The stress left.
It did not leave gradually. It went out of him like air from a punctured lung, one exhale, and what remained behind it was rhythm.
The rhythm of the Paragon of Sin going to war.
Club from the left. Blade up. Deflect. Step into the opening. Siphon through the cut. Pull blood from the wound. Shape it into a spike mid-stride and drive it into the nearest knee joint. Detonate. Pivot.
Next one coming from behind. Alice's call arrived before the club did, her perception threading the attack pattern into his reflexes faster than his own eyes could track, and his body answered her input without conscious thought because they had done this for months now, the two of them, the brother and the sister wired into the same nervous system.
He stopped being afraid.
[You've slain invading Ruinwalker (Level 108). +1,840,000 XP. +1,800 DMP.]
Three left.
