Ichiro's breaths came in ragged gasps as he staggered backward, barely able to keep his footing. The training hall, once a place of discipline and focused practice, was now a chaotic battleground. The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air, a testament to the brutality of the confrontation.
Master Sanada, with an air of mystery surrounding him, circled Ichiro like a predator sizing up its prey. His eyes, sharp and calculating, betrayed no emotion as he unleashed a barrage of strikes with blinding speed. Each move was a calculated dance of deadly precision.
Ichiro, though battered and bewildered, managed to summon the strength to parry some of the attacks. His body moved on instinct, a testament to the system's rigorous training. But the assaults were relentless, and each strike that landed sent tremors of pain through his entire being.