"That strong?"
Abaddon stood on the sand of the Gladiatorial Arena, his gaze resting on Henry. A barely perceptible flicker of surprise crossed eyes that had witnessed countless battles.
His gaze lingered on Henry's hand gripping the training sword, then swept over the motionless Justaerin Terminator sprawled on the ground as he rapidly assessed everything that had happened in that instant.
The other Legion warriors watching could not see the skill involved. To them, it was nothing more than a lucky coincidence—a fortunate parry followed by an equally fortunate counterattack.
But Abaddon had seen it clearly. Both Henry's choice of angle at the instant he parried and the force and placement of his pommel strike had been worthy of a master.
That was neither luck nor coincidence, but superb technique honed through relentless practice until it had become muscle memory.
The strike had come at a cunning, precise angle, with exactly enough force to knock his opponent unconscious without inflicting a fatal injury.
Such precise control of strength was far harder than simply hacking away with brute force.
"Who taught you swordsmanship?" Abaddon asked, his voice serious, as though he were assessing an opponent worthy of his attention.
His gaze swept over Henry's young face, searching for some clue.
Henry grinned, showing a row of white teeth, and answered with an easy, casual air, as though he were joking. "Taught myself. Back home when I was little, I learned by fighting the neighbors' kids with sticks."
As he spoke, he deliberately waved his training sword through an elaborate flourish. The movement was smooth and natural, executed with effortless composure.
"Heh."
Abaddon gave a soft chuckle. He did not press further.
He looked away from Henry and fixed his gaze once more on the Justaerin Terminators regrouping across from him.
He