The two met with a heavy crash, a deafening clang echoing throughout the field as the sparks of clashing metal dared to ignite the green around them. The agent's Stygian daggers struck fast and constantly, not giving Hunter a chance to breathe as their serrated edges and curved tips pursued the embrace of his vitals. Contrastly, the warrior's seraphic longsword retained its pristine edge even against repeated strikes, the beautiful blade not surrendering to Ilya's persistence. However effective his sword was, Hunter continued to take the role of the defender, having to use both hands to sufficiently react to the quick but still weighty swings aimed at his neck - his aggravated expression clearly conveying his inability to free one of his hands to utilize the rest of his tools.

Ilya must notice it too, but that doesn't mean she should get cocky. After all, this is Hunter's turf.

Ilya began a combo of strikes that had her attack from all angles, her cuts beginning to graze the unarmored warrior whose cloak began to get shredded, pieces of his straw cape riding the wind. Each was slash followed up by one from below, overhead, to the side, and every which way, ending it by raising her dyadic daggers high above her head before smashing them down like a tidal wave of a monsoon-stirred ocean. Her blow was powerful, using the momentum of a flurry of slashes that sent both her weapons and body flying, the hit causing Hunter's blade and arms to vibrate as they received the energy. But as flashy as the acrobatic and athletic display was, that was all it amounted to, a dazzling show of lights, as upon the blades making contact, Ilya's bayonets sank into the warrior's sword, which violently oscillated after the impact. She pulled them back, her composed look turning into one of surprise as she realized it wasn't her edge that cut through the warriors but the other way around

She got humbled quickly, didn't she?

Ilya backed up, her feet practically sliding across the mud to recuperate. And before Hunter could exploit the agent's misstep, she threw one of her damaged weapons into the sky, catching it by the bayonet's tip and flinging it like a tomahawk at the warrior. He immediately cut it into two, the object that once represented lethality taken form turned into scrap as springs and bolts spewed out of it.

"You don't treat your weapons with any love, do you?" Hunter shouted before he saw Ilya rechambering a round into her remaining firearm.

"Quite the opposite." She replied with a refined tone and a poised gaze, "Losing that one just made things personal."

But this entire fight has been personal! Make better one-liners, brain!

Ilya proceeded to throw a deep-red perfume bottle at the warrior, shooting it mid-air and releasing a dense gas. It resembled her earlier weapon but was far darker and, from what I could recall, was less poisonous and more for concealment. Hunter disappeared behind the mist, only the agent remaining in my line of sight. This wouldn't last long as Ilya pulled out several other bottles of perfume, all designed with intricate shapes and patterns - all turned to powder as these were thrown in a circle around Ilya and shot down, releasing an impenetrable ring of enshrouding fog around the agent. As the gas slowly floated down, I could make out Ilya open a mint wrapper and place it into her mouth - a way to prevent the harmful effects of the gas from hindering her. The vapors began to settle, dense and filmy, concealing both of the combatants within its hold. Surprisingly, the wind had become calm, and even the raindrops felt as though they had slowed, creating little to no movement in the field, which, just moments ago, was chanting a chorus of warfare. The world came to a standstill, only the subtle squelching noises of my dripping clothing and wriggling through the mud being reminders that I hadn't gone deaf yet.

Where are they?

The blanket had now shrouded an even larger area, the density of it lessening and allowing more light to permeate into the vermilion murk. It was as I took the chance to survey the cloud that a luminous glow of three sapphire-blue dots pierced from inside it, twinkling elusively in the bold red fumes. The glimmer of light quickly scanned the field with a three-hundred and sixty-degree twirl, skimming through the nubilous haze with machine-like precision before suddenly locking onto a random point and slowly following it.

I have a feeling I should put my head back down again.

Just as the thought entered my mind, the three dots condensed into one beam of light before the sounds of high-pitched gunfire returned to the battlefield. The blue glow began moving erratically, the shots quickly following behind it as their target bobbed and weaved within the fluid cover of the vapors - each missed round perforating the cloud and leaving yellow-hot tracers of lead. Bullets started to make contact with their prey, eager to pierce flesh but instead meeting cold steel - screeches of metal following as they met. Brief flashes appeared and just as quickly disappeared in the fog, neither combatant seemingly bogged down by the gas nor their continued battle, but only the sounds and glints could tell me.

Holding your breath for that long would help with stealth and precision blade work. Good to see Hunter can put it to use here too.

I recalled as I, too - held my breath for both parties. The scene continued, each bullet both fired and reflected, creating holes within the veil quickly covered up by the gas as it resettled, keeping visibility to none even after a good minute of wayward shots and sweeping cuts. And yet, as my eyes remained glued onto the suspended cloud, unmoving and impermeable, the instant I blinked, the vapors were sent skyward.

"Eh? How?" I read from Ilya's lips, finally visible with a stumped expression unbefitting of her composed outfit laid plainly on her face - her gaze turned to her back, the source of her bewilderment crouched low after quickly dashing to her rear.

Those glasses had a bead on him the entire time. When did he?

My eyes followed the direction of Ilya's firearm, the answer greeting me as it stabbed itself into the dirt. Remnants of straw and iron scattered on the grass, bullet holes littering the pieces of metal that took the brunt of the maelstrom of lead.

Stolen story; please report.

So that's why he looks shorter too.

It seemed that while the agent was indeed tracking a target and landing hits on it, her prey had used her own snare against her - a trap of her own making. Ilya's lenses most likely had near-perfect tracing and pathing - but they could only do so within their scope of vision, or in other words, within the user's. A strategy that employed two targets then, one to be stalked and one to stalk, was a perfect counter, but one that should have been unavailable in a one-on-one duel.

Unless you had a magical hat, I guess.

