In the same fluid motion, using the momentum from his drop to add power, Kelvin thrust his spear upward at Griminir's now-exposed midsection. It was a perfect counter—using the opponent's committed attack against them, striking at the moment of maximum vulnerability.

But Griminir had anticipated exactly that response. His free hand came down in a blur, gauntleted fist swatting the spear tip aside with a metallic clang that rang across the training ground. Then, without pause, he immediately reversed his axe swing using nothing but raw arm strength, bringing it around in a backhand horizontal strike that forced Kelvin to roll desperately away, his spear coming up in a defensive position.

"That's nice!" Kelvin called out, genuine praise in his voice despite being forced onto the defensive. "But you're still telegraphing your recovery. Watch your footing when you reverse direction—your back heel lifts half a second before you commit to the swing!"

Griminir's fierce grin showed he'd heard and understood the criticism. "Thanks! Let's see if you can keep dodging though!"

He pressed the attack with renewed vigor, his axe becoming a whirlwind of wood and destruction. Each swing was powerful enough to shatter stone if it connected with something solid, the practice weapon moving in arcs that covered multiple angles simultaneously. Overhead chops transitioned smoothly into horizontal sweeps, which flowed into diagonal strikes, all of them maintaining that same devastating power.

Kelvin was clearly being pushed to his limits. But he'd been right about Griminir's tells—there were small indicators in Gob's movements, tiny moments where his weight shifted obviously before each major attack, or where his shoulders tensed in preparation for a power strike. And Kelvin was reading every single one.

Kelvin moved like water, his body flowing around Griminir's attacks rather than meeting them head-on. He deflected strikes rather than blocked them, using the spear shaft at angles to redirect the axe's momentum away from his body rather than trying to arrest it completely. He sidestepped, backpedaled, occasionally dropped low or rolled, always conserving his own energy while forcing Griminir to expend his in increasingly wild swings.

Satou watched with growing appreciation and pride. This was genuinely high-level combat, the kind that came from dedication and proper instruction rather than just natural talent. Both fighters had grown tremendously since he'd last observed them seriously. Kelvin's technical skill had improved to the point where he could probably hold his own against veteran warriors twice his age, while Griminir had found a combat style that perfectly suited his new physique and temperament.

"Urgak trained them both personally?" Satou asked, though he could already guess the answer.

"Almost every morning for the past month," Lyra confirmed, her analytical eyes tracking both fighters' movements. "Griminir for strength-based power fighting—teaching him how to use his size and strength effectively without becoming predictable. Kelvin for technical precision and defensive counter-fighting—showing him how to defeat stronger opponents through superior technique. He's been pushing them both incredibly hard, working them until they can barely stand some days."

"Preparing them," Satou said quietly, understanding settling over him.

"Yes," Lyra agreed, her voice becoming more somber. "Preparing them for the threats he knows are coming. Urgak might be straightforward in how he thinks, but he's not stupid. He understands that your rapid rise as a demon lord means increased danger for everyone in the settlement. He's doing everything he can to make sure our warriors can survive what's coming."

The words hung heavy between them for a moment, both of them aware of how prophetic Urgak's preparations had proven. The Merc Assault situation demonstrated exactly why such training was necessary—threats would come, whether they were ready or not.

The fight below was reaching its climax. Griminir had been attacking relentlessly for nearly two full minutes now, and even his enhanced stamina—built through months of brutal conditioning—was showing signs of strain. His swings were fractionally slower than they'd been at the start, his footing slightly less certain, his breathing noticeably heavier with each exhale coming out as a grunt of effort.

Kelvin saw it too. His eyes narrowed with predatory focus, his own breathing still controlled despite the defensive work he'd been doing. He was waiting, patient, tracking Griminir's movements and energy expenditure with the calculation of someone who understood that endurance was a weapon in itself.

The opening came.

Griminir, perhaps sensing his window of opportunity closing, committed to one final, massive overhead chop. He poured everything he had into it—all his remaining strength, all his momentum, all his determination. It was a perfect strike in terms of power and form, the axe descending with enough force to split a boulder.

But it was also a desperate strike, the kind that left absolutely no room for recovery if it missed.

Kelvin's sidestepped was minimal—just enough movement to let the axe blade whistle past his shoulder, so close that it actually caught the fabric of his training shirt and tore a small strip away. The massive practice weapon slammed into the packed earth with a sound like thunder, the impact sending up a small cloud of dust and actually embedding several inches into the ground.

In the exact same fluid motion, demonstrating the perfect economy of movement that marked true mastery, Kelvin spun on his heel. His spear shaft, held horizontally in both hands, cracked across the back of Griminir's knees with calculated precision—not hard enough to cause injury, but more than sufficient to buckle the larger hobgoblin's legs.

Griminir's knees buckled instantly. All that impressive muscle mass suddenly became a liability as gravity took over. The larger hobgoblin crashed to the ground with a grunt of surprise that was half frustration, half acknowledgment of being outplayed. His axe remained embedded in the earth, the handle slipping from his fingers as he fell.

Before Griminir could even think about recovering, before his warrior instincts could process what had happened and formulate a response, Kelvin's spear tip was at his throat. The point held steady despite both fighters' heavy breathing, positioned precisely over the carotid artery, the universal signal of a killing blow in training combat.

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