Luke followed close behind the witch, surprised by how easily she bulldozed past the heavy-looking mistwalker, enveloping her strikes in mist - much like she had instructed him to do with the rags around his hands. Out in the mist once more, the hazy white cloud blocked out anything beyond ten feet of the abandoned building, a wall infinitely thick and impenetrable from which enemies came forth as they pleased.

“Haven’t been caught in a corner in a while…” He mumbled, looking out onto the path were visibility extended further than in any other direction, but now blocked by several approaching mistwalkers.

The Spirit Witch, making her inhuman presence known, dashed in a blur to the broken window, knocking a mistwalker out of it and sending him crashing into the floor, splintered wood and broken bits of stone flying up around it. She turned to Luke, ringing the small bell in her hand and pointing at the mistwalker she had just attacked. The sound echoed around them, deathly cries followed from the creature beneath her as it’s hard outer shell cracked smaller and smaller. As if disintegrating, Luke watched it turn to nothing, a dim light within - an orb of spiritual energy - left floating above the pile of dust. Luke understood. Break open the stone husk and that would weaken them enough to ring the bell and set the spirit free.

“Protect the girl and this area. I’ll handle the rest,” She ordered him, dashing out toward the path where the larger group of mistwalkers awaited her.

Luke watched her in awe for a moment. Like out of a story book, he watched her use powers he had only ever dreamed of as a child. Her steps were deft, lightning quick and silent as a feather in the wind. Alongside it, she fought in the narrow path where the walls of mist lingered right beside the walkway. There, she maneuvered in and out the mist, not just stepping into it and back out, but incorporating herself with the fog itself - dematerializing on one side and reappearing behind the group of jagged creations opposite her starting point.

While her strikes were certainly powerful, he noticed she struck with bare hand as if she were using a blade. Long sweeping slashes and quick thrusts, her palms were flat and fringers extended, shrouded in mist. She fought as if her hands were daggers, dual-wielding them and slicing through the mistwalker’s vitals with ease.

However, Luke’s moment of awe - inspired by the witch’s impeccable technique and supernatural ability - was short lived. While the witch had dealt with the creature by the window, the other that she had knocked away from the door now stood back up on its awkwardly thin legs, deep cracks along it’s body, but not broken open just yet. To his right, Luke heard the heavy foot steps of another form appearing from within the mist, a husky groan coming from it as the heavy body passed through the fog and into the clearing.

Luke’s dark eyes darted between the two. The hurt one was hunched over from the damage inflicted to it by the witch, yet it’s large form was still taller than him by a clear half foot. The newly acquainted mistwalker, however, paced forward at just about his height, though it’s shoulders and arms had more heft to them than his taller companion.

Facing them now in the open, their focus solely on him, Luke had thought he would be scared. He had every right to be. In a strange new place, surrounded by forces and creatures no human from his world had ever seen, Luke should have been terrified. But hearing the witch ring her bell once more, two orbs of dim light hovering over a hefty pile of dust, he felt something all too familiar standing in this otherwise unfamiliar circumstance. His heart raced, and palms - still covered in medicinal ointment and drenched in the spirit water seeping into his hand wraps - became further slick with sweat. He recognized something he hadn’t felt in a fight since his early days in training. Not fear, but excitement. It was twisted of him to feel this way with lives depending on him, he knew that. Surely, he was strange for it. But “normal” wouldn’t make it out of there alive. Nothing about his way of like had ever been normal.

So he embraced it, as he so frequently did now in his craft. The insanity required of elite fighters. This, of everything he had been given or shown in his short life, was by far the the greatest gift. The rules and regulations of how to be a proper fighter had been drilled into him since he was old enough to understand the concept of boxing. That structure, rigorous as it was to train under - to abide by not only in the gym, but in life - had succeeded in turning him into the highly technical fighter he had grown as. Yet, it had taken something from him that he was needed in his line of work. That burning in his gut, the continued desire to grow and learn that should have been indelible, evaporated into cold indifference. Blues and yellows and reds had faded into an all consuming gray void that festered like a pit deep within his chest.

Until he met Jimmy. He recalled a hazy day, not dissimilar to the low visibility of his current surroundings, that he injured his wrist out in the grimy back alleys of London. Jimmy was livid, especially knowing how Luke had hurt himself and the repercussions that could follow if someone he had hurt was wise enough to press charges - or worse, wealthy enough to sue for damages. That breathing mound of fat had never done so much as walk a half a mile to a burger stand, yet he - of all his trainers and role models - was somehow the one to pull him from the brink of despair and set the wayward teen back onto the path to success, and - doubtful as Luke believed it - perhaps even happiness. All it took was a singular lesson and a few solid words of advice. But, to Luke, it was a concept denied to him all his life.

