Dodging another swift attack from your enemy, your heels scraped into the ground as a wave of magic tried to crush you into the cement. You grunted, escaping the grasp.

“You’re just making this harder for yourself.” A voice growled. Ah, your enemy, Scaramouche. A man who has been trying to take over the city, always redeeming in failure from you, the magical girl/boy who fought in frilly clothing and pastels. The two of you had been fighting all day, no sign of stopping.