Kit would never dispute the advantage that acute instincts could provide. Lending a certain unpredictability to a fighter, it was the perfect trump card against anyone who relied as heavily on strategy as himself.
However, that did not mean that he was without his own intuition, and his was as sharp as Vincent's own, forged in the fires of Eddan's seedy underbelly, and sharpened to a lethal edge by adversity.
If there was one thing he had learned how to do, it was endure. Pain was a window, after all. Opened, it allowed a man to assess the state of his being and told him when enough was enough; closed, it afforded him the ability to surpass his limits, including his threshold for pain. Ignoring the body's way of communicating with the brain was of course ill-advised, but as Vincent's arm swung for his gut, Kit was grateful for being able to stall his thoughts and simply react.
There wasn't time to dodge or deflect, he knew that in an instant. But if he curled around the other boy's arm he could trap it...and he did.
Spittle flew from parted lips as air was forced from his lungs, throat clenching as it fought to keep down the contents of his stomach. His body folded neatly around that sacrificed limb, his arms ensnaring it like the jaws of a steel trap, unwilling to relinquish their hold. But he was not on the defensive, his back not yet pressed to the wall. With his opponent's arm captured, he attacked...driving his heel down towards the pressure point atop Vincent's nearest foot.
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However, that did not mean that he was without his own intuition, and his was as sharp as Vincent's own, forged in the fires of Eddan's seedy underbelly, and sharpened to a lethal edge by adversity.
If there was one thing he had learned how to do, it was endure. Pain was a window, after all. Opened, it allowed a man to assess the state of his being and told him when enough was enough; closed, it afforded him the ability to surpass his limits, including his threshold for pain. Ignoring the body's way of communicating with the brain was of course ill-advised, but as Vincent's arm swung for his gut, Kit was grateful for being able to stall his thoughts and simply react.
There wasn't time to dodge or deflect, he knew that in an instant. But if he curled around the other boy's arm he could trap it...and he did.
Spittle flew from parted lips as air was forced from his lungs, throat clenching as it fought to keep down the contents of his stomach. His body folded neatly around that sacrificed limb, his arms ensnaring it like the jaws of a steel trap, unwilling to relinquish their hold. But he was not on the defensive, his back not yet pressed to the wall. With his opponent's arm captured, he attacked...driving his heel down towards the pressure point atop Vincent's nearest foot.