Ilya's arrogance again returned to scorn her - the warrior's hallowed blade slowly unsheathing as it readied to cleave the agent's exposed back in a single swing. Ilya was in no position to retaliate, seemingly only able to bare witness as the edge of the weapon exited its scabbard - the edge still far from her flesh but already disturbing the folds of her coat as it neared.

Game. Set. Match.

I presumed, but before the killing blow could sever her lifeline, the instinct to live prevailed within the agent, snapping her out of her daze and allowing her to react. As the honed tip of the brand came from her right, she turned her body just enough to let her gloved hand catch the blade by its point - finally drawing blood onto the battlefield. Using up every inch of muscle in her arm and working every single microfibre to its maximum potential, she diverted the blade with one hand - her teeth clenched together in agony and exertion. A gust of wind followed the blade's path, unsuccessful in its endeavor but nonetheless perfectly shearing the grass it collided with - creating an almost entrancing display of crimson tears and olive-green fragments scattering in the air.

"Tsk." Grunted the agent with gritted fangs, staring down the warrior with zealous eyes, her body almost fully turned towards her opponent. However, the warrior remained composed, already readjusting his arm to recover from the parry and return with another strike, one that would do more than break skin. From this angle, it seemed that all her audacity had done was prolong the inevitable thread-cutting strike of Hunter's angelic blade. The scene looked almost like a painting, similar to canvases depicting the deaths of great war heroes, a still image of the last moments of a champion immortalized in paint. And yet,

Ting. Ting. Ting.

A subtle but high-pitched and repeating noise struck my ears, gradually increasing in volume and frequency even as it felt like the world had slowed. I scrutinized the stage one more time, scanning for the origin of the sound, and then I found it. The agent was still mid-turn, an action I thought was a result of the leftover inertia from deflecting the herculean blow, brought along with it her uninjured left hand, seemingly having grabbed something from the inner pocket of her coat. Her slender, gloved fingers began to unfurl. And as they did, the noise grew in magnitude, becoming more and more evident as the agent's eyebrows went from a furrowed vexation to a smug pride.

She's going to take both of them out.

The thought finally dawned on me, and with it, as her hand opened fully, a small pocket mirror fell out, gilded and golden, beautiful engravings marking its deceitful shell.

Ting! Ting! Ting!

The beeping resonated throughout the field, warning of the fuel it held within, the pin connecting its two halves flashing an ominous red. Hunter was late on the uptake, having focused his eyes on the thread of life and his senses on holding his breath, his brush of death now painting a line towards his own demise as it neared the explosive - the swing too far into its travel to be stopped or redirected. Ilya grinned before covering her face with her arms and opening her mouth to prepare for the blast, Hunter's legs seemingly moving on their own as they crouched down to leap away from the area.

I should be safe at this distance. Right?

The blade made contact with the mirror, the metal visibly cracking, the fractures crackling with light and energy as the unstable power inside became even more disturbed.

Tinnnnng!

One last beep emanated from the shattered device, followed by a much deeper, thunderous roar of rending metal - producing a shockwave that shoved the air and raindrops around the explosion radius, launching earth and shrapnel skywards. The fallout left a hail of debris, a smoldering crater, and, more importantly, two figures blasted away from its center.

"Umm, guys? You still good?" I called out, still aware it was a dream but getting into the scene a bit too much as I worried about their status. An uncomfortable silence had followed after the earth-shaking bellow - only the sputtering flames of the ablaze grass and light dewdrops reaching my eardrums in the field.

"Just...Great." I could hear a male voice murmur, a figure forcing themselves to stand up by using their blade like a crutch and stabbing it into the ground. Hunter's edge remained unwarped, specks of grime refusing to cling to its impeccable surface. Even so, scratches littered his countenance, shrapnel and inferno branding his youthful skin. The warrior's straw cape was in tatters, slashed to shreds and alight with flame as he stood. He let go of his weapon, taking off the smoldering cloak and slapping it against the wet grass to extinguish it, spreading the fire onto the green around him and creating a sight of a soldier walking from hell's wake, heavenly blade in hand.

"Just a scratch is all." A female voice interjected, a bit raspy but not an ounce of determination disappearing from her tone. She stood up from her three-point landing, a ubiquitous pose following her classy recovery from the explosion - her beautiful orange mane was in a mess - gone was her refined and slicked-back styling when she first arrived. She dusted off her slightly worn coat - as she did, blood splattered onto the black fabric, her hand still crying crimson tears. She grimaced in what seemed like more inconvenience than pain before flinging the glove out of her hand along with a spray of red and delving her other into her inner pockets - a pearly-white handkerchief emerging. The cloth looked strangely stiff as if not made up of threads but still bearing artistic embroidery. She laid it onto her damaged palm, the fabric glowing bright orange and exuding a sizzling noise resembling the ones surrounding the crater. The agent seemed to even cringe from pain before removing the handkerchief from her hand and disposing of it - her wound now cauterized, a literal baptism of fire.

She ain't got time to bleed.

The agent decided to make use of the distance, pulling out another seemingly ordinary object from her deep pockets, this time an expensive fountain pen. She removed the cap with her teeth - her undamaged hand grasping the unlocked quill, revealing its spear-like tip, glowing a brassy sheen. Ilya closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, alerting the recuperating warrior to her next scheme. But before he could aim his shoulder-mounted crossbow, she stabbed the pen into her neck, striking the blood vessel and slowly injecting a black, bubbling fluid into her system.

I don't think that's FDA-approved.

Ilya's muscles began to tense up, and her earlier free-flowing and stylish suit now barely held in her increased size and mass. Veins swelled on her hands, forehead, and neck, her entrancing orbs surrounded by streaks of red contrasting the milky whites of her sclera. She detached the umbrella that dangled from her back this entire time, clutching it like a medieval mace in her hands.

Ah, round three.