The blade fell like a guillotine, straight, merciless, impossible to dodge in time.
Lindarion's body moved before his thoughts caught up, divine affinity flooding his limbs in a golden surge. His own sword came up crosswise, steel against obsidian—
—and it didn't matter.
The saint's strike hammered down with such monstrous force that Lindarion's knees buckled. The ground beneath him split in two, cracks racing outward like spiderwebs.
Pain shot up his arms, the tendons in his wrists screaming from the impact. His feet were being driven deeper into the cobblestones with every heartbeat the blade pressed down.
"You resist well," the saint said, voice like the rasp of steel on stone. "But strength alone is meaningless."
Lindarion's answer was a sudden, vicious flare of lightning that wrapped around his blade and crackled up the saint's weapon. The street lit in searing blue—
—but the saint didn't even flinch.
