Shaurya stood.
His spine creaked with a brittle, grinding sound as he forced vertebrae into place by sheer muscular contraction. Blood mapped a thick crimson network down his forearm, pooling at the heel of his palm before dripping steadily onto the shattered basalt beneath his boots. His thighs trembled under the weight of his own flesh, muscle fibers straining to the verge of snapping. One hundred and twenty-five fractured bones screamed in unison, yet he locked his knees, refusing to yield the stone.
Behind him, towering toward the vaulted expanse of the subterranean rift, hovered his Spiritual Avatar. The golden colossus stood impassive, broad shoulders cutting through the rising haze, its eyes shut in serene, terrible judgment. The mere manifestation of its mass compressed the air, driving the ambient pressure downward until loose pebbles groaned and turned to powder.
Opposite him, thirty paces across the ruined arena, Shadow Blade An Ning held his ground.
