Vol.3, Ch.3, P.4
“Time’s up, turtle! To the butcher’s block with you!!”
Bashing blades tolled through Arbel’s benighted air. Afore me was my frenzied foe, battering away at my guard. Constraining his every strike was neither doctrine nor discipline; no, his was the sword of instinct, the mind of a fencer fighting by feel. Such I gleaned as his blade barked and bellowed in from the blindest of angles, nigh-snaring me with each swing.
The violence was not solely physical, either, for much odyl trailed and buttressed the swordsman’s storm-like challenge. A violence that surely would’ve made minced meat out of me were it not for the sword of soot in my hands.
Impact after impact, shock after shock, the force of it all flew from the black blade down to my very bones.
“Who’s the bull
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