Neil took the first on his forearm, turned the second downward, and on the third he stepped forward into it instead of pulling back.
The strike caught his shoulder. He didn't care. He was already inside the reach of someone whose ability was built entirely around striking momentum, and from inside that range there was almost nothing that person could do that would matter.
One strike to the solar plexus. Controlled, placed precisely, carrying a fraction of what he could actually put behind it.
Holt folded and dropped to one knee, pressing a hand flat to the stage while his body processed the input. He stayed there for a moment, breathing steadily and deliberately, then looked up.
"I lost." He said. No argument in it, no qualifier.
"You have good instincts." Neil said, and he meant it straightforwardly. "And that ability with real speed behind it would end most people your age before they had time to think."
