Hank was breathing heavily, his massive arms shaking from the strain of holding the line. Beside him, Cassandra's movements had slowed, her lethal sting replaced by heavy, sluggish lunges.
Even Killian, with his sharpened animalistic instincts, found himself unable to track the Gigante' movements, his Wyrmutt whimpering in confusion. Forsha swung her staff with trembling hands, only managing to crack a wooden table, while Arteé's once-calculated strikes went wide, missing by a second.
Percieval caught it all as he dove to avoid a crackling bolt of lightning. His breath came in ragged gulps, his chest feeling as though it were filled with lead. He looked at the three Gigante standing in the center of the hall. They were drenched in sweat, their dark skin shining like polished glass under the flickering chandeliers.
The realization hit him.
"The sweat... no… In Gigante culture, sweat isn't just exhaustion. It is proof of battle. It is their power pushed to the absolute limit."
