Leo didn't answer. He just adjusted his stance, his feet light on the floor.

The crowd went silent. This was the "Elite" difference. No mindless slamming. This was .

Leo flicked his wrist. It looked like a casual nudge, but the puck spiraled in a tight arc—a "Curve-Shot" that defied the usual linear physics of the game. Jax lunged, barely catching it on the edge of his mallet. He sent it back with a heavy cross-table bank.

The air hissed, a steady, low-frequency hum that signaled the start of the .

Jax took the first move. CRACK. The puck blurred into a jagged lightning bolt, banking off the side rails with a sound like a gunshot. Leo didn't flinch. He moved his mallet just three inches—a surgical intercept. The puck died on contact, trapped under his rim.

The rally intensified. The puck became a silver flicker, a ghost in the machine. Clack-clack-clack. The rhythm was hypnotic. Leo saw the opening: Jax was over-committing to the left side, anticipating another curve.

Leo stepped back, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and finally smiled. In the world of Elite Air Hockey, power was loud, but precision was lethal.

Jax scrambled, his mallet scraping the table in a desperate reach, but he was a millisecond too late. The puck crossed the line with a soft thud . The scoreboard flashed: