The Book of Lucia, Chapter III - Sister Lucia (c) vs. Madeline Christiansen for the LAW Hentai Championshp

[BlackAkuma]

People called Sister Lucia many things, few of them flattering. A loon, a cultist, a heretic, a hypocrite, an idiot, a nutjob, an annoyance, a zealot, and many more names, some of them too foul to bear repeating. But there was one thing that even her staunchest, crudest adversaries could never call her.

Slow.

Sister Lucia was blessed in the ring with a number of talents, but chief among them were her speed and agility, not the most common traits among hentai wrestlers, who were typically more focused on their ground game. She could spring forth with an explosive burst, cut off her foe’s attack, and deliver precise strikes before her foes knew how to properly react. Her outfit, so often chastised by her foes, afforded her unparalleled freedom of movement, and she had the skills to make use of it.

That speed was on full display as she whirled through the air at high speeds, closing the distance on Madeline in a heartbeat. Though Sister Lucia could tell it didn’t hit the intended target - Madeline’s face - the impact on her arm was a decent second place, a blow that would certainly be stinging until long after this match. Not the best start, but a far cry from the worst.

Sister Lucia dropped to her back, then through her legs back up, rolled off her shoulder, and popped up to her feet in a swift, fluid motion, scarcely missing a beat. At her response, she chuckled. ”I’ve no need to pray for that.”

Sister Lucia rushed in, dashing across the ring so fast that she nearly hit the referee before she could move out of the way. She didn’t come straight at Madeline, first darting left, then right, then left again, before she slipped into the English Rose’s range.

A punch, a jab, going for her face, then stopping in a feint. A right cross came in immediately after, this one the real thing, looking to drill it straight in her chest. No sooner had that flown than she stepped back, catquick, and threw out a snap kick to cover her retreat, one that would hit Madeline’s stomach if she were too bold.

Through it all, Sister Lucia let out excited breaths, as she began to find her rhythm.

[Lightman]

The kick had been fast. Madeline would grant her that much without hesitation. It had come with alarming swiftness and surprising precision, a strike delivered with the sort of speed that could overwhelm those unprepared for it. Lucia moved like a flash of light across the canvas, quick and fluid in a way that many in this division simply were not.

But speed alone was never enough. Other things endured longer than a burst of motion. Balance. Control. The ability to dictate where a fight truly took place. Those were the elements Madeline trusted, the ones she had refined over years spent mastering bodies rather than merely striking them.

Lucia’s recovery was just as swift as her attack. From the canvas to her feet in a single seamless flow, she rose with an almost acrobatic ease. The nun quipped, her voice infused with a triumphant edge. Madeline simply watched her. It seemed an odd statement regarding prayer, especially for someone so outwardly devout. This, Madeline mused, was the very definition of hubris; a sin, if memory served, that her opponent purported to crusade against. The irony was not lost on her. Pride, it appeared, extended even to one’s supposed piety. "A foolish decision."

The blonde came forward again, a blur of movement, darting across the ring with an erratic pattern designed to disrupt timing and distance. Left, right, then left again, her footwork light and unpredictable as she closed in.

Madeline did not chase her. Instead, she pivoted. Small adjustments to her stance kept her aligned, her centre grounded as she tracked the incoming angles. Her hands rose, not rigid, but ready, prepared to intercept rather than trade blow for blow.

The jab came first. Madeline’s head moved slightly to allow it to pass, her body swaying along with the movement instead of fighting it. She saw through the feint that followed. The slight movement in Lucia’s shoulder was a prelude, a subtle signal preceding the actual strike.

The right cross drove in. This time, Madeline met it. Her forearm shielded her body, absorbing the impact before it could connect squarely with her chest. The blow still had enough power to push against her defence, yet it failed to penetrate. Simultaneously, she advanced, diminishing the gap Lucia seemed so set on maintaining.

That was the difference. Madeline’s goal was to restrict space, unlike a striker who profited from it.

Lucia, however, was already on the move again. The retreat came quickly, a sharp step back that denied Madeline the immediate clinch. Her forward momentum was abruptly halted by a quick snap kick aimed at her midsection. By instinct, Madeline adjusted herself.

Her arm moved down to deflect the attack, changing its course instead of meeting it squarely. The contact was fleeting, more of a redirection than a complete stop, as she shifted her body to soften the blow. She kept within her limits and did not rush blindly into the space Lucia vacated.

She then readjusted her balance with calm exactness, her stance firming again while her eyes continued to focus on the champion. With a calm, measured look, she appeared to be carefully evaluating and remembering each exchange.

“You’re quick.” She said softly, almost to herself, though loud enough to carry. Then her gaze lifted fully to meet Lucia’s again. “But not untouchable.” Madeline shifted forward once more, slower this time, deliberate, closing the distance inch by inch as she began to guide the pace rather than react to it.