The swords shot forward, blurring with ferocious black speed, twisting and twirling through the air like a storm of fangs.
Nyssira surged ahead with a soundless step, twirling her hammer into motion. Each clash between hammer and blade detonated with thunderous force, sending tremors crackling through the arena.
She moved like a drifting leaf—an image that defied the brutal weight of the weapon she wielded. Sometimes, she held the hammer with one hand, swinging it in fluid arcs; other times, she hurled it overhead with both arms, crashing down upon the swords.
Yet no blade shattered. Instead, each one stiffened on impact, vibrating in the air with a hollow, haunting ring.
There was no room for breath.
Another set of black swords surged forward, even faster than before—an unrelenting storm.
Nyssira flowed too—elegant, springing, untouchable. Often, spectators lost sight of her entirely, glimpsing only the violent recoil of the black swords to track where she had struck.
