Divinity descended.
It was not like spirit energy.
Not violent. Not loud.
It was absolute.
The monk lowered his finger—and the heavens answered.
A line of pure divine force crashed downward, invisible yet undeniable, splitting the air apart as if reality itself had been peeled open. The ground folded inward, compressing into a canyon that stretched for miles.
Chiron moved.
He somersaulted, body twisting midair with inhuman flexibility, Devil's Touch unraveling and reweaving around his limbs to propel him just ahead of annihilation. The divine strike brushed past him, and the mere aftershock tore flesh from his arm, blood spraying into the wind.
"Hm," the monk murmured.
"Reflexes honed by desperation."
Another finger fell.
Another line of judgment cleaved through the land.
Chiron flipped again—then again—his boots barely touching the earth before it shattered beneath him. Each dodge cost him blood, stamina, focus. His lungs burned.
"You dance well," the monk said lightly.
