Krem knew that Cole was picking up his intentions and moves straight from his head, and while it irked him, as it likely did most of Cole's real opponents, he could respect using the knowledge gleaned directly like that. Cole was very good with the tools that he had, most definitely a worthy opponent.

If it weren't for the chain mail layered between the leather and metal of his breastplate, that strike would have done a hell of a lot worse than simply knocking the wind out of him. Krem stepped back, holding his breath until his core wasn't quite as painful, then taking it shallowly. His blade spun in his hand, then flickered out of sight. A thud in the dirt marked where it had ended up, a centimeter away from Cole's foot, quivering slightly with the blade half buried in the hard-packed soil.

With the blade out of his hand, Krem was free to make his move, his arm wrapping around Cole's and holding it straight, locking his elbow, while the other hand shoved up toward his chin hard enough to crack his teeth together if it connected squarely. Cole might have pulled his punch, so to speak, but Krem doubted he could really damage the boy, not close-range like this.