"Move! Move!"
A crimson-haired warrior bellowed to the group of eight children behind him, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade! His spear twirled in a dazzling storm, the weapon spinning so fast that its tip blurred into a ten meter field of brilliant, star-like spear points. Nothing could invade, and nothing could escape.
His footwork was like an art, never straying beyond the ten meter razor-thin boundary. Every step, every pivot, every shift of his weight was measured, graceful, and absolute.
Yet the battlefield was against him.
Spikes of jagged rock erupted without warning, the ground warped and crumbled beneath their feet, shifting like a treacherous tide, earth spears raining on him.
But he never faltered. Not once. His movements were too fluid, too instinctive—as if he knew the future before it even happened, his Will holding the children firm, that they also didn't falter.
"You Crimsons are a damn anomaly! Every last one of you deserves to die!"
