The ground was cracked, covered in stone fragments and residual energy.
The flames of golden and scarlet mana clashed against the cold blue-gray flowing from the slant-eyed woman's daggers.
The metallic sound of the blows echoed rhythmically—fast, precise, almost choreographed.
Samira advanced, her body in constant motion, fluid as water, lethal as fire.
Each step left a shimmering trail on the ground, as if the earth itself bowed to her presence.
The woman blocked her attacks with her curved daggers, thin, black blades shrouded in a dense mist that distorted the air. But even with all that demonic energy pulsing around her, she was on the defensive.
Samira pressed the pace.
Since training with Scarlet and the other girls, she had reached a new threshold—not just of strength, but of control. Sword mastery was no longer just technique.
It was intuition, instinct, and absolute precision.
Her movements were elegant, each strike tracing perfect lines in the air.
