"Come on..."
Sigismund's voice was low and steady, like a boulder rolling across the ground.
He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the dust, sweat, machine oil, and faint scent of blood that permeated the arena, along with the almost tangible pressure, then transformed it all into steely calm.
He raised his weapon, its tip angled upward rather than toward his opponent, as steady as a mountain.
Through his visor, his gaze locked firmly onto the silent figure thirty paces away—the monster who, with nothing but his bare fists and a greatsword, had crushed countless powerful opponents and redefined the very meaning of strength.
Sigismund's mind worked like the most precise tactical computer, calculating and extrapolating at an unprecedented speed.
Countless tactics and strategies flashed through it like streams of data.
According to the tactics he knew best, used most often, and drove his enemies to despair with, he should have rooted himself there like the thickest stretch of the Imperial Palace's walls, using his weapon as a rampart and himself as its foundation to construct an impenetrable defense.
Let my opponent rage like a storm; I will remain unmoved, finding that tiny, inevitable opening as I endure, then striking back with thunderous force until one of us falls for good.
This was his philosophy and art of combat: that of Sigismund, eternal guardian of the Imperial Fists.
But against Hercules... Sigismund's sense of danger, forged through countless brushes with death until it was almost instinctive, shrilled a warning.
His instincts told him that holding his ground meant waiting to die.
The sight of Abaddon being crushed head-on, the instant Ahriman had been thrown unconscious after Hercules forced his way through psychic flames to close the distance—both warned him without a word.
Against absolute strength and speed, a