Serah met him effortlessly, dodging his clumsy strikes with practiced ease. Each time he swung, she countered with brutal precision—a punch to the gut, a kick to the knees, a backhand that sent him sprawling. Yet every time, Junior rose, his body a canvas of cuts and bruises. His clothes hung in tatters, barely clinging to his battered frame.
"Why don't you give up and become my slave? You know you can't hit me," Serah sneered, her voice tinged with impatience now. She delivered another kick, sending him skidding across the floor. Broken glass dug into his palms as he pushed himself up once more.
Junior didn't answer. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming in protest. But he raised his sword again, his eyes blazing with defiance.
And then something changed.
