A descending sword forced him into a shallow pivot. Another passed close enough to graze fabric from his sleeve.
"And now I do understand," he said quietly, almost thoughtfully. "It is we—the other races—who see the world incorrectly. They see it as it truly is. They see it with the proper eyes."
Valttair's gaze sharpened by a fraction.
He stepped forward.
[Morgain's Linebreaker].
His advance carved a straight path through the chamber, a dense wave of cutting mana tearing across the floor as two suspended blades synchronized with the charge, reinforcing the trajectory into a layered front of force. The air split under the forward pressure, driving Icarus backward across cracking stone.
"You truly are mad, Icarus," Valttair said, his voice calm as the advancing edge forced displacement. "Listen to yourself. I expected something coherent, something rooted in logic. Instead, you offer admiration for creatures that would erase us without hesitation."
