The air shook with the fury of Loren's clash against Erebus, each impact rattling stone and flesh alike. His sword arm trembled from the strain, but still he swung, cutting arcs of steel and pride through the suffocating darkness. The Pride Hunter Style screamed through his veins, bolstered by that ancient instinct his father had once embodied—a beast slayer's hunger.
But even a predator has limits.
And Misha saw it first.
Her sharp eyes tracked every faltering motion, every extra beat between Loren's breaths, every stumble that he disguised as a stance. She had fought him before—tested him when no one else had. She knew the rhythm of his arrogance, the speed of his attacks, the ceiling of his strength. What she was seeing now wasn't a new height. It was Loren scraping against the edges of his limits, desperately feeding on something temporary.
"He's slowing down," Misha muttered.
Lisa glanced at her, shocked. "What are you talking about? Look at him—he's still holding on!"
