Elizabeth VS John

Under the alcove of a twilight sky, where the mantle of night wove its tapestry of shadows and light, the building of the English hunters' association capitulated to the tranquility of a silence that preceded the storm. Glistening glass rose majestically, its mirrored facades capturing the essence of the full moon that reigned sovereign in the heavens.

In front of this fortress of reflections and secrets stood a colossus of a man. Bathed in the silver light, John exhibited the imposing nature of his two-meter-fifty stature of pure vital force. The suit he wore seemed to fight every second to contain the defined musculature that threatened to burst through the fabric. His blonde hair, short and meticulously combed, contrasted starkly with the wild aura that emanated from every pore of his skin. His face was a rampart of untamed authority, and his eyes—two blue wells—burned with the fire of martial ecstasy.

In his hands, the air vibrated, distorting as if it feared the power John held. It was a palpable aura, a declaration of intent that demanded an answer. He was the immovable mountain that invited the hurricane.

"Come on, Rose! Show yourself already!" The roar that escaped his throat did more than break the stillness—it challenged the order of the cosmos itself, hurling the gauntlet beyond the physical confines, to a realm where only titans could respond.

The building's immediate reaction was like a disturbed serpent—the automatic door slid open with a challenging hum, responding to the call of battle with its own enactment of unconcerned mechanism.

Then she appeared, the epitome of elegance in a brutal world—Elizabeth Rose, the defender of England. Her moonlit blonde hair adorned her presence like a helm of gold, and her blue eyes reflected the untamable serenity of the oceans in treacherous calms. Her appearance was nothing less than beauty combined with power, a reminder that war, however fierce, could still be waged with the grace of a ballerina.

Step by step, she approached him, her approach not hurried, not hesitant—it was inevitable. Each movement, a manifesto of confidence and carefully chained strategy.

When she finally stood a few steps from John, the smile he sported was pure delight, wide and uninhibited. Was it foolish? A warning? It didn't matter. Their expressions were two faces of the same coin tossed into the heights of fate.

The night air was charged with tension, carrying in its currents the promise of an imminent conflict. Elizabeth, a beacon of calm amidst a turbulent sea, measured the mountain-man before her with a solitude that belied the gravity of the situation.

"Are you declaring war against England?" Her question floated peacefully, vague as the moon's reflection on the blade of a sword, waiting to cut through the fog of arrogance that John exuded.

John's laugh was a thunder of contempt, muffling for a moment the nocturnal sounds of a slumbering London. "War? You think England is who compared to me? After I defeat you, England won't be able to do anything, because they won't have the strength for it!" Arrogance dripped from his words like venom from an audacious serpent.

Elizabeth drew her rapier from its sheath with elegance that seemed to rearrange time itself around her. She assumed a combat stance, every muscle and tendon orchestrated in the symphony of the impending confrontation. "But know," she said, her voice a blend of iron and silk, "that the strongest hunter in this world will not stand idly by. He will intervene."

The laugh that followed from John was the sound of madness—a melody of defiance that proved he saw nothing besides his own distorted image of greatness. "Will you crawl and ask your ex-boyfriend for help? Pathetic! You are portrayed by the media and England itself as your country's shield, but seeing you in person, I see that the only positive point is that beautiful face of yours. But it will be a pity... I will have to break your bones and give you a thrashing, leaving you unrecognizable." Each word dripped with malice, an antidote to the poetry that was Elizabeth's method and form.

Elizabeth's response was silent, the blade in her hand trembling slightly with anticipation, reflecting the biting glow of a moonlight that seemed to witness the rise and the possible fall of heroes and myths. The space between them had become a chessboard, each word, each movement, a prelude to the duel that would unfold under the blessing and scrutiny of a night sky that had already witnessed countless acts of bravery and barbarity.

The world seemed to decelerate, slow-motion capturing the ballet of a falling leaf, gliding smoothly through the air. This was the calm before the gale, the serenade of nature that preceded the clash of steel.

Elizabeth, with the nimbleness of a beast and the grace of a lady, firmly wielded her rapier, an extension of her own will. John, a titan in his own right, his muscles like steel ropes tinted by the moon, was about to burst into motion.

As the leaf completed its dance with gravity, touching the ground in an imperceptible whisper, the two hunters surged toward each other in a torrent of power and grace.

Elizabeth, known not just for her skill with the rapier but also for her special ability, the "Guaranteed Hit," knew she needed a distance of three meters to invoke the certainty of her technique. Reaching the critical perimeter, her rapier became a blur, three attacks launched in the rapid succession of one, each aiming for a distinct vital point: head, heart, tendon.

John, oblivious to presumption or the notion of danger, wore a jubilant smile in the eyes of those who feared him. The understanding of his ability and position as a rank S hunter shone in his eyes as he welcomed Elizabeth's approach. "Come, attack me with all your might," he shouted, arms open not just in defiance, but in invitation.

She, focused and relentless, targeted her marks, her speed such that only a shadow was seen, a legend taking form. The world around froze, the other hunters inside the building watched in astonishment, sensing only the displacement of air, not the movement of Elizabeth.

