"You're getting slow," Arlecchino stated matter-of-factly, polearm in hand as her vision's flames drew right beside your face.

You were panting as your heel dug into the dirt, some of the grass in the field you were fighting on having turned to ash. Sweat lightly sheered over your forehead, your chest rising and falling with each pant that escaped your lips.

"Should we take a break? You are going to wear yourself out." She recommended, sheathing her polearm.