Malthus couldn't touch me.
Not with his sword, not with his ego, not even with the fiery desperation of a man who skipped therapy for war crimes.
I was untouchable.
The same couldn't be said for him, though — I had cut his foot earlier. Yeah, clean off.
He wasn't expecting it — probably thought I was too busy monologuing or being a disappointment to humanity.
But no. I was done being that guy.
I'd grown. Mentally, spiritually, and possibly in hair density.
He regrew his foot, because of course he did — apparently Malthus' body parts come with a lifetime warranty — and came swinging like an unpaid electricity bill.
Yet still… he couldn't land a hit.
I, on the other hand, was calm.
Serene.
An emotional monk in a battle royale.
I had faith. Faith in my training, my patience, and my katana — the only thing more loyal to me than my childhood crush.
If I stayed focused, I would hurt him. Eventually.