“Look kid, I love ya, but you’re not right. Those emotions you keep bottling up inside, they take a toll. And eventually, they’re gonna burst. I, for one, hope I’m nowhere near you when it happens. But, until then, I’ll be here. Just promise me this: when you get sad, get sad. When you get angry, get angry. And when you feel happy, let your self be happy. Otherwise you’ll end up hurting more than just your hand. I ain’t a charity, kid. I won’t pick you up a second time. This is on you. Don’t hide form your emotions, use them. Sharpen them like the fucking warrior you are, cause that’s a powerful god damn weapon right there…”

Luke gripped at his chest were Jimmy had tapped, letting himself simmer in the excitement welling up within him, that predatory hunger that overwhelmed his calm nature - thirsting for a prey to satisfy its desires.

He felt a rush of air breeze past his head, instincts dodging on there own as the clawed, stone hand of the injured mistwalker grasped at the empty space where his head had just been. Two steps back and one to the left, he changed direction mid stride as he dipped down and to the right under another sweeping strike aimed at his head, bending his knees and shifting his body below and away from the hit.

The rush of instinctual movement over, Luke focused properly on the two approaching mistwalkers, strafing back from the cabin, giving himself space enough to gather himself for the fight. There was value in mobility against the lumbering statues, and against an opponent that could come out of the fog at any time, vision of his immediate surroundings was just as important. Luke could bob and weave all he wanted, but if he was going to be of any use to the witch, he would have to find a way to go on the offensive as well.

Still, these were opponents he had never faced before. He didn’t even know if his punches would have any effect on the monsters stumbling over to him. But more worryingly, he recalled the witch’s warning about touching the mistwalkers directly. It would be fine if he was doing the hitting, that was what the rags were for, but taking or blocking a hit was allegedly a no-go.

Luke, to his credit, had developed multiple styles of offense and defense during his time as a boxer. Though none as developed as his traditional bob and weave with an orthodox stance that he used to pressure opponents and frustrate them in their attempts to retaliate, the value of comfort was outweighed by the complications posed by its nature. His defense in that stance - with bulky hands blocking large portions of his periphery - would further limit his vision on the already mist-covered surroundings. With that in mind, Luke needed to incorporate a style more suited to his current needs.

Tucking his chin into the center line of his chest, Luke placed his left foot forward and bounced lightly as he entered his stance. Brining his right hand up and keeping his elbow in near his body - ready to unleash a powerful overhand, rear hook, or jaw-clenching uppercut - it would serve him more than anything to catch and deflect an incoming attack should his footwork fail him, something he could only do with his spirit water soaked fists.

On the other side, the crux of his defense set itself into place. Left arm bent at 90 degrees at the elbow, he covered much of the length of his abdomen, hand near the elbow of his right arm rather than up by his chin had he taken a traditional stance. He lifted his left shoulder somewhat, wide delts partially hiding his chin, able to normally deflect a punch away from his head with a roll of his shoulder and granting him complete vision out of that peripheral view. Left foot forward, Luke bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, body aligned and angled to provide maximum reach for his lead hand jab. The Philly Shell gave him uninhibited sight, so long as he kept his enemies in front of him, or to his left. Boxing, luckily, was a 180 degree sport. From the waist up, boxers were trained to hit only the front half of their opponents, meaning they never turned their backs to the opposing fighter. Here, fighting against creatures that certainly could not out pace him (or so he hoped), he had to put faith in his undead companion that she would cover his back.

Still, his Philly Shell had a glaring flaw he needed to cover up. The point of the defense was the shoulder lean. There, he would roll his shoulder inward, rotating and ducking simultaneously to glance the hit off of his shoulder rather than blocking it or letting it land flush on his arm or head. It was a method to avoid damage and direct hits, but still required him to deflect the hit itself. The name of the game was to avoid getting hit at all, but against multiple opponents of generally unknown ability, continuously dodging every attack would take a toll on him physically. He was a conditioned athlete, but Luke had no clue how long this fight would be. Preserving energy was important, and while the Philly Shell wasn’t necessarily the most energy efficient style - in fact, most would deem it draining due to the high amount of lateral movement and creative footwork required to sustain it effectively - bobbing and weaving every strike would fatigue him just as much while compromising his vision and his positioning with the erratic movement that would result.

