The familiar sensation of being ripped out of the void and slammed back into reality hit him like a physical blow.
One breath.
Jagger's eyes snapped open, and the world crashed back into him in a violent surge of color, sound, and pain.
"I'll block, you get the one on the right!" Jung shouted, his voice raw and urgent. "Nico, keep Hyeong-nim safe!"
For a split second, Jagger's vision swam, blurring into streaks of motion and shadow. Then it locked into place.
The smell hit him next.
Blood. Sweat. Rot.
A thick, coppery stench of fresh violence filled the room, heavy enough to choke on.
Jung stood near the stairwell, shield raised high, his stance wide and braced. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wild with focus. In his free hand, he gripped a makeshift club torn from a broken table leg, its jagged edge darkened with blood. Abdul moved behind him, shifting constantly, never still, his long sword flashing in tight, controlled thrusts.
The enemies were not mindless.
