This Beast-Tamer is a Little Strange-Chapter 636: Fighting Dirty

While Serena was just barely holding on to her defence, Soreia wasn't so lucky.

The corrosive mist scoured her side, blackening skin and tearing cloth. The orb she held—a replica conjured from her memories of the last trial that kept all corrosive elements at bay—was virtually useless in helping her.

She screamed, clutching the fresh gash in her side, only barely shielding herself in time to avoid being cleaved in half. Her conjured sword clattered to the floor, sizzling as droplets of acid burned into the hilt.

Serena struck next. Even mid-agony, and while withstanding repeated blows from the statue, she wanted to be the final nail in Soreia's coffin.

Another arrow made from spiritual power formed instantly in her left hand and she launched it like a javelin toward Soreia's exposed torso. In doing so however, she sacrificed some of the control she had over the internal energy wreaking havoc in her body, and immediately buckled under the pain.

Soreia rolled—too slow.

The arrow carved through the meat of her upper arm, spraying blood.

But she didn't scream this time.

Pain now was just confirmation—that she was still alive.

Still fighting.

She raised her trembling hand, and another conjured item formed—this time, a rectangular metal mirror. It reflected another blow coming from the statue, though the mirror shattered instantly afterward.

Serena's eyes narrowed.

"That gift of hers… is really annoying," she muttered, gritting her teeth as she redirected an attack sent her way from the statue's next swing, absorbing the backlash through her forearm with a hiss of effort.

Soreia was already conjuring something else—her fingers bleeding, her breath shallow, but her mind sharp enough to remember the exact appearance and texture of an item she'd once seen in the First Celestial Academy vault in the capital.

A shield. One made from what she'd been told was abyss-hardened bronze.

It shimmered into existence an instant before the statue brought down another attack upon her.

BOOM

The shield cracked, but it held.

The attacks were getting stronger. Something both girls were noticing. Soon enough, they would need to simply dodge every attack and not even attempt to deflect or block directly.

Soreia winced from the impact, but she didn't fall.

"I don't need to beat you," she growled under her breath through clenched teeth, eyes locked on Serena. "I just need to outlast you."

But unfortunately, Serena seemed to have the same thought, lunging at her like a hungry lioness.

They met in the center of the battlefield, the corrosive mist swirling around them. The air burned, the ground cracked, and the statue didn't stop its assault. If anything, it grew more aggressive with each passing second—as if their endurance offended it.

It wanted a winner.

Not a survivor.

A conqueror.

Soreia twisted mid-dodge, the blade in her hand transforming—no, morphing—into a chained sickle, one she'd seen wielded by an ancient executioner during a history lesson she took back at the College.

She whipped it around, letting the curved blade fly toward Serena's leg.

Serena vaulted over it, flipped midair, and countered with a heel strike—one coated in spiritual energy that could have split a boulder.

Soreia blocked it with the new bracer covering her arm—but her arm still went numb from the shock. The impact launched her backward, and she skidded across the ground in a trail of blood and sparks.

The statue slammed its spear down between them—not at either of them, but directly into the ground.

Geyser-like spouts of acid shot up from the ground where both girls were respectively located, forcing them both to dodge frantically once again.

Serena simply threw herself to the floor to dodge the sudden attack, whereas Soreia—due to just fending off an attack from Serena—was unable to dodge fully. A disturbing sizzle and hiss emanated from the now blackened skin of her calf that got caught by the attack.

But she didn't even flinch from the pain. Both girls were on their feet within seconds, bodies swaying, half-burned, blood-slicked, but eyes still fierce.

Serena took a breath, steadying the chaos raging in her core. The black-gold fluid within her had begun to settle—not because it accepted her, but because it had been worn down by her. She'd beaten it into submission, crushed it under her will and neverending spiritual power like she had done to countless enemies.

But that control came at a cost.

Her body trembled.

Her vision blurred.

She was reaching her limit—not in spiritual power, but everything else. Concentration, physical energy, mental strength...

Across the ring, Soreia wasn't faring much better. Her conjured items were becoming sloppier—less precise. She was clearly drawing from a reservoir of memories that were less stable, less vivid…and consequently, less powerful.

Not to mention that, unlike Serena, she didn't have a limitless supply of spiritual power.

The necklace around her neck that was helping her to restrain the foreign energy within her flickered—its soothing aura beginning to waver. Running out of strength.

But despite their equally poor conditions, neither yielded.

Suddenly, Soreia's eyes narrowed. A new object shimmered into her hand—a jagged black dart with thin green lines pulsing down the sides.

Serena's eyes widened in surprise upon recognizing it.

"Huh—"

Too late. Soreia flung it.

The dart exploded midair—not in fire or lightning—but light.

Blinding, burning light that temporarily obscured everyone's vision. It was a common tool—a hunter's flare used when requesting rescue—something never meant to be weaponized. But Soreia had adapted it.

Serena reeled, momentarily stunned, her vision going white—

But before her vision could clear, she felt a dagger pierce her side.

Soreia was there, breathing hard, one hand locked on the blade's hilt, the other pulling it deeper into Serena's ribs.

"This trial belongs to me," Soreia hissed. "You can reunite with your boyfriend in hell."

Serena choked on blood.

But she didn't scream.

She didn't conjure another attack. She didn't strike at a pressure point.

She grabbed Soreia by one of the mounds on her chest—viciously, without hesitation or shame. Serena had no interest in honour. Only victory.

She squeezed. Hard.

Soreia's eyes bulged in equal parts pain, shock, and anger at the dirty move.

Indeed, it was a place that only another woman, without caring about honour in battle, would dare to grab…