Elliot kept coming. He was no longer a soldier; he was a walking wound, a creature of pure, stubborn refusal.
But the arithmetic of the fight was cruel, and the damage was accumulating on his side of the exchange with devastating speed.
When he tried to throw a desperate jab, Xerollion parried at an unnatural angle, twisting Elliot's wrist mid-strike.
CRACK.
The joint twisted wrong, the tendons straining to their breaking point before the wrist visibly swelled into a purple, throbbing mass.
When Xerollion followed with a sweeping kick that caught Elliot's support leg, Elliot's knee slammed into the unforgiving stone floor with a wet THUD CRUNCH.
The impact should have shattered the patella, sending lightning bolts of agony up his thigh that would have paralyzed any normal man.
Yet, he got up. Every single time.
