The city's southern edge crumbled under the weight of the battle. Ruins of towers and broken streets bore witness to devastation, but amidst the rubble stood three figures—Zedrich, the monstrous demon king, and the fist-wielding duo of Wulf and Isolde.
Wulf cracked his knuckles, standing firm despite the suffocating pressure that radiated from Zedrich. Beside him, Isolde clenched her fists, her palms glowing faintly as she prepared her next enhancement.
Zedrich stood tall, taller than most men, his form wrapped in regal demonic armor etched with pulsating gold veins. His crimson eyes glowed with raw malevolence. Unlike the chaotic rage of his fallen brethren, Zedrich emanated a cold, terrifying calm—a predator who knew his prey could not escape.
"Two mortals," he sneered, voice like thunder cracking through marble. "And both rely on fists? Amusing. I almost feel insulted."
"Talk less," Wulf growled. "And fight."
Without warning, Zedrich was upon them.
