The world narrowed further.
The crowd, the devil's mocking grin, even the ragged gasps of his squadmates—all of it blurred into silence. There was only the wolf before him, looming with its monstrous fangs bared, its breath like a furnace of shadows. Erebus lunged again, claws sharp enough to cleave stone, yet Loren moved—not with grace, not with flawless technique, but with desperate precision. His blade intercepted the blow, his feet skidding backward, sparks leaping into the stale air.
The impact rattled his bones. He should have collapsed. He knew he should have.
Yet his body… responded differently.
A strange clarity coursed through him. His muscles, though trembling, still moved with a speed he hadn't felt before. His blade seemed lighter in his grip, his footing steadier, his reaction sharper. The exhaustion that had been mounting only moments ago was still there, but dulled—like something in him refused to let fatigue fully claim him.
What… is this?