The moment was more than a mere confrontation; it was the collision between the inevitable and the unshakeable, between the uncontrollable and the unbreakable. As Elizabeth's attacks tore through the space between her and John, each observer held their breath, knowing they were about to witness not just a battle but the birth of a new legend, regardless of the outcome.

Elizabeth's strikes approached, slicing through the air with lethal precision. A triple attack converged—aiming for his head, heart, and tendon. But John, the unshakeable mountain, was far from an easy prey.

He moved with agility that belied his size, a blur of premeditated movement. As Elizabeth's attacks approached, John twisted his body with inhuman grace, deflecting the thrust close enough to provoke a rush of air.

"Is that all?" John taunted, a wild smile slicing across his face. His voice was pure provocation.

Elizabeth didn't hesitate. She turned with the agility of a feline, positioning herself for the next onslaught. She launched a series of ultra-rapid thrusts, but John blocked them with the palms of his bare hands, the sound of metal against flesh echoing across the square.

They spun and counter-attacked, a deadly choreography. John advanced, his fists like war hammers. Elizabeth slid under them, just millimeters away, her blade seeking John's impenetrable flesh armor.

Each move she made was met by John with a doubly fast counter-move, anticipating her actions like a predator who knew the dance of its prey well. The hunters' fangs within the building watched, sweating cold with the tension of the unfolding battle.

John launched his attack, a motion that promised to be crushing, a charge that could end the fight with a single blow. But Elizabeth was the embodiment of agility; she ducked, rolling on the ground, and spun behind him, her rapier poised for a treacherous lunge.

While Elizabeth utilized every trick in her arsenal, searching for the gap that would give her the upper hand, John simply smiled, the challenge in his eyes wordlessly declaring he was just getting started.

The exchange of blows continued, too fast for most to follow. Blade against muscle, agility against brute strength, the fight between Elizabeth the 17th and John the 3rd strongest hunter in the world was far from decided. What had started as a mismatched battle was quickly turning into a spectacle of pure skill and determination, an encounter that would be remembered in the history of hunters as nothing short of epic.

Suddenly, taking the fight seriously now, John exploded with brute force, a hurricane of uncontrollable power rushing against Elizabeth. The shiver running down her spine was a somber sign, heralding the dread that was about to descend. She turned, in a desperate reflex of self-defense. But it was too late; John, like a shadow, an omen of doom, was behind her again.

"Didn't I say I would beat you until you were unrecognizable?" The words, cold and stone-like, haunted the air before him.

John's cruelty knew no bounds. His fist collided with Elizabeth's face, sending her skyward into the night like a rag doll until she crashed against the bus shelter. The impact was a symphony of horror, bones cracking and metal twisting under the force.

Elizabeth, barely recognizable amid the pool of blood and shattered glass, had little time to absorb the pain before John materialized before her again. With the violence of a beast, he delivered another punch, scattering fragments of what was once called dignity across the blood-soaked ground.

She yielded to the ground, her body forming a grotesque dimple in the asphalt. John, his features distorted by a thirst for violence, unleashed a barrage of fists upon her. With each punch, the macabre sound of flesh and bone yielding filled the air. Blood splattered, painting a pale canvas of pure pain and despair.

The hunters looked on, their mouths open in mute screams of agony, their hearts beating in unison with each dehumanized strike that John delivered. They were paralyzed witnesses, invaded by a primal fear, to the pure evil unfolding before them.

The night had fallen upon them not only in the sky but in the very souls of those present. John's madness was palpable, like an entity that had taken possession of his actions. He was no longer a hunter but the very emissary of death, determined to eradicate Elizabeth's life with dizzying fervor.

The battlefield was a tapestry of violence, the sounds of breaking bones and tearing flesh composing an inhumane symphony. Elizabeth was fading, her irregular breath barely audible over the cacophony of her own screams and the cracking of her bones. Her face, once graceful and determined, was now the very picture of torment, each bruise, each cut, a silent word in the story of her suffering.

The hunters, scattered in the shadows of the surroundings, gazed upon her with a mixture of fear and morbid fascination. They were the spectators of a spectacle none of them wished to acknowledge existed. In their eyes was the recognition that the scene unfolding before them would transcend the violence—it would enter into the annals of their history as a reminder of the dark depths one of them had fallen to.

High up from the observation point, Arthur agonized over his helplessness. "Rose...", he whispered, a single tear tracing the path of hopelessness on his face, sadness etched into his heart by the sight of his hunter, a warrior so often triumphant, now reduced to an emblem of human frailty.

John raised his fist, absorbed in his role as an executioner, indifferent to the proceedings of the world around him. Mana concentrated, swirling around his arm like serpents awaiting the strike. It was the prelude to the end.

BUT then, as sudden as lightning cleaves the sky, an interruption. A hand emerged from the darkness, adorned with arcane symbols and nails painted the color of night. The contact was a moment frozen in time, the clash of two titanic forces releasing a shockwave that seemed to tear reality in two.

"You were taking too long to return to our interrogation, Elizabeth," a calm and unyielding voice broke through the cacophony, the command clearly directed to an Elizabeth who could scarcely comprehend the unexpected salvation.