Ésha presses the attack.
Her blades carve deadly arcs, dancing like vengeful fireflies.
They hiss, pierce, searching for the weakness.
Flashes of steel in the darkness.
Érode falters. His armor cracks, his rhythm shatters.
He absorbs the blows, retreats.
Blinded by his own arrogance.
He doesn't see Maho.
Maho leaps.
Silent as a prayer, quick as a verdict.
A flash of grace amidst the fury.
A breath of pure beauty in the chaos.
His katana erupts.
Refined. Sharp. Sacred.
It bites.
Érode's flank opens like a cursed offering.
A spray of blood bursts—bright red, almost noble.
The wound is clean, surgical.
Érode screams.
A bestial growl, mixed with wounded pride.
He staggers. A knee buckles.
A heartbeat.
The world slows.
Everything freezes… except Ésha.
She sees. She understands. And she strikes.
Her khanjar melts through the air.
Silent. Inevitable. Perfect.
It plunges into Érode's back.
Fine blade. Blind spot. Fatal blow.
A rasp. Hoarse. Trembling.
Almost... surprised.
— Ésha (cold, unrelenting):
This is for Ansuya, you filthy traitor.
Time stops.
A breath escapes Érode's lips.
His eyes widen, frozen between rage and confusion.
A tear?
No. A remnant of pride.
Then—
He crumbles.
A dull thud.
A monument falling. An era fading.
But… no time to celebrate.
The Knights charge.
In a pack. Desperate. Blinded by rage.
But I'm ready.
Stryker leaps.
Despite his wound.
His fangs gleam under the flickering light.
His movements are those of a cornered beast… but still standing.
Still alive.
He strikes. He slashes. He dodges.
A dancer of blood and instinct.
Me? I shoot.
Again. Again. Again.
The rhythm becomes inhuman.
I've become a living turret.
A barrage of fire, of hate, of will.
The ground shakes. Impacts thrum.
The silence is riddled with shards of death.
One by one, the enemies fall.
Then… the dust settles.
Silence returns. Strange. Suspended.
We're still standing.
Breathing heavily. Bloodied. But standing.
I breathe. Slowly.
Each breath a victory.
Each heartbeat, a reminder.
And I feel it.
Something has changed.
Something inside me.
— Me (thoughts, slow inner rise):
I'm no longer just a survivor. I've become… a fighter.
And they'll see what that means.
To be continued...