[center][color=lightblue][h1]Donnie[/h1][/color]

Word Count: [b]967[/b]
EXP: (2/60) + 2 = [b]4/50[/b]
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Donnie had never had to dodge so fast, so [i]consistently[/i], in his life. Not even the most difficult raids demanded pitch-perfect agility like this. Usually, there were others to take the hits for him, and his job was to damage the enemy while they were occupied with those who could actually take a punch.

He jumped out of the way of the preta’s fist as it smashed a table into splinters. He knew there was nothing he could do to fight back. Immortal, invincible, intangible. Death seemed to have granted Pichai all three of those incredible qualities, even as his own negative karma cursed him with a crippling hunger and an inability to sate it. Donnie supposed that even punishments had an upside now and then.

Pichai shrugged off attacks, Touch of Karma had ironically done nothing to the karma-cursed spirit when the preta landed a glancing blow, and he seemed to be intangible without any downsides. He could affect others, but others couldn’t affect him. If Donnie got grabbed, Pichai would be able to hold him, but Donnie couldn’t push off of anything. He’d be stuck with nothing to exert force on like a Lightforged soldier separated from the Vindicaar and sent drifting in the Great Dark Beyond, also known as outer space.

He rolled as the preta attempted another lightning-fast grab, missing him by inches. He transitioned from that into a flip that sent him soaring out of the way of another grapple and descended quickly enough to avoid an attempt to swat him out of the air, not unlike a cat swatting a bird.

Sweat ran down his brow, getting in his eyes. Itches that had gone unscratched for minutes on end stung at him. Residual aches, pains and friction burns from rapid movement, the odd botched roll and the stress he was putting his body through rippled across him. His muscles were starting to tire, and he felt the beginning of lactic acid buildup in his arms and legs. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer, he knew it. How long would it take the others to finish the godsdamned ritual?!

But then, finally, Donnie noticed that the attacks had stopped. He heard a slurping noise from above and dared to look up for a fraction of a second. When he saw the preta eating, he took an opportunity to catch his breath. His armor had been through a lot, but it had never been used for a ten-minute-long gymnastics challenge. It was scuffed and scratched from the ordeal, the ornate decorations marred. All of that rolling had caused gouges to form along the floor as well. Good thing he’d never see this place again.

A few seconds later, that was that. Pichai had gotten his [i]fucking[/i] meal, the door swung open on its own and they were free to leave. The monk, even in his exhausted state, made a mad dash for the door with the others.

Then he heard the sounds of fighting. “Shit, the horde! They must’ve broken through!” he yelled, running towards the lobby as fast as his legs could carry him.
It was pandemonium in the Main Hall when Donnie almost broke the door off its hinges in an attempt to get to those in need. Demons, monsters, and undead of every size and shape had engaged the survivors. Nero used his robotic arm to clear a path, and Donnie joined the fight in earnest.

Monks could use most weapons they picked up, but they could generally only channel chi through their limbs. Not many enemies a Windwalker adventurer could loot would carry fist weapons nor would quest-givers hand out handblades, so many of them, Donnie included, opted to use the weapons they found more for their magical attribute boosts and keep them sheathed, relying on their fists and feet for all the fighting.

But of course, there were some situations that simply called for a weapon, and this was one of them. He needed reach in this case, something to make sure he wasn’t exposing his very-biteable arm to the undead hordes. He pulled out the swords that Mr. Grimm had used, still in their scabbards at his belt this whole time. They were balanced right, and clearly of good craftsmanship. If only they had come from a blacksmith and not the essence of a living creature.

But whoever they had been, once they had been turned into equipment, their death could not be undone, not even by Peach. Using the blades for what they were made for would at least be making [i]something[/i] good out of Grimm’s atrocities.

And so, he carved, cleaved, slashed, stabbed, and dismembered. Zombie and demon alike fell before the swordsmanship he had learned from his training on the Wandering Isle and later at the Peak of Serenity. The kind of training that birthed a grandmaster.

He didn’t get very long to show his prowess before the survivors began to flee into the night through the path Nero had created. And so he followed them, staying on the outside of the throng to cut down any abominations that dared threaten the innocent.

Their only guide was Fox’s vague directions about a futuristic tower.

Then they got to the tower in question. The only routes to it had been ripped through by an [i]earthquake[/i] of all things. Then Howard said something about invisible monsters that only he could see. This meant that all routes were dangerous. But they couldn’t stay for long. They had to pick a route [i]now.[/i]

“Howard!” the monk yelled over the din of combat. “We need space to fight if any of the flying demons come after us, and I do [i]not[/i] want any of the civilians to fall into the pits! We should take the left path!”