Metal swinging and making contact with each other blades can be heard just by the rooftop.
Sparks every time Yvonne parried. She was Low-S Rank for a reason.
One blade against six, and she was still standing.
The leader was using an cursed staff casting an fire spell aiming straight at her. He was tall, bald, with some tattoos of a demons crawling up his neck.
Yvonne dodged, and immediately dashed at one of the cultist slicing his knee.
The cultist member screamed in agony and dropped to the ground, while holding onto his leg from intense jolt of pain.
"Six left," she whispered, trying to keep her composure despite the exhaustion.
A cursed staff rested lazily on his shoulder.
"You're good." the leader drawled, voice thick with amusement.
"Low-S Rank, right?"
He adds,
Tilting his head slightly with a smirk "No need to hide it, I can tell by the way you move."
Yvonne flicked her dagger, removing drops of blood from it, and shifted back to her stance.
"Name's Varak. You better remember it." The leader declared.
One of the cultists lunged.
Yvonne sidestepped, drove her dagger up under his chin resulting an instant death.
He gurgled and collapsed.
Five left.
Varak's grin widened. "Feisty, I like that. Tell you what—"
He aimed the tip of the staff at her. "I'll let the others weaken you first"
"Then I'll have my fun raping the fucking shit out of you."
"Maybe I'll even consider keeping you alive long enough to watch the Eiffel Tower fall within the Demon Cult hands. Wouldn't that be romantic?"
The remaining cultists laughs at Varak's words.
Yvonne's lips curled into a small smile with a hint of grin. "You talk too much for a dead man."
She lunged forward delivering a horizontal slash, the cultist tried to block with his blade however Yvonne's dagger went straight past through like some kind of ghost.
Another tried to grab her from behind—she flipped over his shoulder, and kicking her straight into the face cracking his skull.
Two down in under ten seconds.
Varak's smile finally faltered. "Enough playing."
He raised his staff with one hand.
Dark mana surrounds around the remaining three cultists.
Their eyes glowing red as the Demon Cult's corruption took hold of them.
Their movements sped up, muscles bulging under their bones.
Yvonne breathing a little harder now. Blood stains carved onto her cheek.
Varak took one step forward. "When I'm finished, I'll leave you're body here dead and rott—"
In a flicker of motion too fast for even his enhanced senses to fully track, Yvonne appeared in front of him.
Her fist connecting with his face in a straight, powerful punch that snapped his head back.
Blood sprayed from his nose, his body was lunged by a few meter back and landed using the staff to regain back his composure.
"You let your guard down," she said calmly, her voice steady.
She added, tilting her head slightly, "You talk too much like I said."
Varak staggered back, veins popping from his forehead in rage his bald head went like red tomato.
He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, eyes blazing with fury.
"You bitch—!" he aimed the staff at her with anger.
Dark energy formed at the tip, transforming into a massive dark fireball.
The air grew hot and heavy as he cast the spell, the orb hurtling straight towards Yvonne threatening to consume her in unholy fire.
— Bois De Boulogne —
After what felt like an eternity—but it was really only 20 minutes—the match neared its end.
Loki, decided he had enough fun, purposely lost the final point.
He let the ball slip right past him, a intentional misstep that looked real.
The crowd erupted in applause.
No one noticed the intentional loss—not even Royd, who was too exhilarated to question it.
Except for the girl. "Hey mama that was fake! He didn't lose!" She declared.
The mother chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Sweetie..."
The one guy who betted and losed, was not happy.
"Why..? I even betted every bit of my money for that." His knees down, his hand slamming the ground.
Losing 25 euros was a lot for him, his friend—laughing in the background making fun of him.
Panting lightly—more from excitement than exertion—Royd approached the net.
"That was a good match," he said, extending a hand for a shake.
"Haven't had a challenge like that in ages. It was nice meeting you!"
Loki accepted the handshake, his grip firm but casual, still internally bemused.
"You too." He didn't even know how he got in this situation; he just wanted a normal tennis match...
Royd's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pull it out, glancing at the screen. "Oh, someone is calling. Need to go—bye!"
He waved proudly, already running off the court, "Hope we'll meet again!"
The crowds was starting to fade after witnessing the best Tennis fight in history.
"Welp, he completely forgot about the 'whoever loses they'll buy a coffee for the winner' bet. Lucky me."
He put the racket straight to the bin (It's kinda shredded and useless no one probably gonna use it.)
Just another weird detour in his endless, boring days.
But for once, as he headed home, a faint smile lingered.
"Not bad for a warmup." he mumbled.
He'd only made it a few steps down the path when a voice called out behind him. "Hey, wait up!"
Loki turned, eyebrow raised, to see Royd ran back.
The Z-Ranker grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Almost forgot—about that coffee. You lost, right? But fair's fair; you owe me one. What's your number? We can grab it someday."
Loki blinked, caught off guard for a split second. Thought he'd get away with it.
He sighed inwardly but pulled out his phone, exchanging numbers with a shrug. "Sure. Whatever."
Royd patted his shoulder walking past him.
"Cool! I'll contact you tommorow or the day after that. See ya." He dashed off.
He stared at his phone for few moments. "It's already 5:21 p.m."
"Gotta go get some grocery foods I guess." He stretched his arms walking away.