The image of Fuchsia in Tomaru's sword was quickly replaced with that of the screaming Nazi overlord. Not terribly keen on having his fingers obliterated, Tomaru released his grip on the edge of the platform before Hitler buried his face into the stone, but soon his downward acceleration far surpassed that of gravity as the impact from the blast penetrated the rock shield and forced the kitsune towards the ground at dangerous speeds. Chunks of what was once the platform came barreling down at him as well, turning what was supposed to be a shield into a giant buckshot. Tomaru slashed away the large hunks of rubble with a few swift swipes of his sword, but ironically, it was the tinier shards that proved to be the bigger problem. One cut into his right cheek barely an inch away from his eye, one shot clean through his left shoulder, and a last one bit into his thigh, this one sticking in his flesh. The injuries were not severe, but the shard in his leg would be problematic if he left it unattended too long. 

Tomaru hit the ground hard; hard enough to fracture a human's legs. However, the benefits of learning the Usagi stance now paid off. His knees buckled and a streak of blood squirted out of his wounded thigh as his legs absorbed the initial part of the impact, but then he leaned back and let his strong tail aid in the absorption of the kinetic energy. With three thoroughly trained limbs at work in masterful coordination, Tomaru was able to preserve his skeletal integrity, and he immediately turned his attention back to Fuchsia, who had dropped to the lower level as well. Somehow, the demon's face looked even uglier than before, and his left arm looked like it had taken some serious damage. A grin crossed the kitsune's face; that attack had dealt more damage to his foe than it had to him. He could use that, especially since he now felt the ki flowing through his body once again. 

With a cold, menacing smirk, Tomaru walked forward towards Fuchsia. He held his sword in his right hand low to the ground and raised his left arm, palm opened, in front of him, as if making half of an X. The rock shard writhed around in his leg and would have stained his pants with blood were they not already a deep red, but that small pang of pain only made his smirk more sinister. There was not a glint of fear in his eyes as he advanced, not a shred of wariness about the club. He had seen how it worked, and now he knew how to beat it.