Two minutes, thirty seconds left.
Serif looked upward and took a deep breath, he exhaled.
The mutated treemen dashed towards him, arrows screaming towards him, those with hammers dashing forward, the chain users, all of them.
Serif tilted back, an arrow passing in front of his nose, he dashed forward, the arrows struck in the dirt in his wake, his chain spinning, snapping approaching arrows as he he moved towards the treeman.
He spun, avoiding an extending vine, just like his chains.
Dashing forward, he slid between attacks, spinning around a group of mutated treemen like a dancer, his chain wrapping around there necks as he moved, the chain twisting and turning.
Serif emerged at the opposite end of the group, unscathed, then he pulled, the chain snapping, separating there heads from there bodies, black liquid spurting.
