ポ ス ト を 開 始
He didn’t block. He let her attack go through. Why wouldn’t he? Her attacks barely wound him, but they wound him enough. As if winning was ever an option anyway. Let her mind descend into madness over that fact. She can’t win, but she’ll make him remember her. She’ll carve her name into his flesh so he never forgets, and one day, she will surpass him, and on that day, she will relish in pure ecstasy. That’s her headspace right now. There is little care for when she feels steel run through her midsection. She relishes in it. When the blade came at her from all angles, she cared little. Right now, her mind simply wants to forget all her worries much like his; enjoy a good fight where she is pushed to her limits against something that doesn’t easily break. This isn’t a training dummy. It’s an actual person who wishes to feel and inflict harm as much as she does. How erotic in her mind.
She can feel something deep inside her pushing and pushing for her to continue despite the pain and blood splattering from her with each cut. Each cut simply causes her to swing her blade madly at this strange man. Each second, she feels her breath catching hot and heavy as two beings hellbent on maiming swing madly against one another in some twisted pervertish madman fantasy of blood, guts, and gore. They’re painting the Earth below them majestically with their insanity; grass caked with warm fresh blood, the soil feasting on their dying bodies.
Her mind is begging for more twisting and churning with horrid fantasies of victory. It’s as if some dark repressed area has been finally opened; the doors bursting furiously as the visage of that man appears behind her canvas. He urges her to continue. He urges her to let loose all her demented fury on this man until she is satisfied; until she takes her final breath. His red gaze of fury upon her person sends her spiraling further swinging her blades harder as her swings seem more fulfilling,stronger, and heavier. She’ll win… or die trying.