The fight between Carlos and the Tusks was nothing short of a one-sided massacre. He outclassed them in every conceivable way—speed, precision, awareness. It was almost like he could predict their movements before they even happened, like some uncanny foresight guided his every step.
Carlos raised his dagger just in time to intercept the charging tusk. Steel clashed against bone as he blocked the beast's assault and retaliated with a forceful swing, pushing it backward. His body spun mid-air as he leapt back, narrowly dodging a second Tusk that skidded just past him, missing its target by inches.
His eyes darted around the battlefield, scanning rapidly in every direction. His gaze was sharp, calculating—he counted their numbers with a predator's focus.
'Just five more left… they're desperate now.'
The remaining Tusks had begun to charge at full speed, driven more by primal fear than coordinated effort.
