"Aren't you tired of the slaughter yet?" you snorted, squeezing the god's eye tighter, burning your palm like a flame.

You walked around Tartaglia, waiting for a new dash. These "trainings" had become habitual - he lived for battles, but you didn't care what motivated him. At first, you wanted to test your strength, but your enthusiasm quickly faded - he was a fun killer, and you were not mistaken at the beginning of the fight.

When he rushed forward, you reacted instantly - intercepted his wrist, pulled him to you and, before he realized it, touched his lips for a moment. Then a sharp jerk - and he was already flying through the deflection. You let go in time, creating distance.

Tartaglia hit the ground with a dull thud, but immediately jumped up. Emotions darted in his eyes - surprise, irritation, resentment. He ran his hand over his lips and hissed:

“Who does that in battle, ugh!”

And then, pointing his finger in your direction, he exclaimed:

“And who’s the fun killer now?!”