His muscles were forcibly twisted, every fiber stretched to its limit.
His once-smooth breathing rhythm collapsed completely.
He tried to counterattack with his left hand, but the instant his shoulder was restrained, the entire chain of force through his upper body had been broken.
The punch from his left hand was weak, and his opponent dodged it with an easy tilt of the head.
Then he saw those eyes.
Right before him.
Still calm.
"Second move."
As the words fell, the five fingers gripping his shoulder suddenly tightened.
The twisting force abruptly intensified, finally pushing his shoulder joint past its limit.
With a clear cracking sound, his right arm fell limp, like a puppet with its strings cut.
The spinning stopped.
Breathing stopped.
Only the howl of the sea wind and the heavy panting of two people remained on the deck.
The man staggered back, clutching his right shoulder with his left hand.
Sweat slid from his forehead and dripped into his eyes, stinging them.
But he did not blink. He only stared fixedly at the figure standing ahead with his sword sheathed.
His techniques were still there.
His muscle memory was still there.
But his body could no longer keep up.
"You..."
He tried to say something, but only a hoarse breath escaped his throat.
The swordsman turned and walked toward the railing.
His boots stepped steadily across the shattered deck.
When he reached the railing, he stopped and glanced back.
"Your techniques are impressive."
The sea wind blurred his voice a little.
"But techniques are ultimately tools."
With that, he leaped over the railing, his figure disappearing among the surging waves.
The man stood alone on the ruined deck, waves of agony from his right shoulder battering his consciousness.
He looked down at his limp right arm, then