The strikes grew in power and speed, forcing the air to compress and explode, each carrying a devastating shock-wave that disrupted the air within my lungs, threatening to burst inside my rib cage.
I couldn't keep up with my eyes.
What seemed like a stalemate at first soon turned into a frenetic assault. Each second meant a centimeter of ground won. Each second meant one more blow landing where it should. Each second clearing the muddy uncertainty of what the outcome would be.
The Protector was losing.
Each time her spear cut into the Blood Fiends, blood would spray out and stain the ground, her armor, and her weapon in deep crimson.
For every drop of blood one Blood Fiend lost, the other gained. For every drop of blood gained, their wounds closed, their speed increased, and their strikes grew more powerful.
"IT'S MOVING!" Pokh'Orra warned. "CUT ITS ARMS OFF ALREADY! SEAR THE WOUNDS WITH FIRE! NOT A DROP OF BLOOD ON THE GROUND!"
