On the other side of the city, in the nightclub's secured room, a second battle was finishing.
At Miguel's word, the light-swords responded. They moved like arrows leaving a bow simultaneously, not sequential but all at once, driving in from different angles, converging on the green-haired man from every direction he couldn't cover.
The physical resistance he'd built his entire mutation profile around proved irrelevant against weapons made of compressed divine energy.
The blades passed through it as though the property had no definition, the kinetic force not slowing by a single degree.
"No... this isn't possible... what are you—?"
He was already on one knee. Blades had passed through his throat, both sides of his chest, his abdomen, both knees. He looked up with the expression of someone confronting a calculation that doesn't resolve.
