The clash of blades sounded like thunder in the heart of the forest. Each impact sent a ripple through the trees, causing them to groan, birds to scatter in desperate flocks, and roots to vibrate underground. Vergil could no longer hear anything but the metallic sound of steel against steel and his own ragged breathing.
She didn't seem to pant. She didn't seem tired. She didn't even seem worried.
With each swipe of the silver blade, the tiger-woman moved with the grace of someone who doesn't fight—she dances. Vergil felt trapped by this cadence, forced to react to each fluid thrust, each curving arc. His muscles burned, but instinct urged him on.
"You're still holding back..." Vergil growled, his eyes ablaze with blue.
She tilted her head, smiling serenely. "No. I am simply what I am. You are the one fighting against yourself."
