Not the right time to complain

Conan gnashed his teeth, picking up his speed, and swinging his sword towards Abel. The latter was using a whiplash made of blood. All Abel had been doing was flicking his fingers to block Conan's attack whilst laughing excitedly. 

Along with Abel's echoing laughter, as if he was having the time of his life, were the piercing noises of the red whiplash and the blades of Conan's sword. Everyone, although capable, could hardly follow Conan and Abel's movements. 

It was as though the two of them were skipping time and spaces, disappearing from an area only to reappear at the other end of the great hall. The only indicator that there was a fight was the clashing of auras and the red sparks flashing before their eyes.