The battlefield stank of sweat, blood, and ozone-scorched metal. Mana drifted like smoke—shimmering, sickly, corrupted. The air itself coughed. It wheezed like it had caught the plague that spread among them. And amid the chaos, Veil staggered, hunched forward as his translucent, shifting form flickered like a damaged flame.
Loki's blade met another—the clang echoing louder than it should, as if even the world wanted to announce his frustration.
"What the fuck? Why are you sooooo fucking weak?" Loki shouted, voice serrated with exhaustion and rage, parrying another blow from not one, but two of the Seventeen Primes. Number Two had a calm fury about her, all sinew and sharp precision. Number Three fought like a child possessed by something ancient and feral. Their coordination was flawless—one attacking high, one low, as if they were extensions of each other. Perfect symmetry. Beautifully murderous.
