Arina did not give him time to recover.
Her sword was already moving when he found his footing again.
Her attacks came in an unbroken stream.
Horizontal slash, diagonal cut, thrust, spin, another downward chop—each swing dragged arcs of compressed mana behind it. The air rang with metallic cries as her blade sliced through it, shockwaves ripping strips of bark off nearby trees. Stone chips flew from the ground with every missed strike.
Arthur dodged.
Sometimes by a hair, sometimes with more room, but always with intention. He twisted, leaned, and stepped, each movement minimal yet precise. His coat tore in two places. A thin line of red appeared on his cheek. Another appeared on his forearm. Glancing hits, nothing more.
The forest around them was less fortunate.
Tree trunks were carved open and toppled. Rocks split. The ground became a web of fresh gouges, as if a giant claw had raked the earth.
Arina pressed harder.
