The Poison Ivies surrounding the carriage smiled coldly. One licked blood from her clawed finger lazily while staring at Aerith.
"So this is your protector?"
Another crouched low atop the broken carriage roof, her red vine-like hair swaying unnaturally.
"He smells talented."
Aerith slowly pushed himself upward despite the pain ripping through his body. Cuts covered his arms and chest now, while the thorn scratches along his side had already begun darkening from poison. His eyes remained sharp, but inwardly, he was frustrated.
Every attack he made landed, every movement was precise, yet none of it mattered. The Poison Ivies didn't fight like beasts; they baited attacks, used terrain, and controlled line of sight. They retreated only to lure them deeper. Even their emotions seemed weaponized. Smiles, whispers, movements… all distractions. And they spoke. Aerith was knowledgeable, and he knew that any beast that had reached the level of speech was more dangerous than a brute.
