She did not move like a soldier executing a maneuver; she moved like a catastrophe that had already decided its path. Cassandra crossed the plaza at a predatory angle, her movement so efficient it rendered the formation's defensive math obsolete.
Before the outer flank could even register her presence to rotate, she was already inside their optimal engagement range, a ghost in the machinery of their defense. Her sword didn't swing in grand, theatrical arcs; it worked in tight, vicious, compact snips, a rhythmic, surgical butchery designed to shred anything within arm's reach without ever leaving her exposed.
The first exchange was a five-second blur of violence. The formation's left flank lunged to intercept her, unleashing a concussive pressure wave meant to shatter her bones and halt her momentum ten meters out.
