The ground cracked as she lunged.
Big Mama moved faster than anyone her size had the right to. Her cleavers spun in her hands like oversized kitchen knives on a butcher's line—one red, one black—both gleaming with sharpened, well-used edges.
Hanuel barely had time to bring his staff up.
The first cleaver hit the extended pole and sent a shockwave down the shaft, forcing Hanuel's boots to skid across the tile. His heels dug into the floor, but even then he was driven back, the force splitting the metal legs of the bench behind him like twigs. He bounced into a crouch, barely stabilizing.
The second cleaver didn't come for him—it came for the space to his right.
Joon was there.
He ducked, but not fast enough. The cleaver tore through the air where his head had been and embedded itself deep into the concrete wall behind him, slicing clean through a steel beam. Dust and sparks exploded from the impact.
