Tusk of Death

Giorno's fists shot forward like bullets, guided by his unwavering determination to take down Berserker. But as they closed in on the enemy's vital points, they were met with a solid wall of resistance – the tusk club. Each blow reverberated through Giorno's arms, jolting him with the force of the impact.

With a quick leap, Giorno dodged Berserker's frenzied swing, feeling the rush of air whip past his face like a raging wind. He knew that if that blow had landed, it would have torn his suit to shreds.

Giorno's eyes darted to the tusk club, analyzing it with a sharp gaze. He knew he had to take it out of commission if he wanted to have any chance of winning this battle. His next attack would be the key – a devastating strike that would shatter the improvised weapon into a thousand pieces.

Summoning all his strength, Giorno delivered a powerful kick, his leg ablaze with radiant golden energy. The impact was like a thunderclap, sending shockwaves through the air. But to Giorno's frustration, the tusk club held firm, unyielding in the face of his assault.

Berserker's ferocious battle cry echoed across the battlefield, a spine-chilling sound that sent shivers down Giorno's spine. The crazed warrior moved with otherworldly grace, his movements fluid and precise despite his imposing stature. Giorno knew he was in trouble; Berserker's skill was beyond comprehension, a supernatural ability that defied all logic.

Despite his lightning-fast reflexes, Giorno found himself struggling to evade Berserker's unrelenting assault. Every blow was like a thunderclap, shaking the ground beneath Giorno's feet and sending shockwaves through his body. He tried to summon Gold Experience, but there was no time; Berserker was already upon him, raining down a barrage of blows that left Giorno reeling.

Giorno had never faced an opponent like this before, a true berserker whose sheer strength and skill were unmatched. He knew he had to think fast if he wanted to survive this encounter.

Berserker's massive arm swung with the force of a thunderbolt, striking Giorno's own with a deafening crack. The impact sent him soaring through the air like a ragdoll, his arm flailing uselessly by his side. Pain seared through him like a fiery inferno, every nerve ending alight with agony.

As Giorno crashed to the ground, his thoughts were a chaotic swirl of confusion and frustration. How could he be struggling against such a brutish opponent? He had faced far deadlier foes with ease, their intricate schemes and elaborate powers no match for his cunning and creativity. But here, in this brutal melee, he found himself outmatched and outclassed.

The berserker's wild, frenzied attacks were like a raging storm, each blow slamming into Giorno with the force of a battering ram. His vision swam with pain and exertion, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to fend off the onslaught.

And yet, even as he fought for his life, Giorno couldn't help but feel a surge of anger boiling within him. Not at his opponent, but at himself. He was better than this, stronger than this. Why couldn't he dominate this fight with the same ease he had conquered so many others?

But before he could dwell on his frustration any longer, Berserker was upon him again. With a savage roar, he lunged forward, his massive fists descending like twin hammers.

With his broken arm dangling by his side, Giorno channeled his inner power and infused his unbroken arm with a golden glow. As he plunged his hand into the earth, it quaked and trembled, responding to his command.

A slender sapling burst forth from the ground, sprouting at an impossible speed. It grew taller and taller until it towered over Giorno, who clung to its trunk like a fearless warrior.

With a thunderous roar, Berserker charged towards him, his armor clanking glinting in the darkness. But Giorno was ready. He swung his body around the tree, the wind whistling in his ears as he dodged the knight's ferocious strikes.

As Berserker closed in, Giorno's leg shot out like a bolt of lightning, slamming into Berserker's chest with a resounding crack. The impact sent Berserker flying, his tusk clattering to the ground.

With a thunderous impact, the combatants landed almost simultaneously on the battlefield. Berserker's movements were swift and precise as he grabbed the tusk, a grotesque piece of ivory stained with blood, from the ground. He wasted no time in returning to the fight, ready to inflict more damage on his opponent.

Giorno's arm hung limply by his side, blood gushing from the gaping wound where the tusk had torn through his flesh. He raised his other hand, preparing to heal himself once again, but Berserker was too quick for him. The madman charged forward, brandishing the tusk-like weapon.

Diarmuid watched the scene unfold with a critical eye, taking note of every movement and detail. As he analyzed the situation, he spoke softly to himself, barely audible over the din of battle. "So that's what it is… that tusk has become the madman's noble phantasm."