He charged. All his strength. All his accumulated power. One strike. One cut. The technique that had cleaved mountains in his past life.
She stood. Naked — the panty had been cut away in the last exchange, the fabric falling in two pieces, her hairy pussy fully exposed, her thick thighs planted. Her spirit sword, raised. Her dark eyes — wet, fierce, desperate — met his.
The clash.
The energy. The explosion. The shockwave that flattened trees and threw dirt and leaves in every direction. The two blades — his golden-white, hers silver-blue — met in a burst of light that blinded everything.
She lost.
Her sword trembled. The spiritual energy, overwhelmed by the rift-enhanced technique, wavered. Cracked. The silver-blue blade — her spirit sword, the weapon linked to her soul — flickered. Dimmed.
Her eyes widened. The sword — her sword, the blade she had been born with, the weapon that was part of her — was being suppressed. By his technique. By his power.
