Punches Lung

I wrenched my arm away in the other direction, throwing his to the side and opening up his chest, then I brought my other hand forward, balled into a fist, and planted it with about half my full strength right into his ribs. Each one of them popped and broke with a sickening crunch — I could almost feel them, even through my gauntlet — forcing all the air out of his lungs as a gurgling wheeze, and the sheer power behind the blow sent him skidding several feet back.

Lung wasn’t that easily beaten, however. He didn’t fall or collapse, he just bent his head over — his mask had already been shifted away by the snout sprouting from his face — and heaved up a truly obscene amount of blood, which began to boil at his feet. The stump of his right elbow bubbled grotesquely; the arm I’d severed was starting to grow back, like the timelapse video I’d once seen of an injured starfish. The rest of him glimmered in the heat of his flames, shimmering silver scales reflecting the light like a tightly woven suit of mail, and because he had swelled to nearly nine feet of bulging muscles, the tattered remains of his pants fell from his body and caught alight.