Before the punch could land, the concrete beneath her feet cracked.
Thick, thorn-covered vines erupted upward in a violent curtain—dozens of them, twisting and interlocking in less than half a second to form a dense, living wall three meters high and two meters thick. Green stems pulsed with faint emerald light; every inch bristled with needle-sharp black thorns dripping viscous sap.
"Shit."
Ethan's fist slammed into the barrier.
CRUNCH.
The impact echoed like a cannon shot—vines splintering, sap spraying, thorns snapping—but the wall held. His knuckles bled instantly—skin torn open on the razor edges—but he didn't flinch. Instead he pivoted on his lead foot, body spinning in a tight 180° turn, left elbow whipping around in a vicious back-elbow strike aimed at the same spot.
Another explosion of green.
The vines shifted—parting like water around his elbow, then snapping closed again—trying to trap his arm. Thorns raked across his forearm, drawing long red lines.
