SCHLK.
Her claws—black, curved, and unnaturally long—punched straight through Guts' left palm and sank deep into his shoulder with a sickening, wet crunch. Miss Shio had moved with impossible speed, launching five-foot spears of black keratin across the shop so fast they blurred.
For a second, Guts was genuinely pinned. All hope felt lost. What was going to happen now?
Guts simply looked down at the claws impaled through his hand with a dull annoyance, as if she'd merely spilled a drink on him.
"...Tch. Right after I was literally recovering. You're dead meat."
Before I could even process the impossible sight, he shifted his grip. He didn't stumble backward; he charged forward. He took a deliberate step—impaling himself deeper on her claw—just so he could close the distance and reach her.
