Ruy moved with astonishing speed, a blur of motion, each attack sharper and fiercer than the last. His resolve sought every vulnerable point—the chest, the ribs, the arms—but each blow glanced off the creature’s body as if it were hitting an impenetrable wall, each swing only serving to wear down his own strength. Breaths came in ragged gasps, each one merging with the relentless clang of metal, yet the only blood drawn was his own, seeping from the blisters that tore open on his palms.

In a final, desperate bid for victory, the blade tore from the bloodied hand, slicing through the air toward the being’s visage, with Fuerte close behind, pursuing the weapon like a shadow, swift and relentless, a primal roar tearing from his throat.

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