The ground cracked beneath Lucy's boots with a sound like splintering bone as he narrowly dodged another savage swipe from the tigress general's claws—each one curved and gleaming, large enough to flay flesh from bone.
She moved like a boulder wrapped in lightning: massive, fast, and utterly merciless, her striped fur rippling with each powerful movement.
The acrid scent of scorched earth and copper-tang of blood filled his nostrils as he pivoted.
Beside him, Tara flickered in and out of view, her movements sharp and slicing through the smoky air. She struck low, aiming for tendons and weak spots, her claws gleaming with silver mana that left luminous trails in the dim light. But every blow she landed skidded off that striped hide with a metallic scrape, drawing only deeper growls from the beast—sounds that vibrated through the very ground beneath them.
"We're not even scratching her," Lucy muttered, breath ragged as he stumbled back a few feet. His cloak clung to him, soaked and heavy with blood—some his, some not—the fabric making wet sucking sounds with each movement.
"Then stop aiming to scratch," Tara snapped, appearing beside him in a burst of speed that displaced the air with a soft whoosh. Her golden eyes gleamed like twin blades in the half-light, pupils narrow with focus. "Aim to maim."
"You're one to talk—you just scratched her!" Lucy shot back, the words burning his dry throat.
She cut him a glare and a low growl that rumbled from deep in her chest before vanishing again with that distinctive whisper of displaced air.
'Use your words next time,' Lucy thought grimly, then refocused, blinking away the sweat that stung his eyes.
The two generals clashed before him, their strikes shrieking through the smoky, magic-thick air like metal on metal.
Lucy waited, tense and coiled, muscles burning with exertion as he searched for an opening. Tara, even heavily injured, moved so fast she was nearly a blur of gold and shadow.
Fenara, barely slower, had reflexes that eclipsed them both—and raw power that shook the battlefield, leaving concussive waves in her wake.
One hit from her could end him.
So he held back.
Waited.
Tara circled Fenara in a streak of gold and black, launching strikes too fast to follow. But Fenara read them like a book—ducking low with a grace that belied her size, dodging high with a snarl of hot breath, deflecting blows with thunderous parries that sent shockwaves blasting across the obsidian plain.
The black ground rippled like water, knocking weaker warriors to the ground with cries of alarm that echoed across the battlefield.
Lucy didn't flinch.
Blood trickled down his brow in warm rivulets, the metallic taste finding its way to his lips as he swiped at it, clouding his vision crimson. Still, his eyes stayed locked on the fight, pupils dilated with focus.
He watched for a single misstep—a twitch, a shift, anything that might give him an edge.
But Fenara gave him nothing. Her form was both brutal and elegant, her footwork flawless, as her paws barely seemed to touch the ground.
She never lost track of him either. Even as she fought, her orange eyes tracked his position, warning him not to move. The intensity of her gaze felt like physical heat against his skin.
He had no choice.
Tara couldn't win alone.
If he hesitated any longer, she'd fall, and he'd be next. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine, contrasting sharply with the blistering heat of the battlefield.
Then Fenara landed—boots cracking the blood-slick obsidian with a sound like ice breaking on a frozen lake.
'Now.'
Lucy raised his hand, feeling the heat gather in his palm, and unleashed a massive fire cylinder. It roared through the air like a furious beast, hissing with heat that sucked moisture from his eyes and scorched his lungs as he breathed.
Fenara didn't flinch. She leapt easily over it—expression unreadable behind those predatory eyes—and raised her arm to block Tara's incoming swipe aimed for her throat. The clash sent sparks of mana flickering into the dark air.
But that wasn't the trick.
The moment Lucy cast the spell, he sprinted after it, the soles of his boots sliding slightly on the obsidian. The hiss of fire masked his footsteps; the flame itself blinded Fenara to his approach, its orange glow painting shadows across the battlefield.
He was behind her.
Sword arced high, ready to sever her head midair, the weight of it familiar in his sweat-slicked hands.
Moonlight glinted off the blade as he swung wide and fast, the metal singing through the air.
Closer.
Closer.
The fur along Fenara's neck bristled—her primal instincts flaring. He could see each individual hair stand on end, catching the light.
'Crap.'
Too late. She ducked with terrifying speed, the blade missing by inches with a whistle of displaced air that ruffled her fur. Mid-spin, she lashed out with a vicious kick aimed at his gut, her leg a blur of striped muscle.
He dropped the sword just in time with a metallic clatter, deflecting the blow with crossed arms—but the impact rattled through his body like a thunderclap, jarring his teeth and sending shock waves through his bones.
He flew backward, skidding across the obsidian with a scrape that tore through his clothing, rolling hard and tasting copper as he bit his tongue.
But Tara didn't let his opening go to waste.
The moment Fenara touched ground, Tara launched.
She moved like lightning—like a streak of pure motion, yellow and black blurred in the chaos, leaving ghostly afterimages in Lucy's vision.
Her mana-charged claws glowed silver in the dark, humming with energy he could feel from yards away.
Fenara spun, sensing the threat, nostrils flaring.
Too late.
She couldn't block. Couldn't reinforce the spot with mana.
All she could do was shift—barely.
Tara's claws sank into her stomach with a wet sound, the scent of hot blood bursting into the air.
Fenara's last-second movement saved her by keeping the blow from shredding vital organs, but the strike still landed hard and deep. Crimson bloomed against orange fur, darkening it to rust.
Lucy could feel her rage spike, a fury so dense it prickled the air like static before a storm.
She swung at Tara, who vanished with that distinctive whisper, reappearing ten feet back beside Lucy, who was still kneeling, breath heaving, the taste of iron filling his mouth.
She looked down at him with a cocky grin, though he could see her chest rising and falling rapidly with exertion. "Was that enough maiming for you?"
He met her glare with one of his own, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."
"Don't get so cocky," Fenara growled, her orange eyes staring at them with such intensity it almost made Lucy not see the blood seeping from her stomach, matting her fur into dark clumps.
The fight was far from over, Lucy knew that. He had hoped that maybe the general's presence would diminish, and perhaps her confidence would waver as blood dripped onto the obsidian at her feet in soft patterns.
But he knew as soon as he saw the look on her face—pupils contracted to slits, teeth bared in a snarl that sent chills down his spine—the true fight had just begun.