"How are you alive without an element?"
"Watch your mouth," he said, firing multiple strokes in Oat's direction. The attacks lessened in frequency, a coldness of each swing lowered the spearman's confidence, "-else you'll bite your tongue," he ran through the narrowed path. Rubbles echoed down the valley, any ordinary being would have felt the pressure – instead of facing the potential of his own death, Igna forged forth recklessly.
'He's getting faster by the second,' parried Oat, '-the swings are getting heavier,' *clash,* a downward strike, same to a guillotine being dropped, resounded across Oat's arms and legs, fatigue grew to invade the mind subconsciously. No matter the skill level or training, an arduous fight had its limit on one's body, '-he's getting faster,' he blocked an incoming left strike – the shock sent him to the edge of the path, '-is he trying to push me off?' veins bloated through the neck and arms, he yelled a war cry and pushed Igna.
