In the old parking lot, bursts of red light could be seen as two figures clashed, attacks flying at the speed of light.
One of the figures was Vel'tharoth's eerie figure wrapped in dark blood membranous armour; he was surrounded by viscous red liquids, which bent into huge blood claws at his will.
On the other side, a white-suited warrior bathed in red lightning danced through the waves of blood claws, his suit was tattered and covered in blood stains, and a part of his helmet cracked, revealing the fair white face and the yellow hair hidden beneath.
His wounds were looking bad.
Each movement sent a lance of pain through his ribs, where Vel'tharoth's claws had grazed deeper than the armour was ever meant to take. But his grip never faltered. The twin blades in his hands hummed with unrelenting charge, arcing red lightning in sharp, unnatural zigzags across the shattered concrete.
Vel'tharoth's claws lashed out again, carving the air into a lattice of slashing death.
