacle came down and he got his sword up just in time, the impact rattling up through both arms and into his shoulders. He bit down on the sound that wanted to come out and reset his stance.

  He was already pushing himself. He knew that. Every parry was costing him more than the last, his arms burning from blocking hits that shouldn't be this heavy, his footwork getting sloppy at the edges. The creature was fast — stupidly fast for something that size — and it didn't slow down and it didn't get tired and it didn't make mistakes.

  Peter was making mistakes.

  Then stop.

  He heard Josephine's voice before he remembered the memory.

  "You're too tense."

  He'd been dripping sweat, swinging at the air, getting nowhere.

  "Tension slows you down. Makes you predictable. I can read every move you're going to make before you make it."

  He'd stopped. Glared at her.

  "That's exactly when you need to be calm." She hadn't cared about the glare. "Panic closes your vision. Even if you know what to do, if you're in your head about it, you'll miss it. Focus. When you're calm, you can see the openings."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Peter exhaled.

  He was trying to overpower it. He'd been doing that the entire fight — throwing force at it, trying to break through by being stronger and faster and more. It wasn't working. It was never going to work.

  Fine.

  He shifted his weight back. Sword up. Stop chasing it.

  Watch.

  The creature came at him again, tentacles whipping from two directions. He sidestepped the first. Deflected the second with the flat of his blade instead of trying to cut through it — less resistance, less cost. His arms thanked him.

  He watched it reset.

  There — a slight drag in the movement before it committed to a direction. A fraction of a second where it hadn't decided yet. Not hesitation, exactly. More like... the gap between one thing and the next.

  It's not thinking, Peter realized. It's just moving.

  No strategy. No adaptation. Pure destructive power pointed at whatever was in front of it. Which meant it couldn't adjust. Couldn't correct. If he got inside the timing—

  The creature lunged.

  Peter moved first.

  Inside the swing, past the tentacle, his sword driving forward before it could redirect. The blade connected and the creature recoiled — actually recoiled, its form flickering.

  There it is.

  He didn't stop to appreciate it. He went in again, same gap, same timing, faster this time. Again. Again. Each strike cleaner than the last, his body finding the rhythm the way it found rhythms in the training ground, the way Josephine had beaten it into him over months of getting knocked down and getting back up.

  Something clicked.

  He felt it — not a dramatic surge, just everything suddenly working the way it was supposed to work. His footwork stopped lagging. His parries cost him less. His strikes landed harder.

  The creature roared and threw everything at him.

  Peter was already past it.

  One clean strike through its core.

  The Darkness Incarnate came apart.

  Peter stood in the silence it left, breathing hard, sword still out. His arms were going to feel this tomorrow. Probably his whole body.

  He lowered the sword slowly.

  Josephine was right. He'd needed to calm down.

  He hated that she was right. He was getting used to it.