Berserkules fts punches

All of Herakles strength and speed and mass were behind me as I threw myself at him, slamming into the beast’s chest like a freight train. Leviathan staggered and bore me to the ground, flopping onto his back. I didn’t even wait for the shudder of his fall to reach me before I lifted my hands back and started pounding.

“▂▂▃▃▄▄▅▅! ▂▂▃▃▄▄▅▅! ▂▂▃▃▄▄▅▅!”

The air split and shattered with each punch, and I delivered into Leviathan’s torso every ounce of my pain and my fury. Again, again, again. I slammed my fists into his chest. Again, again, again. I didn’t wait, I didn’t let up, I didn’t listen as others called out for me — to stop, to keep going, I didn’t know and I didn’t care.

“▂▂▃▃▄▄▅▅!”

CRACK.

“▂▂▃▃▄▄▅▅!”

CRACK.

“▂▂▃▃▄▄▅▅!”

CRACK.

With each blow, the crystalline skin beneath me splintered. With each blow, black ichor and shards of Leviathan’s body splattered and flew. Underneath him, the street upon which we’d fallen began to sink and crater from the force of my blows, and the great beast attempted to stand, to throw me off, to escape — but I didn’t let him, and everything he hit me with washed off or was ignored.

I didn’t care. He could hit me with as much water as he liked. He could throw me off as many times as he liked. He could try and run as much as he liked.

I would come back. I would chase him down. I would keep pummeling him.

I would kill him.

Die. Die. Die.

With each punch, I laid this order into his body.

Die. Die. Die.

It was not a coherent thought. To begin with, no such thing existed in my world, right then. There was only me and Leviathan, and the only thing that mattered was that I crushed him, broke him, destroyed him for what he’d done.