Each exchange made them faster, more fluid. Their coordination tightened. The spear-wielder no longer hesitated before blocking his strikes; the chain-bearer's aim became precise, almost predictive; the trident's thrown arcs cut closer each time.
They couldn't land a decisive hit, Erik's speed and experience kept him one step ahead but the pressure was unrelenting. Every second he fought, the creatures learned. The divine red roots refined their body, timing improved, and their rhythm became terrifyingly efficient.
The fight dragged on, and with every passing moment, Erik's frustration deepened. His strikes should have ended this long ago, he was stronger, faster, and definitely more skilled than these abominations. Yet no matter how many times he cut them down, the creatures refused to die. Their bodies mended in unnatural ways, torn flesh knitting back together, bones snapping into place with wet cracks.
