[Location: Central Park, New York]
Slash!
Thwack!
Thud!
With a single perfect arc, Muramasa sliced the Champion's arm like a thread cut from fate itself. Black lightning hissed along the wound, sealing shut any divine regeneration before it could spark. His bellow ripped through the barrier like a war horn, fury and disbelief mingling in one raw note of pain.
He staggered, clutching the stump where his spear arm had been, golden ichor spraying and sizzling as it struck the cracked soil of Central Park's sealed dimension. The ground itself rejected him, unable to reconcile his divinity against the weight of something older, darker, sovereign.
I didn't speak. I didn't need to.
Muramasa pulsed in my hand, veins of shadow rippling down the blade, drinking in the Champion's pain like fine wine. My aura pressed down harder, swallowing his, forcing him to his knees not by the strength of the blade—but by inevitability.
