The impact echoed like a contained thunderclap.
Tiamat's fist collided with Ouroboros's raised forearm with enough force to compress the surrounding air, creating a short wave that sent the dust from the ground scattering in an abrupt circle. Neither recoiled. Neither hesitated. The shock wasn't merely physical—there was something deeper there, something overflowing from both like an invisible pressure that made the very space unstable for a few moments after each blow.
Ouroboros's black hair spread around her face like a living shadow, moving with every turn of her body, while Tiamat's golden strands reflected the light almost aggressively, shimmering with each movement like constantly vibrating blades, difficult to follow even from a distance. Anyone observing from afar would have difficulty distinguishing where one began and the other ended—such was the speed and intensity of the confrontation.
Ouroboros advanced first.
