"should we go for another round?"
The twelve at the perimeter did not answer with words.
They answered with their feet.
All twelve at once — the specific, simultaneous, full-speed, no-reservation sprint of twelve women who had been standing at a clearing's edge for forty-eight hours in the full broadcast range of fourteen compressed spiritual energy variants and had watched everything that had happened to the twelve in the grass and had been running their own internal calculation for forty-eight consecutive hours and had just received the detonator.
They did not walk.
They did not approach.
They 'came.'
The flat, absolute, no-surplus sprint of women who had exceeded the threshold forty-seven hours ago and had been holding above threshold for one hour and forty-seven minutes by sheer cultivator discipline and the specific, accumulated, white-knuckled willpower of women who had decided they were waiting and had been waiting and were done waiting.
