Rain fell in sheets, soaking through Cain's torn coat and hissing against the still-burning craters that littered the earth. The battlefield had turned into a graveyard of metal and steam—broken constructs, half-melted weapons, and fragments of armor scattered across a field that still pulsed faintly with residual energy.
Cain dragged {Eidwyrm} from the ground, its edge nicked and dull from hours of battle. His muscles screamed in protest, every movement slow and deliberate. His Ki reserves were nearly spent. Every breath came out as smoke in the cold air.
He could still sense Rauken nearby—his heartbeat steady, his presence sharp as a blade drawn behind him. The bastard wasn't done yet.
Cain turned. Rauken emerged through the mist, missing an arm but smiling like he'd just been born anew. "You're still standing," he said, voice half a rasp. "Can't decide if that's impressive or pathetic."
