The battle raged on, Demontae's hired guns straining at full alert, their eyes tracking Eldric's every move as they scrambled to anticipate his next strike.
But Eldric moved like a whirlwind—utterly unpredictable. He pivoted between targets mid-swing, adapting to the chaos, sometimes switching opponents at the last heartbeat.
How could these mercenaries possibly keep up? They became puppets to Eldric's deadly rhythm, stumbling after him like drunkards chasing shadows.
His style was devilishly unpredictable—impossible to read. They could only react, always half a beat too slow, forever scrambling to counter his relentless assault.
CRACK! Another jaw shattered under his fist. Control of the battle had never been theirs—Eldric dictated everything. Fight? Retreat? Crush one man or another?
