The clash began in a storm of steel and fire.
Philip moved like a man reborn—age forgotten in the heat of battle. His longsword sang through the air, each strike a masterpiece of precision: a parry that turned an incoming spear, a riposte that severed a skeletal spine in a single, clean cut. Bones exploded into dust at his feet. When a young farmer faltered against two undead, Philip was there—shielding, shouting, guiding.
"Hold the line! Don't break! Aim for the neck—shatter the core!"
His voice thundered with authority, steadying the villagers' terror into resolve.
Ignis laughed wildly as she fought—a joyous, fierce sound that cut through the clatter of bone. Flames licked around her fists, controlled but hungry. She punched through ribcages, kicked skulls into oblivion.
"Too easy!" she cried, spinning to crush another. "This isn't even a warm-up!"
