The silence was almost absolute, broken only by the constant sound of raindrops crashing against the muddy ground.
Brianna's white eyes shone with intensity, lines and circles pulsing softly, reflecting the light that seemed to come from her own body.
In front of her, the Count and the Prince stood, red eyes like living embers, each measuring the other with precision.
The rain fell, but the real storm was there — contained within the three, ready to explode at any moment.
The air around seemed to compress, as if all the accumulated energy waited only for a command, a movement — the spark that would begin the brutal clash between them.
The Count advanced first — each step made the ground tremble.
The massive body moved with brute strength, the muscles tense; the rain running over him seemed to vaporize at contact with the energy emanating from his skin.
The Prince was ahead, motionless. The white hair stuck to the pale skin.
His red eyes fixed on the enemy, serene, predatory — the look of someone who studies before striking.
The first blow came like a collapse.
The Count clenched his fist and threw his arm with inhuman speed, aiming at the Prince's chest.
But he moved with fluidity, the body spinning at the last instant.
The punch hit the air — the impact exploded the ground behind him, throwing stones and water everywhere.
The Prince counterattacked.
From the spin came a short and precise advance: the knee rose in an arc, hitting the Count's ribs.
The force of the blow made the massive body waver, but only for an instant.
The Count responded immediately, sweeping his arm in a lateral arc that collided with the Prince like a hammer.
His body was thrown backward, sliding through the mud, his feet carving furrows in the ground before regaining balance.
His gaze remained cold.
A faint smile crossed his face — not of mockery, but of silent excitement.
A few meters away, Brianna was already moving.
The torn cloak mixed with the rain, and her fingers rose, drawing symbols in the air."Phasmatos… Aeris Corrumpere."
The wind exploded around. The rain lost its shape — drops turned into translucent blades, cutting the space between her and the Count.
The Count raised his arm, crossing the gale. Each step made the ground crack; blood ran in fine cuts over the hardened skin.
He roared, forcing his way through the hurricane of blades — and when the distance closed, his fist came down in a devastating blow.
At that instant, the Prince appeared at the left flank, body low, movements too fast for the common eye.
He dove under the descending strike, the mud splashing beneath his feet, and rose in a spinning leap — the fist striking the Count's chin with dry force.
The giant's neck tilted, but he reacted like a living mountain.
With a muffled roar, he grabbed the Prince by the torso and hurled him against the ground. The earth cracked under the impact.
Before the second blow came, Brianna slid through the debris, her body spinning, her foot tracing an arc.
The kick hit the Count's forearm, deflecting the attack at the instant it descended upon the Prince.
The Count staggered, turned to her and advanced again — the blows were like avalanches.
Brianna retreated, dodging in short steps, each movement measured, each breath controlled.
The enemy's fist passed close, tearing an entire stone column.
When he raised his arm for the final strike, Typhon's hand grabbed his wrist.
He pulled it, spinning his body — the movement feline and swift — and his elbow sank into the Count's abdomen with a dull sound.
The rain covered everything — the sound of impact, of breathing, of rage growing.
None of them said a word.
The Count stepped back twice, gaze fixed on the Prince.
For an instant, the sound of rain seemed to drift away — only the heavy air, the steam rising from the cracked ground and the blood mixed with mud.
The Prince rose slowly.
His hands trembled.
The skin of his fingers tore in thin lines, as if something was forcing its way from beneath.
The cracking of bones echoed between the thunder — a dry, rhythmic, growing sound.
The nails lengthened, sharpening until they became black blades, curved and gleaming under the rain.
The muscles of the hands readjusted, the blood dripping and soon being absorbed by the flesh that regenerated at the same instant.
The red eyes shone.
There was no more restraint — only instinct.
The Count let out a hoarse growl, his smile widening amid the rain."So… you decided to take it seriously, is that it?" his voice echoed, deep, between the thunder and the steam rising from the ground.
The Prince raised his gaze, red eyes gleaming beneath the lightning."Well…" he said calmly, almost with disdain. "Since Hercules stained the honor of the Greek gods, it's only fair to tear off your head. That way the others will remember that the Greek gods always prevail."
The Count laughed, a harsh and guttural sound."Arrogance of a divine child… let's see if your gods bleed like you."
He advanced, opening his arms in a double strike, as if he wanted to crush him completely.
Typhon responded with an animal movement: the body lowered and spun, sliding under the forearms, the claws cutting the enemy's left flank as he passed.
The sound was sharp — the skin, like steel, tearing; the dark blood gushed in hot lines.
