In the silent river valley, there was a figure.
She was knocked to the ground again and again, and again and again she rose, crying out as she swung her fists.
She clearly had many powerful Noble Phantasms, yet at that moment she could not use a single one. She merely climbed up bare-handed, then launched a meaningless counterattack.
She wept, she shouted, she kept swinging her fists at that unreachable enemy, and then she was knocked to the ground again and again.
How unfair this was. How pointless—
Perseus sighed so.
If she had seen someone else suffer this torment, Perseus might have mocked her: so wretched, so panicked. Since the enemy could not be defeated, why not give up and look for another way?
For instance, making some great hero her ally, or asking the gods for some kind of blessing.
But that person just so happened to be Perseus herself.
And so she finally understood:
So this was what it felt like to be an enemy of fate?
No hero would come to save you, and the gods would not lend you a hand. Because you stood against fate, everything in this world would become your enemy.
All you could do was stand up, grit your teeth, and swing your fists.
Otherwise, you could only accept your bad luck and bare your neck for the blade.
How unfair this road was...
How pointless.
At last, Perseus, knocked to the ground once more, could no longer hold on and fell unconscious.
"But..."
A certain thought circled once through Perseus's mind, then vanished into chaos.
And so Sphinx, who had been watching all of this from afar, let her expression ease, relaxing a little.
This was fine. Everything was as she had expected. As long as Perseus's fighting spirit