The clash intensified, the hall reverberating with the sounds of power meeting power. Gregory's booming laughter echoed like a war drum, his molten fists smashing through the relentless assault of Ashura warriors. Each swing of his arm was a devastating arc of fire and force, leaving deep scars in the obsidian floor and walls.
Ebilade, by contrast, moved with surgical precision. His golden aura shimmered, a stark contrast to the darkness enveloping the Ashuras. His strikes were fluid and calculated, each blow finding its mark. He weaved effortlessly through the chaos, his calm demeanor unshaken even as waves of enemies swarmed him. His face remained focused, but his eyes betrayed a deep-seated fury—a storm brewing beneath his composed exterior.
Gregory's Struggle