Chi. Chi. Chi.
Three wounds outside of his cheek bloomed on Sylas' body. He kept trying to dodge, but he was always just barely slower every time.
He reached out a finger, tapping at the air to rip her formation apart again. But this time, Four's sword barely vibrated.
The afterimages continued to bloom in the air, each one arcing with the same beauty. Lines of carving silver followed the current of the winds. From above, it almost looked like Four was outlining the petals of a blooming lotus.
They should have just been illusions, they weren't real. And yet, as though Sylas was a groom anticipating the unveiling of his bride, wandering about the potential futures they could have, he stepped into each one as though they were his reality, as though he was being forced to play out every potential there was.
The world was peeled back and laid bare. The fundamental essence of potential itself bloomed forth in the most beautiful of ways.
