The tavern had become a slaughterhouse. Inside, the air was a thick soup of smoke, splintered wood, and the metallic stench of demonic mana.
Ren ducked under another swing from Grog.
He felt the wind of the massive fist brush against his hair, and knew that if that punch had landed, his head would have been nothing but a wet stain on the broken floorboards. He rolled to the side, came up with his sword raised, and put three feet of distance between himself and the demon.
His arms were shaking. His lungs were burning.
He had landed at least seven clean strikes on Grog since the fight began, shallow cuts on his arms and chest and legs, but the demon did not seem to notice.
He just kept coming, his massive body absorbing damage that should have dropped any normal man.
We both have same rank, Ren thought, watching Grog turn around slowly. But that bastard physical body is much times stronger than me.
