Attacks rained down on Asher from every direction, left, right, above, below. The air screamed with each strike, deafening in its fury. Every movement carried crushing weight, each swing capable of shattering bone and earth alike.
Yet Asher moved like water flowing through chaos.
His rapier and hand had become a phantom, flickering with impossible speed, deflecting, parrying, blocking in rapid succession. Each motion was precise, economical, and instinctive, as though his body operated on a rhythm no one else could hear.
Despite the overwhelming barrage, his eyes remained calm. Focused.
His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, his breathing controlled, unshaken by the violence around him.
He searched for openings in the endless assault, and when he found even the smallest gap, he struck. Virelass would dart out like a serpent's fang, sharp, swift, lethal.
But every time, the orcs met him.
