CLANG—CRACK—TCHK!
Another impact.
Another cut.
Another burst of heat flooding from his skin.
Damien staggered backward, his footing unraveling under the weight of it all. His shoulder screamed. His leg buckled for half a breath before he forced it back into place. His chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like it was molten iron.
Blood soaked through the side of his shirt, matting against his skin. One eye was half-closed now, blurred with sweat and crimson. Every inch of him hurt—torn, crushed, battered.
And the worst part?
He hadn't landed a single clean hit.
Not one.
The soldier was just always—barely—a step ahead. A tilt here. A pivot there. Not flashy. Not evasive.
Efficient.
Like fighting a cliff face that moved.
Every time Damien thought he'd found a crack, it vanished. Every strike felt like it was just almost there.
And that almost?
It clawed at him.
It chewed under his skin.
'So damn close…'
