The molten field stretched endlessly under a bruised red sky. The air quaked with every breath the two took, as if even the atmosphere feared collapsing under their combined killing intent. Cain's boots sank an inch into the scorched ground as he straightened, smoke rolling off his armor in lazy coils. His eyes locked on Nebula, who was now missing more metal than flesh.
The bastard was still standing.
Cain's jaw tightened. "You really don't die easy."
Nebula exhaled, his breath coming out as black vapor. "You sound almost impressed." He raised a hand, fingers trembling but still steady enough to summon another cloud of blades. Thousands of them. Each one cracked, scorched, and uneven—but they still floated, drawn to his will like desperate ghosts refusing to fade.
Cain cracked his neck. "Then let's finish it properly."
