The air in the Iron Cathedral died: replaced by a pressurized, vibrating silence. Behind Vane, a spectral silhouette manifested from the silver mana. It was rendered in translucent, flickering light that seemed to eat the blue glow of the room. The figure had raven-black hair, falling in a sharp, pragmatic cut that framed a face Vane knew better than his own. Her presence was not a cold, distant authority: it was the heavy, blood-soaked weight of a woman who had survived the worst the Empire could throw at her.
[Skill: Perfect Copy (Grade S) — Time Remaining: 58 Seconds]
Vane felt his nervous system ignite. It was a searing, agonizing transition that made the previous pain of his broken ribs feel like a distant tickle. His Elite vessel was being forcibly synchronized with the combat logic of a Rank 6 Expert. Every muscle fiber thrummed with a frequency that threatened to tear his marrow apart. But through the static of the physical torture, he felt her.