Luke, however, had realized that the rags around his hands were special in now way - aside from the fact they appeared to be tapped into an endlessly wet state that did not dry nor stop dripping its spiritual concoction. It was that very water that dripped from them that held the key to his fight. Bringing his right hand up to the sleeve of his shirt over his right arm, he dabbed and pressed at it. Luke felt the icy water seep into the cotton mix, dripping down his bicep and partway down his chest, eliciting a modest chill down his spine. Bringing his right hand back into its defensive posture, the upper left quadrant of his shirt was soak through with the spirit water. He hoped this would allow him to incorporate the defense successfully. Ideally, of course, he would never have to find out.

Heavy foot falls were now upon him. The pair had tracked him down in the few seconds he had taken to incorporate his stance, jawing and cracking, tiny pieces of stone falling off them with every movement of their oddly proportioned frames. He hadn’t come up with a detailed plan of action, but Luke was no longer a fighter that required one. Instead, he let the fight come to him, rather than forcing it. He would feel it, rather than think it.

Luke danced around them, stepping quickly away from the pair, circling them with strafing movements as he bounced deftly from side to side. A testing strike came in from the shorter mistwalker, heavy stone hand clawing in towards the boxer’s dark hair. His feet shifted, changing directions abruptly as he leaned back and away from the strike, watching it whiz past his comparatively more fragile skull. No patience, the other monstrous figure brought a raised right arm down in a vertical slice. With precise movement, Luke’s rear hand thrust out, nudging the downward strike away from his body as he dipped past it and sending its jagged arm straight into the dirt below, dust and bits of gravel flying up with a rumble of the ground. Eyes darting quickly at the rag, it seemed intact, if a bit… muddy? More importantly, while the creatures were heavy and hard, his own strength gave the impression that it could match in terms of deflecting strikes. Relief becoming confidence.

Circling again, both mistwalkers chased him once more. The taller of the two, who now recovered from its miss into the dirt, didn’t appear harmed by the water were Luke had touched him. He hadn’t expected the spirit water to eviscerate them, but he would be lying if it did not admit he had hoped for it. Regardless, the crack along the monster’s arm - damaged from when the witch had bulldozed past it - looked as if they were a little deeper. Whether that was Luke’s optimism in hopes that the spirit water was highly effective against them, or if that had come from its own doing when slamming into the ground, he had yet to confirm. But he knew just how to.

Stepping in closer to the taller walker, Luke bounced near him, enticing the maddened creature to attack. And so it did, thrusting its left arm directly at his head. Luke rolled, ducking away from the strike. Its stretched out hand clashed against his shoulder and, to Luke’s delight, bounced off leaving a stripe of chalky, gray material that combined with the spirit water along the edge and turned into a thick, muddy residue. The monsters hand, shaved smooth where it hit him, now arced safely past him as momentum brought its body closer to its human prey.

In an instant, the dark-haired boxer set his feet, generating energy from his strong base and letting it flow up beyond his tight core, through his flexed chest, up into his tense right arm, and over to the wet-wrapped fist. This was his purpose in incorporating the shoulder roll. Not only was it an ideal defense for the scenario, especially now that his theory had payed dividends, but it was the perfect platform from which to to start his counter-attack. Luke had never been much of a counter puncher, though he had fought against many in an attempt to use his aggression against him. Still, in this moment where his weight shifted into his front foot and the potential energy collected into his fist piercing the air toward the off-balance monstrosity, he felt a natural at it.

A crack like thunder resounded in the open area, chalky dust bursting into the air , his body followed through with the overhand counter, swinging through his target and landing back beside his own chin, prepared to defend. His muscles had tightened as the shock wave made its way through him, layers of woven muscle crawling under rippled skin. Yet the resistance behind the hit wasn’t nearly what he had expected. Shards of stone scattered to the ground before a heavy thump sounded beside him. Luke quickly shifted to face the pair again, but found himself staring at just one standing mistwalker. On the ground lay a jaw-less stone figure, a dim light coming from where its chin had once been carved… weakened, a sickly gargle coming from its shattered maw.

“Huh?” Luke tilted his head down to his clenched fist, covered in a chalky powdering as the dust around him settled, victorious over his first opponent.