Saints don't fight.
They correct reality until resistance stops.
The Saint raised her hand again.
Light condensed.
Not an attack.
A redefinition.
The ground softened.
Edges blurred.
Cause and effect loosened.
"Please," she said gently.
"Accept alignment."
I shook my head.
"That's not mercy," I replied.
"It's anesthesia."
I stepped forward.
The halo screamed.
Symbols collided.
The Saint frowned.
Not in anger.
In confusion.
"You're hurting yourself," she said.
"No," I corrected.
"I'm hurting your assumptions."
I lifted my sword.
Not to strike her.
To strike the idea that she couldn't be struck.
One cut.
Clean.
Precise.
Light split.
Sound returned.
A single drop of red fell from her palm.
Blood.
The world stopped.
Saints weren't meant to bleed.
Her eyes widened.
Not in pain.
In fear.
Heaven reacted instantly.
Mandates flared.
Reality tightened.
But it was too late.
The precedent existed.
I lowered my sword.
"You can leave," I said calmly.
"Or you can learn."
She stepped back.
Light flickering.
Halo unstable.
"I… need to report," she whispered.
"Yes," I agreed.
"Please do."
She vanished.
Not fleeing.
Retreating.
Iron Lake City exhaled as one.
Xueyi stared at me.
"You just wounded Heaven's symbol."
I shrugged.
"It was poorly designed."
Far above—
Heaven went silent.