The Count roared, the right arm coming in a horizontal blow, so fast it split the air.
Typhon dodged narrowly, feeling the pressure graze his face, and countered with both hands — the claws scoring the Count's chest, leaving four deep marks that sparked under the energy of the strike.
With each movement, the sound of impact echoed like thunder — flesh, metal and mud mixed.
The Count tried to grab him, but Typhon moved like a predator: climbed the enemy's arm, spun in the air and dug his claws into his shoulder before leaping back.
Brianna took the opening.
With a sharp gesture, the energy of the rain condensed around her, spinning like a spiral."Phasmatos… Ventus Vincire."
The wind formed invisible chains, wrapping around the Count's legs.
For an instant, he seemed restrained — but then roared, breaking the bonds in a deafening crack.
Fragments of wind exploded around, cutting the field like uncontrolled blades.
The Prince didn't hesitate.
He advanced again — fast, low, lethal.
The claws crossed the air in a rhythmic, almost tribal pattern, like a hunting dance.
Each blow left new marks on the Count's body — the skin cracking, the blood mixing with the rain.
He retaliated with fury, each punch capable of shattering stone, each impact opening craters in the ground.
But Typhon no longer retreated.
His movements were wild, unpredictable.
With every new clash, the battle intensified, as if the battlefield breathed with them — the roar of thunder, the sound of steel, the echo of war.
The Count stepped back only for an instant, the red gaze fixed on the Prince. The rain ran down his skin black as basalt, the golden and scarlet veins pulsing with each heavy breath. Each blow that hit his flesh resounded like contained thunder, and small fissures appeared in the veins, lighting briefly before closing as if the skin itself regenerated him.
The Prince advanced again, body low, feline and savage movements. The black claws cut the air in a quick sequence — first the flank, then the shoulder, scoring the Count's skin, leaving deep marks that sparked in the rain. The impact echoed like hammer strikes, and the force of the blow made the earth tremble beneath both their feet.
Brianna took advantage of the opening. Her hands quickly drew symbols in the air, lines of silver energy intertwining, pulsing with their own strength."Phasmatos… Ventus Vincire!" she ordered.
Invisible chains of wind wrapped around the Count's legs, trying to hold him. He roared, an ancient and inhuman sound, and advanced breaking the chains with a crack that tore the air.
Each of his steps raised water, mud, and debris, while the rain cut his almost indestructible body.
The Prince, instinctively synchronized, leapt to the side, attacking with sharp claws at the giant's shoulder and ribs.
Each strike left a glowing mark on the veins of the Count's skin, and he responded with a powerful punch, tearing the air, which narrowly missed his head.
Rain and mud were thrown everywhere, scattering shards of stone and water.
Brianna wasn't left behind. A quick spin and the energy around her condensed into translucent blades of wind and rain, cutting the Count's path and diverting part of his brute force.
He struck his fists to the ground to break the effect, cracking the soil and raising a cloud of water and mud, but the lines of energy still spun around Brianna, keeping him partially restrained.
The Prince climbed the Count's left arm, leaping with feline agility, digging his claws into his shoulder and scraping along the side of his chest.
The giant roared, turning his torso and trying to shake off the attacker, but the Prince's speed was that of a predator in motion — each movement calculated to exploit openings.
With each combined strike, the Count's black skin trembled under the rain, scarlet and golden veins pulsing in intensity, showing wounds that quickly regenerated.
But even with his monstrous strength and supernatural resilience, he began to feel the rhythm of the two enemies' coordination — the silent terror of facing something he couldn't crush with brute force.
Brianna advanced, sliding through debris, each step calculated.
The blades of energy around her spun like serpents, deflecting blows and marking every space the Count tried to occupy.
She drove her elbow into his forearm the instant he rose to strike the Prince, interrupting the movement and leaving visible cracks in the veins of his skin.
The Count roared, dark blood mixing with the rain, but even that didn't seem to stop him.
The Prince crouched, spun through the air and delivered a sequence of quick strikes, claws scoring chest and shoulder, leaving deep grooves while dodging punches that destroyed stone and mud around them.
He snarled, the feline strength filling every gesture, every leap, every impact — and each attack combined with Brianna's made the Count's skin hiss under the accumulated pressure and energy, creating a dance of destruction.
The field seemed to breathe with them, rain, mud, energy, and flesh blending in a dizzying rhythm.
The Count, with each roar, tried to crush them, but the coordinated blows began to open real gaps in his defense.