Shirō gritted her teeth, feeling the weight of Excalibur in her hands. It was getting easier to read Berserker's movements. Her eyes were adjusting, tracking the way his muscles tensed before a strike, how his stance shifted, how the air itself warped before the impact. But knowing what was coming and reacting in time were two entirely different things.
She barely twisted out of the way as his next attack came, the force of his axe-sword carving through stone like paper. She felt the wind pressure slam against her, sending her skidding backward. If that had hit, she wouldn't be getting back up.
Her breathing was labored, but she was still standing. And that was all that mattered.
Illya, from the sidelines, watched with an amused glint in her crimson eyes. "Oh? You're improving, Big Sister." She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "But so is Berserker."
Shirō didn't have time to question what she meant—because suddenly, Berserker moved.
Faster. Much faster.
Her instincts screamed at her as he blurred forward, his massive frame covering the distance between them in an instant. Shirō barely got Excalibur up in time, the impact sending a shockwave through her arms, rattling her bones. She felt her feet dig into the stone beneath her, the sheer force of the blow pushing her back.
Her eyes widened.
He was adapting.
The longer they fought, the stronger he got. Like some twisted version of the Hulk from those American movies, except this wasn't fiction. This was happening. Right now.
Shirō clenched her jaw. She couldn't let this drag on.
But how the hell was she supposed to kill him eleven more times before she collapsed?
Berserker roared, swinging down again. This time, Shirō didn't block—she sidestepped, barely slipping past the attack before slashing at his side. The golden glow of Excalibur cut deep, slicing through flesh, but the moment her sword left him, the wound began closing instantly.
Her stomach twisted.
Not only was he getting stronger, his regeneration was getting faster.
Illya giggled, watching the realization dawn on her face. "You see now, don't you? Berserker isn't something you can outlast. He always gets stronger. Always adapts. You're fighting something that doesn't stop. No matter how skilled you are, no matter how much you improve, he'll always be one step ahead."
Shirō swallowed hard. This was bad. Worse than bad. Every second she wasted gave Berserker more time to push himself beyond her limits.
She needed to end this. Now.
Her grip tightened on Excalibur, the golden light of the sword pulsing. She had to risk it. There was no other choice.
Illya, still watching, tilted her head. "What's wrong, Big Sister? Out of options?"
Shirō exhaled.
Then, she moved.
Faster than before, closing the distance between them in a blink.
Berserker reacted instantly, bringing his weapon down in a blur—
But this time, Shirō was ready.
She dropped to the ground, sliding beneath the swing, using the momentum to twist and slice upward as she passed.
A clean cut—
Berserker staggered, a real wound appearing across his chest.
Illya's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"
Shirō didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
She pressed forward, pushing herself to the absolute limit. Berserker's blows were faster, stronger, but she was weaving through them, dodging, blocking, striking when she could. The battle was accelerating, their movements a blur of destruction and steel.
Her heart pounded. She wasn't just keeping up—
She was gaining ground.
Illya's amusement faded slightly.
"Interesting."