The reporter and her crew, now crouched behind the half-melted husk of a hover car, could scarcely believe what they were seeing.
The battlefield—a street once lined with neon signs and holo-billboards—had become something else entirely.
A charnel house drenched in sickly red mist, bodies littered like discarded mannequins, and structures carved open like rotten fruit.
Fires crackled from shattered storefronts, their light casting shadows that twitched and jerked with the movements of the creatures still standing.
And in the middle of it all—her.
The dragon woman.
She wasn't fighting. No, that wasn't the right word.
Fighting implied struggle, an exchange of blows, a dance where both partners led at times.
This was butchery. Cold, effortless, inevitable.
Her battleaxe blurred as she moved, cleaving through flesh and bone as if the monsters were made of damp parchment.
